Date: Tue, 30 Jan 2018 22:30:12 +0100 (CET)
From: jpcreamcheese@tutanota.com
Subject: KALEIDSCOPE - GAY MALE - URINATION

KALEIDOSCOPE

There's a pile of photos lying on the couch. I'm putting them in an
album. I'm sorting them out the way I've been sorting out my life. It's
time to move on, so I'll organise the photos into some kind of order and
then I'll put it away until I get the urge to recall the past - and some of
those who have been special in my life. I think I'll give what I write a
title and post it on Nifty, if they'll have it. It's got some scat in it,
pretty graphic, because life is pretty graphic. Don't read it if it's not
your kind of thing. Nobody gets hurt and nobody does anything he doesn't
want to do - at least once. And I think I'll title it 'Kaleidoscope'
because that's what it is. A kaleidoscope of images falling more or less at
random but brought together by my experience of them.

Are the events true? Is fiction true? Is fantasy true? Or are they true in
a different kind of way from what we generally accept as 'true'? For the
record, not a single word of this tale is true. None of it happened. It's
all a product of my perverted imgination. That's my story and I'm sticking
to it.

Here is something that is true: Nifty deserves and needs our help. The
world would be a much poorer place if it didn't have Nifty in it. So dip
your hand in your pocket and send Nifty whatever you can. They run this
site for free - but it isn't cost free. Far from it. So give what you
can. Even the window's mite was valued way beyond it's nominal value. And
so is Nifty.

To help you out, here are the main sections of the story as they are
headed: My Coach - Eric - Theo - Karim & Stefan - Stephen - Eric and Dean -
The Other Dean - Frankie - Paul and Lendon - and there's me, Robert, but
I'm in every part of the story. See you when you get there.

My Coach

There's Mr. C. My Coach. He really was handsome. I bet he still is. Mr C. -
my coach, the first man I had sex with, and the first man who sucked...

When I was eleven, I was seduced by my football manager. I was never much
good at lessons but I was brilliant at most sports. Although I was small
and slight for my age, I had terrific reflexes and reactions. I scored most
of my goals inside the penalty area by getting to the ball faster than
anybody else. I was also a silent child (a) because I was shy (b) because
everyone else seemed so much brighter than me (c) because I've always
preferred listening to speaking. Even when I'm happy, people keep on
telling me to cheer up. But I had my own circle of friends and I had my
football.

And I had my dyslexia. I didn't know I had dyslexia. I don't think anybody
else did - not at that time. All I knew was that I couldn't spell and I
could readn't very well. This was probably what made me so shy. I lacked
confidence - except when I was playing football because then the only thing
that mattered was playing the game.

So in my last year at junior school Mr C. arrived. We had the team trials,
and I was amazed as everyone else when the manager, let's call him Coach,
said at the end of the session: "Right then, first match Saturday. Be here
at 9.30 for a 10 o'clock kick off. Robert, you're captain." He turned and
walked off. I just stood there blushing. Nobody'd ever asked me to captain
anything in my life. My mates, from my school, came rushing round clapping
me on the back. It was all pretty embarrassing, but as usual I said
nothing.

The season got underway. Our team did well. No, we did brilliantly, winning
every game, most by a margin of goals. Coach treated me like everyone
else. Life was very good. Though to be honest, I was anxious about going to
secondary school next September. I might be good at football but It was
shit at reading, writing and spelling.

My mum liked Mr. C. and she knew he liked me, and when she found out he was
also an English teacher she asked him if he would tutor me.  "Okay, I'll
tutor him," sighed Coach as if he was doing mum a great favour, which, of
course, he was. "Wednesdays after school, 4 till half past five. Your place
or mine?" I jumped at the chance. We agreed on his house because it was
much closer to my school than ours. Best of all, Coach agreed not to tell
any of the other boys I was having 'private lessons'. They would have taken
the mick out of me something rotten.

Coach was a brilliant football manager. He was just as good at teaching
reading and spelling, which takes some doing with some who hated both. he
turned everything into games, competitions and quizzes, and most of the
time you learned without realising you were being taught. We measured my
progress every week and I was making amazing progress.

It started about the fourth lesson. We were sitting close together on a
couch in the living room. I had the book in my lap. I was reading out
loud. I always forgot the full stops and read on into the next sentence. It
didn't matter how often Coach told me, two minutes later I'd forgotten.

"This'll help, Robert," he said. He put his hand just below the bottom of
the book. His hand was resting at the bottom of my stomach. Every time I
came towards the end of the sentence, he pressed my stomach a little. It
worked! I remembered to stop, most of the time. That continued for about
fifteen minutes. I read and Coach applied gentle pressure to the bottom of
my stomach. No big deal. Except, of course, that it gave me a hard-on. I
sat there utterly expressionless (I can do it for hours.) while Coach
pressed a couple of inches away from my stiffy.

It was embarrassing at first, but Coach didn't seem to notice anything, so
I assumed it was an accident and went on reading. It was embarrassing but
also very pleasant. Of course I'd heard the obligatory filth in school and
in the football changing rooms, but it seemed to have nothing to do with
me. I was small, slight, blond, green-eyed, tight-lipped, and practically
not there, except when doing sports. Why would anyone be interested in me?

Next week the same thing happened, and, to tell you the truth, I was sort
of hoping he'd do it again. This time there was a variation that showed
what was happening was no accident. Despite the pressure on my stomach,
despite my hard-on, I still forgot to stop at the end of some of the
sentence. "We have to get the all right," laughed Coach. He slid his hand
under my school jumper, then under my school shirt, just above the waist
band of my trousers. Every time we reached the end of a sentence, he's
pressed his cool hand against my warm stomach, and I'd pause, then read
on. Could he still be unaware of my reaction? Could it still be an
accident? As he pressed, he ran his little finger along my skin just where
it emerged from my trouser waist. My penis was hard and throbbing.

I suppose I shouldn't have gone back the following week. I could have found
an excuse. I spent most of the week thinking them up. But when Wednesday
rolled round, I found myself looking forward to the lessons. You have to
remember the lessons really were brilliant. I knew I was making progress,
and I wanted to make more. Okay, my Coach liked fingering by bare skin. So
what? He was hardly your typical 'dirty old man'. I don't think he was
young, and he was good-looking. He might have played professional football
if he hadn't done his knee in. And he liked me and he wanted me. As far as
I knew, nobody had ever 'wanted' me like that before.

Halfway through the lesson he told me to lie on the carpet and read to
him. Lying flat out would help with my breathing, he said. It was so
comfortable lying there, one hand holding the book, the other pillowing my
head. I wasn't surprised when he lay down, full length, alongside me. Lying
flat out that way meant I was totally vulnerable. He began the familiar
pressure and stroking on my bare stomach. My prick hardened. There was no
way I could hide it. He stroked lower and lower until his thumb brushed my
erection below the thin grey flannel of my school trousers. I think if I'd
protested in any way, even drawing up legs, he would have stopped, and that
would have been that. I didn't. I was curious and aroused.

I felt him unclip the top of my trousers and edge down the zip. This was
further than I'd expected him to go. He edged aside the flaps of my flies,
exposing my white underpants. His fingers stroked the bare skin above the
elastic, then slipped underneath. He held my stiff penis between his thumb
and forefinger squeezing gently as I read on, missing more full stops than
I managed. This only lasted a couple of minutes. Then he closed me up,
zipped me up, closed my clip, and tucked my shirt in.

The lesson went on as if nothing had happened. It was crazy to lie there on
the carpet in the living room and do what he did. The living room had a
huge window but it looked onto a shared garden and none of the old folk
ever passed by. The lesson ended and, as usual, Coach walked me home
because he had tea every Wednesday with friends who lived near us. As we
walked we chatted about the coming Saturday match. Coach did most of the
talking; as usual, I listened. I loved to listen, especially to someone who
was really enthusiastic about something I loved. We never mentioned the
sex; neither then, nor in what followed afterwards did we once mention the
sex. Perhaps that's what made it possible.

Next week's lesson started with some fun card games to improve my
spelling. Then Coach said, "It's time we used the computer." I followed him
into a small bedroom. It was clean and tidy with a pleasant smell in the
air. On a desk beneath the window stood a computer. There were two chairs
in front of the desk. There was a single bed. We did a quiz on the
computer, all about football, it must have taken ages to prepare. It was
great fun.

Coach indicated the bed. "Get on and read this."

I didn't think twice. I lay on my back on the bed. "Read this, please,"
Mr. C. said, "Putting some papers in my hand." My other hand went under my
head. It was a funny story about some of my friends and me. There was some
light sex in the story. It made me smile and want to read on. I had to fill
in the blanks. Coach sat down on the edge of the bed. "Read it to yourself
first, and then out loud."

I felt him push up my jumper and my shirt. I wasn't surprised.  He undid
the clip of my trousers and unzipped me. "Lift," he said. Still reading, I
raised my bum and let him slide my trousers and my underpants down to my
ankles. I felt him stroke my stomach, my pubic area, (not even a single
hair), then take my cock between his fingers. I already had an erection. I
vaguely wondered if he was disappointed. I had a small cock, then. About
two inches and quite slim. My balls were hairless, like those of a little
boy. Physically, that's what I still was - a little boy. He played around,
stroking me, jerking me gently, his other hand tracing patterns over my
stomach, my chest and my nipples.

"Should I read out loud now?" I asked.

"Yes, go on," he said.

As I stumbled through the story, I felt his lips around my stiffy. His
mouth was hot and wet. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster, his
head bobbed up and down on my cock. It was weird. When I really got stuck
over a word, he'd raise his head, pronounce the word, and then go back down
on me. Once I stopped and asked him what a word meant: the word was
'erect'. Coach raised his head. "It means sticking up or standing
up. That's where the word 'erection' comes from." I hadn't understood the
word 'erection' before then.

"Should I read it again?" I asked. He obviously wasn't finished.

"Yes, please, Robert. No mistakes this time."

I started reading again, more confidently second time round.

He grasped my hips. "Turn over."

I turned over so that I was lying face down. His fingers ran over my
buttocks. Then his lips. He pried the cheeks of my bottom open. I felt his
tongue run along the inside of my cheeks several times, then the hot tip
touched my hole. I was nearly sick with excitement. This was the dirtiest
thing I could think of anyone doing, yet it was the most exciting. I felt
the hot tip of his tongue run up and down the little serrated edge. He gave
a push and the tip slipped in. I lay there, willing my ring to open so that
he could more of his tongue inside me, but it was far too small. I wasn't
worried he'd try to fuck me. I'd just say no. And I was so small-built that
he'd have real trouble getting a finger in my hole, never mind his
prick. In any event, he didn't try.

Looking back, I think it's weird I just accepted what Mr. C. was doing. He
was licking and kissing the hole where my shit came from. I knew it must be
a tiny hole, but, after all, it's the hole I used every day for shitting,
and Mr. C. was making love to it - making love to my hole, to my anus. I
didn't know these expressions then I do now, and this grown-up was making
love to my hole. There's only one thing that embarrassed me. I farted. Not
a big one. Not a long one. But he must have heard it, smelt it, but he kept
right on trying to fasten his lips round my the tiny lips of my bumhole.

"Over," he said.

I turned over. He kissed my chest, my nipples, my tummy. He licked my pubic
area and slid his lips over my hasrd-on again. This time he sucked me hard
and fast. His finger pushed against my bumhole until it slid right it. His
saliva had made my hole slippery so his finger didn't hurt much as it slide
in. He finger-fucked me - that was an expression I worked out for
myself. My bum and hips bounced up and down. My stiffy slid in and out. I
pushed his head down. Then I was bucking and thrashing as I had the first
cum of my life - and it was a wet one!

We lay there in silence for a few minutes. Then: "Up you get." Up I got. I
stood in front of him. He pulled up my trousers and underpants, then did up
my clothes as if I was three years old. He tucked me in and tidied me up.We
went into the living room, finished the lesson, and had tea and
sandwiches. Then he walked me home.

That, more or less happened every week. I came to love my bumhole being
sucked, even the first time I knew there were little, hard, round balls of
shit between my cheeks. I know that because before we went to the bedroom,
I said I had to go to the bathroom. Mr. C. asked me if it was for a pee.
When I said 'no', he said 'never mind then'. I was embarrassed but I
enjoyed the bed sessions so much I thought he'd just make me jump up and
clean myself when he saw I was dirty back there.

And how dod I know there were some hard, little shit balls? Because
Mr. C. Showed me one of them. I would have died of embarrassment but he
only laughed, popped one in his gob (mouth) and swallowed. "Ah, the real
Robert," he murmured... "I wonder if there are any more?" And, with that,
back to my bum he went.

After a bit, he came up for air and said: "If you need a shit, just go for
it. Let the tip out and hold the rest in. Please. For me." I couldn't. I
just sort of froze. It's not that I was disgusted or anything. Grown-ups
have got their own weird ways. But some reason I couldn't shit in his mouth
on request. And there was a turd up there. I know, because when I got home,
I went to the bathroom, and stuck a finger up my bumhole. I could feel the
hard tip of the turd. I took out my finger and looked at it. Brown shit.
Especially under the finger nail. I looked and lookedswitched off my brain,
stuck it in my mouth and licked it clean. Plop plop, the rest of the turn
went into the bowl, I flushed and went downstairs for dinner, proud to tell
mum how well I'd done in my session with Mr. C.

At the end of the year - July 21st - I said goodbye to junior school and
prepared for the adventure of secondary school in September. I shone at
football again, and, though I wasn't brilliant, I coped with all my
classes. Sometimes I met Mr. C. when he was refereeing one of our
matches. We talked about my progress at school, but never about what had
happened on the bed. That was for the memory box. But I sometimes wonder if
he remembers what I tasted like.


ERIC

I've got lots of photos of Eric. That's because people never stopped taking
Eric's photo. At our secondary school, Eric became captain of just about
everything. I didn't know Eric well. We hadn't been at the same junior
school. He'd been to a school in the West End of the city while I came from
'the wrong side of the tracks'. Eric's family had money. Eric was fun, and
I appreciated how much he befriended me - this 'fish out of water'. Not
very intelligent but witty. Athletic. And extremely good-looking. Being
good-looking is important in all boys' schools, probably even more so than
girls' schools since prestige and status are all-important amongst boys.

It was mid-September. An Indian summer - warm, balmy and sunny. At
lunchtimes, a lot of boys used to go down onto the lower playing fields for
a game of football. The lower playing fields were at the bottom of this
huge crater in the ground which had been grassed over by the
years. Everyone had his blazer and tie off (strictly forbidden, but few
masters came near the 'crater'). We had a really good game. Everyone was
hot and sticky. The first bell went and most people grabbed their stuff and
headed up the hill. A few of us die-hards went on playing. Then the second
bell went. Seconds later, there was only Eric and myself left, with Eric
taking a few last pot shots at me in goal.

We grabbed our blazers, ties and shirts (yes, Eric and I'd gone that far in
breaking the rules) and started to scramble up the grassy hill. Eric was
behind me. He slipped (he said), grabbed for something, got me, and
together we tumbled back down in the hill. We ended up in a heap of arms,
legs and clothing. Then it happened.

Eric shifted till he was sitting astride me. He put his knees on my arm
muscles, such as they were, pinning me to the grass. He was looking down
into my face. He reached behind him and stroked my genitals! I was
stunned. My face, already red from our exertions, burst into flames. I
tried to heave him away, but he bore down on me, not enough to hurt, just
enough to pin me there and kept stroking me, his fingers fumbling till they
found me cock.

I'm not sure what I would have done if Eric hadn't kept looking straight
into my eyes. His hair flopped over his face. He was sweating. He pushed
the hair out of his eyes and kept looking at me. I turned my head way,
turned it back, closed my eyes, open them.

Horror of horrors. I was getting an erection. I had an erection. I was
stiff and hard under his touch. His fingers and thumb closed round my stiff
penis and began working the skin along the shift. At last he spoke. "Do I
have to hold you down?" he asked. I lay there for a minute. I shook my head
from side to side. Eric slid from my body and we lay side to side. He was
still manipulating me. "We can't stay here," he said. "I know," I
said. "The sheds," he said. I nodded.

We scrambled up, grabbed our clothes and headed across the fields, away
from the school.

The 'sheds' was the polite name for the boys' latrines on the far side of
the playing fields. Smoking went on there. Everybody knew that. So did sex,
but we were too new to know that.

We got to the sheds and slipped inside. I was trembling, so, I realised was
Eric. He took our blazers and ties and hung them on a hook on the back of
the shed door. "I'll go first," he said. I nodded, not sure what he
intended.

Eric sat down on one of the toilets and pulled me towards him. He opened my
belt, unbuttoned my flies, then dragged down my flannels and Y-fronts to my
ankles. I was exquisitely embarrassed. My cock was still hard and already
slick with pre-cum. Eric fondled me for a bit, then without a by-your-leave
opened his mouth and sucked me in as far as my prick would go.

I stood there and watched my penis slide in and out of Eric's mouth,
fascinated by the way it bulged his cheeks, and amazed he could get so much
of me inside him. Where was it all going - down his throat? I put my hands
on his head and instinctively, I suppose, began pushing and pulling to find
the rhythms I liked best. One of Eric's hands worked the base of my cock
while the other played with my balls. Wonderful! But when his lower hand
slipped into my crack and headed for my bumhole, that was too much! I
clenched my hole and clasped my legs together. Eric didn't persist. I wish
he had.

Eric brought me to the brink of orgasm at least five times. My prick was
going frantic, my heart was racing. Then when I thought I couldn't stand
any more, he let me come - and he let me come in his mouth! I couldn't
believe it. He waited until I'd relaxed completely in his mouth, slipped me
out, took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my cock and his
lips. Sheer class!

I glanced at my watch. "Shit, we're going to be so late."

Eric laughed.

"Let me think. Yes, you got too much sun at lunchtime. You threw up. I was
worried, so I took you home. I live in Stirling Road. We'll go there. Look
sick. I can talk my mother into anything. We'll get a note from her. Then
we'll come back to school; that'll look good. No. On second thoughts, we
won't come back to school this afternoon. My mother will tell you - us - to
stay at home at rest for the afternoon. Then at half three we'll go
swimming. How does that sound?"

"You sure it's okay?" I asked.

"Yeh, no probs... but you owe me one. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Anything."

"Anything?"

"Yeh, anything I want. Okay."

"Okay," I said beginning to wonder what 'anything' was.

To cut a longish story short, Eric's mum was brill. She fussed over
me. Phoned the school. Gave Eric's story, and then told us she was off to
"to play bridge with the girls... back in a couple of hours. There's plenty
to eat in the fridge. Find something to do but don't over do things. Robert
looks a bit flushed."

Kissie, kissie, bye, bye.

We were in Eric's bedroom, stretched out on his double bed, naked. Eric was
rubbing my tummy with the palm of his hand.

"Sorry, Eric, I'll have to get up. Where's the toilet?"

"It's over there," he said. "It's ensuite. Why?"

"'Cause I think I have to take a shit."

I shifted my gaze from his hand and looked at him. He was staring at me
with the weirdest expression.

"What?"

"Remember what you said."

"What?"

"Anything. You said anything."

"Well, what is it? Just tell me. As long as it doesn't hurt..."

"Oh it doesn't hurt," he smiled.

"Well, what the fuck is it?" I said, a bit exasperated.

"You said you're gonna take a shit?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm going to take a shit."

"Well....."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, what is it? Jus say it."

"Can I watch you take a shit?" he blurted out.

"Oh, is that all," I said, thinking of Mr. C. for a moment.

"Well, no actually," Eric said. "It's just a bit more than that."

What?!"

"I want you to shit in my mouth."

"What the fuck! Shit in your mouth? And what you gonna do after?"

"I'm gonna eat it."

Eric, King of Year 7, blushed bright red.

"Where we gonna do it?"

"You mean, you'll do it," he said excitedly.

"Where?"

"In my bathroom," he said, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me off the
bed as if he was scared I would change my mind.I couldn't believe how
excited he was about me shitting in his mouth or how excited I was getting
thinking about doing it.

"Sit on the toilet," he instructed. "That's it. Pull your legs up. Spread
your legs. Slide as far forward as you can. I want to know your watching
the shit slide out of you and into my mouth." Eric certainly knew what he
was doing. I perched on the rim of the bowl, sqautted and held onto the
tank for support.

Eric knelt in front of me. His fingers stretched my bum cheeks apart until
I protested. I wasn't sure I could shit in this position. I looked down and
saw Eric staring wide-eyed at my arse, then his face slipped between my
cheeks, and felt his tongue and lips on my hole. This might be dirty but it
was thrilling. He licked, kissed, pushed, probed, and... made love to my
arsehole.

Anxiety was making it difficult so I fixed my gaze on a spot on the wall
and tried to relax. It worked. I could feel my hole open and swell. I felt
the shit - turd - make its way down my back passage. It was a hard
one. That would make life easier. When I felt a couple of inches were out,
I looked down.I was amazed. About three inches of the turd were outside my
rectum. Eric had his lips round the first inch and was gently sucking on
it. I know now - because he told me later - that he was sucking gently
because he didnt want it to break up. "I was giving your shit a blow-job,"
he explained.

My smells rose up. They didn't bother me much. I guess everyone is used to
the smell of their own shit. And I bet every boy on ths planet sometimes
sticks a finger up his shitty bum and then sniffs it. Some of us lick
it. It felt great to empty my bowels and I admired Eric for swallowing so
much of it. I deliberately tried to shit in chunks to give him time to
swallow it all. Then came the last couple of inches of soften turd.

Eric got to his feet and, holding the last two inches sticking out of his
mouth, leaned foreard to me. The turd was almost touching my lips. I know
an imnvitation when I see one. Ah what the fuck. I opened my mouth and let
Eric slide about an inch of warm turd between my lips. We'd never even
kissed, and yet here were were - two twelve-year-old grammar school boys
sharing a warm turd.

Finally, we mashed the turd against each other's lips and french-kissed
until our lips and chins were covered in smelly soft shit. It was great!

I thought surprises were over for the day. Not quite. Eric said, "Watch."
He showed me his right hand. It was covered in shit - my shit. He toom my
shit and ran it up and down my hard-on until my cock was covered with my
shit. Then he turned, bent over the toilet bowl, raised his bum, looked
behind himself at me and whispered: "Fuck me, Robert. Fuck me hard."

I began to protest I didn't know how to do it.

"Just stick it in," he hissed through his shit-covered teeth.

My four-inch dick wasn't the first or biggest thing that had ever been up
Eric's bumhole. His sphincters gave way and I slid into the hilt. If I'd
had pubic hair, it would have pressed almost up to his hole. Nature did the
rest. I held onto his hips and began to fuck him gently.

"Harder. Rougher," Eric hissed.

Sweat was pouring from him... and trickling down me. I pushed harder into
him. I realised why he asked me to do that. The head of my penis was
suddenly surrounded by warmth, and the stink from Eric was so strong it
could only be one thing - shit, his shit. I should have been disgusted but
I wasn't. I wanted to fuck the shit out of him and back into him. Eric
started crying. Not a lot, but loud. "Harder, fuck me harder." So I did my
best. I couldn't make it last. I felt the uncontrollable take over, and,
trembling, shaking shuddering I squirted my cum into him - three, four
times...

When I finally slid out of Eric and he stood up grinning, I saw semen
splattered up his belly. He had cum while I was fucking him! Was I that
good?

Eric immediately reached to turn on the walk in shower. I screeched as the
cold water hit me but seconds later it was warm, then hot. Eric put his
arms round me and pulled me under the shower. He french-kissed me
again. Then we turned our face up to the shower head and let the hot water
clean us inside and out. Eric splattered me and himself with three
different kinds of shower gel and we rubbed each other down until we
smelled like heaps of freshly-done laundry.

We towelled each other off, dressed and then Eric showed me how to
fresh-air the room. By the time we left his bedroom to go downstairs and
eat - we were starving - everywhere smelled like the first days of Spring
after an April shower. After pizza and orange juice, we got onto Eric's
computer.

"Porno?"

We looked at each other and said in unison: Yuck!


THEO

There he is. The boy called Theo. Sitting on bench in the park. Looking up
at me. Smiling. Streaked blond hair with a darker underlay. The face of a
choir boy. Clear, freckled skin. Strong dark eyebrows. Eyelashes that
brushed the skin below his eyes. Large hazel eyes. A small, straight nose,
slightly curved, slightly upturned. Fullish lips and perfect teeth. I
didn't see all that in a single glance. I saw it a few minutes later as we
sat together on a bench in the city centre. I'd nodded to him and walked
away. He got up and followed me. Butterflies danced in my stomach. I
remember thinking how crazy this was; not only me walking off with a boy
who'd been soliciting males in front of a public toilet, but the boy
himself taking such insane risks. And now letting me taking his photograph
in the park even before we...

A warm, sunny afternoon in the cathedral city of Canterbury. I was doing
freelance work (photography) for a months, staying in a classy hotel, and
feeling pleasantly bored. About four in the afternoon, out window-shopping
(for boys), I answered a call of nature and headed for the toilets near the
city centre. Going in, I glanced at a young boy, about 12 or 13, sitting on
the entrance step. He was in school uniform. I thought he might be waiting
for a friend or even for his father - though it was a pretty insalubrious
place to be sitting.

I entered the toilets, found a urinal and pulled my dick out. I'd hardly
started to piss when I noticed someone take the next urinal. A bit odd
since none of the other urinals was in use. Tradition dictates you don't
stand beside another guy if there are spaces elsewhere.

It was the boy.

A little embarrassed, I listened to myself splashing into the bowl. No
similar sounds from the next bowl. I didn't look. He was a boy, I was man,
you don't look. I shook myself and washed my hands. I glanced back. The boy
was still standing at the urina, looking over his shoulder - at me! I
hurried out of the toilets, crossed road and stood watching the entrance to
the toilets.

Curiosity (and lust) got the better of me. Surely the boy wasn't... I had
to take a look. Sure enough, he was sitting there on the step, eyeing every
man who entered the toilet. Drawn as if by a magnet, I strolled casually
over and looked down at the boy. He looked up at me and held my look.

God, he was an angel!

I'd nodded to him and walked away. He got up and followed me. After three
steps, he caught up with me and started chattering away. For a moment I
thought the boy might be simple. He was far from that.

His name was Theo M. He was thirteen. He went to the local boys' grammar
school, which meant he was as bright as a button. . He was funny,
articulate, self-possessed, and in no way naive. He only had an hour. His
little sister was in McDonalds for a birthday party with her friends. He
had to collect her at 5 and see her home. He wasn't quite 13; he'd be 13 on
August 8, in exactly one month. Theo steered the conversation round to sex,
and more precisely to dicks, pricks, cocks and bums.

Had I seen a big one? What did I consider a big one? Did I know any boys
with big ones?  Did I know any boys his age with big ones? Did I have a big
one? Put like that it is crude. But that's not the way Theo discussed
them. did it. His skin glowed and his eyes shone.

"Well, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have a big one?" At last he blushed.

"Depends what you call big," I fenced, blushing.

"Can I see it?"

Then... "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm new to Canterbury."

"That's okay," he chirped. "I know a place. It's not far. The toilets at
the bus station. The toilets are closed for repairs, but all the boys at my
school know to get into them the back away."

Theo led me through a gap in the fence at the back of the bus station. The
toilets were empty. There were two cubicles. Neither door had a lock. Theo
pulled me inside one. The place reeked of urine. He backed me towards the
toilet seat.

"Sit down. I'll do you first."

Semi-dazed, I sank back onto the toilet seat. Theo dropped to his knees and
scrabbled with the opening of my trousers. "Fuck it." He pulled the belt
open, unzipped me, hauled down my slacks, then my underpants.

My cock sprang up, so hard it actually ached.

The boy knelt over me, his fascinated gaze on my prick, as he jerked me
hard and fast, his lips brushing the head every now and then. I was too
nervous to feel that much. It was a tiny cubicle with another next
door. There was no lock on the door. The toilets were closed but some of
the boys from Theo's school might break in at any moment.A twelve-year-old
schoolboy was kneeling between my legs, enthusiastically tossing me
off. Insane!

After five minutes, Theo gave me an exasperated look. "Hurry up," he
whispered.

"Stand up," I whispered.

The boy stood up and started to undo his trousers. Then he took his hands
away and looked down at me. He didn't have to say anything. I reached out,
unclasped his school flannels, unzipped him and pushed his trousers and
white underpants to his knees. Theo pushed his jacket open and pulled up
his shirt and sweater until they were around his neck.

His body was as beautiful as his face. Clean, creamy skin. A strong chest,
washboard stomach with little belly button (an inner). A patch of dark hair
at the base of his stomach. His erection, around four inches, pointing
straight up to his chin. His prick as thick as my thumb. I edged back the
foreskin and ran my fingers tenderly over his prick and balls. Theo pushed
at my head. I sank down and took his prick in my mouth. I sucked him the
way I thought it should be done, varying the pressure, depth and speed,
while one hand worked on his ballsac and the other stroked his chest and
nipples. I could hear the boy sighing audibly above me.

The boy's hips and knees began jerking and I knew he was about to cum in my
mouth. But he didn't. He suddenly withdrew, saying "Turn round turn
round. Bend. Bend."

Was this twelve-year-old going to fuck me?

Startled I did what I was told and found myself kneeling over the toilet
bowel. Then small fingers prised the cheeks of my arse apart. Shit, the kid
was going to fuck me. No, he wasn't. It was his tongue. A twelve-year-old
was rimmng me! I could feel my thumbs peel me apart, open me up, the tip of
his tongue wiggling just inside me. I hadn't my morning shit. There was
bound to be a turd up there. Did Theo know that? Did he want it? Is that
what he was searching for?

I bounced him backwards. Stood him up. Turned him round. Now his face was
over the bowl. He wiggled his creamy little bum. Was he expecting me to
fuck him there and then. I grasped my swollen cock, so hard it hurt, ran it
up and down his crack before burrowing it between his cheeks. I shot my
load! Cumming took my completely by surprise. A stream of warm jism shot
deep onto the boy's hole. Theo's reaction - he wiggled his bum!

"Get your fucking clothes on," I said.

"You get yours on," he giggled.

Outside, Theo turned to me, eyes shining. He looked at his watch: "Plenty
of time." Then added, "Can you get me a burger, please? I'm starving." As
we passed McDonald's, I popped in a got a couple of burgers and fries. We
sat in the park and ate them. Theo was full of questions about my
photography assignment in Canterbury.

"Do you want to take my photo?" he asked. I took his photo.

All too soon it was time for him to go.

He stood up and shook my hand politely.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "I really enjoyed that." I wasn't quite sure
what it was he'd really enjoyed. Then he said: "I really like your
bumhole," giggled and was gone.

I haunted the toilets for the next two weeks. I wanted sex with him again,
but even more than that I wanted to sit him down and giving him a good
telling-off. I wanted to talk about the risks he was taking: rape, murder,
AIDS. Theo needs help. Every boy who is driven to haunting the streets and
toilets looking for casual sex needs help. I probably needed help, too, but
that was help of a different kind.

I never saw Theo again.


KARIM & STEFAN

This photograph of Stefan and Karim always makes me smile. Stefan (10) and
Karim (12) are brothers. They helped me set what must be a world record:
seducing two boys on the same afternoon.

The boys were from Libya in the days when Col. Gaadafi and oil meant that
some Libyan feamiles were stunningly rich. Stefan and Karim were from one
of these families and had been packed off to one of Switzerland's
outrageously expensive schools to 'give them some polish'. Both boys were
fluent in Arabic, Italian and English, owing their mixed parentage. Karim
got his father's looks, Stefan his mother's (Austrian) - basically
European, pale skin, dark brown curly hair.  Stefan was cute, Karim
handsome. And both, along with 118 other boys, were entrusted to me as head
of the junior house (8 to 13).

The atmosphere at ........... International School was relaxed, the lessons
not too demanding, lots of sports, including compulsory skiing weekends in
Montana-Crans, and similar places. There were about 30 nationalities in the
boarding houses, and it was neverr dull. Most of the guys who looked after
the boys' boarding house were young and out for a good time. You can
imagine with boys, aged 8 to 13, flying in from all over the Middle East
there was plenty of caviar and cannabis from the older boys (13 to
18). There was one group of older boys, all from the same country, which
I'm not going to libel, who spent more time in each other's beds than their
own! All in all, the atmosphere was liberal, then some.

I took an interest in Stefan and Karim right from the start, not only
because they were attractive boys, but because I'd been asked to the
Director (owner) of the school who wanted "nothing but the best" for the
sons of a family who could have bought the school out their loose
change. Neither boy had been out of Libya before, neither had seen snow,
and both were wonderfully naive. Like every other boy, they called me
'Mister Robert'. We established a fun friendship from the outset.

All went well until the Spring when both managed to damage themselves
during a skiing trip: Stefan badly sprained his right wrist and Karim broke
his left leg. I was not on that particular trip.  They were simple
fractures, and if you have to break bones, there are fewer better places to
do so than in Switzerland. Carted back to school in plaster, both boys made
the best of things, and again I was called to take 'a special interest' in
the boys, especially Karim who was confined to bed in a single room just
off the main dorms. Half my scheduled time was allocated to Karim so that
I'd be available as and when he needed me.

I spent a lot of time in Karim's room, chatting, playing backgammon, cards,
reading, and generally just being there. Day after day in bed can get
anyone down, snd he appreciated what I did for him, especially when it came
to stuff like lifting him onto his bedpan, disposing of his waste, and
giving him body washes, which, he laughingly admitted, he grew to look
forward to. I would strip off his pyjamas, top and bottoms, and cover him
with a single sheet. Then with a cloth and warm soapy water, I'd wash him
all over. Of course, he got erections. H was twelve years old! I pretended
to ignore them as my hand hand circled his neck, shoulders, chest, stomach,
legs, knees and feet. Then I'd wash his pubic hair. Up would spring his
four inches of hard flesh and Karim would bury his face in a book.

Blame it on 'The Exorcist'.

He was reading the book while I was washing him. He'd reached the part
where the young girl starts masturbating with a crucifix. Karim was not a
Christian, but that really turned him on. His erection was hard against his
belly. It was all too much. My fingers closed around his stiff penis and I
gave it a few squeezes. Maybe I could have stopped there but Karim began to
raise his bum off the bed pushing his stiffy through my fingers again and
again.

"Do you want this?" I asked.

"Yes, please," came a mumbled response.

I began masturbating the twelve-year-old gently. Another mumble came from
behind the book. I couldn't quite make it out. "Pardon?" I asked.

His voice was low but crystal clear. "You never wash all of me. You never
wash my really dirty bits. They need washing too."

It took me a minute to work out what he meant, what he wanted, but he
helped out my pulling his feet up the bed and crooking his knees. Karim lay
there, naked, exposed vulnerable. I took the washcloth and wrapped round my
fingers and began to wipe deep beneath his bum cheeks. The wask cloth
didn't help. I threw it aside and soaped by fingers. I pushed the tip of my
middle finger against his hole. Karim grunted and pushed his body down the
bed. My finger slid in down past the first finger. I began to finger-fuck
the boy and masturbate him again.

His mumble came again.

"Do the insides of me?"

Not quite sure what he meant, I started circling my middle round and round
inside his rectum. As the width of the circle increased, I felt the soft
velvet of the boy's insides. He tried to keep silent but it was too much
for him. He began moaning quietly. I thought of forcing in another finger
but decided against it. I didn't want to cause him any pain and, besides,
there would be plenty of time as the weeks wore on.

Suddenly the door swung open and Stefan skipped in.

Karim spat something at him, which I learned later, was the Arabic for
"Fuck off!"

Stefan skipped out.

Karim returned to his vision of the girl in the 'Exorcist' masturbating
herself with a crucifix while I masturbated him with one hand and
finger-fucked him with the other. He lasted thirty seconds more and then
shot hald a dozen squirts of suprisingly thick semen up his belly. I
started to wipe it away with the facecloth, then thought "Waste not, want
not," leaned over and licked it from his light brown skin.

Karim laid down his book, sighed and said: "You can take your finger out of
my bum now." He paused. "I need a shit now." Both remarks were accompanied
by satisified smiles, and I knew that all would be well in my world, and in
Karim's. About Stefan's I was not yet sure.

Just for fun I've tried to put what happened in Stefan's words.

I saw them all right, and I was jealous. Just because Karim's two years
older than me, he's always been regarded as the 'first', after my father,
in the family. Frankly, I think he's a dumb shit, but everybody's brother
is a dumb shit, so that doesn't mean much.

Although I only got a quick look, I saw Karim's zob - that's Arabic for
prick - in Mister Robert's mouth, and I guesses where his finger was. He
was meant to be taking care of me as well as my big brother. Anyway, I
found sir and asked him if he could help me take a bath. I waved my wrist
in its plaster pathetically in front of him. "Sure thing, Stefan," he said,
"Go get your stuff and meet me in the bathrooms."

"Can we use the clinic bathroom?" I asked, putting my shyest look. "I don't
want everybody to..." I didn't have to finish the sentence. Sir ran his
fingers though my hair, thick, glossy, curly hair, as loved by my mother,
and said, "See you there in five. Don't disturb, Karim. He's sleeping."
("Bet he is," I thought.)

By the time Mister got to the clinic bathroom, I was running the bath, and
standing there naked. I reckoned it would be difficult for him to ask me to
put my clothes back on. We chatted about nothing until the bath was filled,
then he told me to step in and sit down. Sheer luxury! Sitting there in
that hot, steamy bath with JD's soapy hands running over my body. Maybe my
body was a bit slight, but I wasn't skinny, and I had the kind of cheeky
features you see on the back of a cereal packet.

"Stand up, Stefan and I'll wash off the soap."

I stood up. My dick was sticking straight out at ninety degrees from my
body. Okay, it was only a couple of inches, but you could hardly miss
it. Funny that. When I got older, my erection would always be vertical,
pointing straight up my body, but at that age, my erections stuck straight
out from my body. Like a little hooded cobra. A cobra without the hood, of
course, since I was a good Muslim boy - well, I was a Muslim boy. The soapy
water streamed from my body.

Sir sat on the edge of the bath. He took towelfuls of warm water and
squeezed them down my body making the soap run off. He'd ignored my stiff
dick, but he'd have to do something when he got down there.

"Turn round. Bend over. Hold onto the bath."

Wow!

I did as instructed and felt the warm wet cloth stroking my lower back and
bottom. Then no cloth, just JD's warm fingers. Then the cheeks of my
buttocks being pulled apart and his warm fingers sliding in. For a few
moments, I felt his fingers trace the circle of my ring. "Inside inside," I
willed him, and it worked. I felt a finger worked its way deep inside me -
the soap suds helped. It began to fuck me. I'd learned lots about sex from
two Swedish boys - twins - in the dorm. They showed me how to wank (that
means masturbate) and let me watch them suck each other off. They also
sucked each other's bum holes but they hadn't let me try that yet.

"Suck my hole... suck me hole," I willed him. "Suck the shit out of me."
The idea should have been disgusting, but it wasn't. "Do it. Do it." But he
didn't.

"Turn round."

I stood up and turned round. My dick was aching, my balls were aching. (Can
your balls ache before you can physically cum? Mine did.)

"Let's get you really clean."

His arms slipped round my waist. He pulled me towards him. And my dick slid
into his open mouth. He gently rocked me back and forwards while he sucked
on my stiff penis. Mister Robert really knew how to get a kid clean! My
legs shook, my knees shuddered, I trembled all over. I pushed him away. I
was that sensitive.

I stepped out of the bath and sir towelled me down, gently, roughly,
tenderly, vigorously. Then he towelled my head. Then he had me climb up on
the padded table and he gave me a massage all over. I lay on my front
hoping he would finger-fuck me again. It's funny but that was a different
kind of sexy from what you feel in your front bits, but just as good in its
way.

When we'd finished, I dressed, said thank you, and went up to my room. I
lay down on my bed, closed my eyes and fell sound asleep. I was that
relaxed. Next day I asked sir for another bath. He smiled wryly, told me
not to be so cheeky and kicked my arse down the corridor. I scampered off
to find my Swedish friends. This time I would make them suck my bum hole
and I would suck theirs!

I know Mister Robert and Karim were close for the rest of the year, but it
didn't seem to be any of my business any more. I had Nils and Axel, and
they had me - lots of times.


Stephen

Although I'd had lots of sex since I was eleven years old, I didnt fall in
love till I was eighteen, so the photographs I have of Stephen Lonishen
mean more to me than any of the others. I was almost 18, first year at
college, everything was possible.

College was wonderful. I absorbed information like a sponge, so, apart from
attending lectures and seminars, I'd lots of spare time for a hectic social
life that quickly developed. And it developed so quickly because Stephen
Lonishen 'adopted' me. 'Stephen Lonishen' isn't his real name, but I've
chosen that one because it's almost as exotic as my senior man's. In those
days, and I've no reason to believe anything's changed, senior students
'adopted' first year students and 'mentored' them for a year.

'Mentoring' could be as dull or as exciting an affair as the senior man
dictated. My mentoring was never dull. Stephen was something of a legend at
university: directing plays, running the literary club, heavily into
far-left politics, showing imported movies for profit, and raising pots and
pots of money for charity. He was academically brilliant, and I never
understood how he managed it; at least I attended lectures and seminars. I
once asked Stephen how he managed it: "Easy," he said, "I only opt for
subjects I already know inside out." I think Stephen opted for me.

To be fair, I hung around Stephen more than he hung around me: I was the
bee to the exotic bloom. It wasn't difficult because we were both in the
same halls of residence. Stephen told me he didn't move out because he at
least knew he had a bed whatever happened..

I was fascinated, hypnotised by Stephen Lonishen. He let me come on a
roller coaster ride that left me breathless but begging for more. And as
the weeks wore on, I began to realise what that more might include. Stephen
and I grew more and more intimate. At parties we'd end up sitting on the
floor side by side, drinking, smoking dope, talking. We'd rush out together
and catch a midnight movie. We were often pissed together or stoned
together, so much so we slept in my room on the ground floor because
Stephen couldn't make it to his eerie on the fifth. It was all big time
fun.

I realised Stephen wanted me physically. I don't know how I knew, but I
knew. I remember one day we were doing a 'photo shoot' for the charities'
magazine; Stephen wanted me as Superboy. This meant being naked, apart from
underpants and the Superman Logo painted on my chest. The logo was
easy. However, I had on the wrong kind of underpants - Y-fronts! (I also
wore a string vest in those days.) We decided to swap. Stephen got his off
quickly. I dillied and I dallied, dallied and I dillied, 'accidentally'
showing off my genitals to Stephen until, exasperated, he pulled his cotton
slip over my arse, saying: "Let's get on with it, Robert. We'll save the
strip-tease for later."

On another occasion, Stephen came to find me. I was in the shower. He stood
outside the shower door speaking to me. "Catch you later," he said. "Don't
go," I called. "I need to speak to you." I'd been busy pulling on my dick
until it was semi-hard and swinging suggestively in front of me. I opened
the shower door and towelled myself while inventing a totally meaningless
conversation. I dried my hair vigorously and could feel my cock bouncing
against my thighs. I was temptation made flesh, if that's the kind of flesh
you fancy. By the time I'd finished drying my hair, Stephen was gone! I
couldn't blame him; even I didn't know what I was talking about.

October 31st: my eighteenth birthday. Part of the celebrations included
drinking half a pint in every public house in Hope Street. I don't know if
anyone's ever achieved this, and I don't suppose we even got halfway
through the pubs. I can't remember any of that all. I do remember it was a
viciously windy, rainy, cold, dreich, miserable Edinburgh night - but
Stephen and I didn't give a fuck: we were 'fou and unco' happy'.

I don't remember how we got up to Stephen's room. There was a bed and a
mattress on the floor. There was an angle-poise lamp. I was lying on the
mattress. Stephen was helping me off with my wet things. I was
singing. Someone shouted along the corridor: "Shut up, you English
bastard!" I remembered I was in Scotland and I shut up.

Stephen was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He was stroking my cheek
tenderly. Pity, probably. Here was I, an 18-year-old fresh-minted English
drunk lying on his mattress singing drivel about Ilkley Moor. My scarf and
rainjacket were gone. My boots and were gone. My wet shirt was gone. I felt
his fingers trace a path along my string vest, and I said the immortal
words: "If you try to seduce me, I won't stop you." Now, that may not be
the clearest invitation in the world but thinking about it I don't see it
can be construed as anything else: "Try to seduce me and I won't stop you."

I felt my string vest being tugged out of my jeans. Then I felt warm, wet
lips on my stomach - Stephen's, I presumed. That's all he did at
first. Warm, wet kisses that traced patterns across my stomach, sometimes
playing in my belly button, sometimes edging down to the tendrils of hair
that peeked above my Y-fronts. His patience gave me an erection that
throbbed, pulsated and ached. He tugged my string-vest up my body, over my
shoulders and over my head. It snagged in my glasses which he gently took
from my face and placed somewhere safe. I was now blind as a bat but made
up for it by the sensation of touch.

Stephen kissed me. Not just a simple peck, but mouth on mouth, that had me
open and gasping for breath. Then his tongue was inside my mouth, probing,
seeking, moiling (a favourite word I'll look up later).  His mouth left my
lips and worked their way down my body. His hands were at my belt - I
raised my arse from the mattress and let Stephen work my jeans and
underpants down to my ankles and off. I felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable
and erotic. My prick was so hard it felt like fleshy steel when Stephen
gripped it between his fingers and thumb. I didn't have much time to think;
he pulled the foreskin back; I was already wet and slippery; and he suck me
deeply into his mouth and throat.

"That's it," I thought. "I'm a fag now. Best lie back and enjoy it."
Actually I can't remember what, if anything, I thought. It was nothing but
sensation, only feeling, no guilt, no shame, just an intense desire to cum,
but not to cum forever and ever. If this could only go on forever, I'd be
the happiest birthday boy in the land.

Stephen sucked up and down on my shaft, at the same time jerking the base
and twisting it to create different pressures, frictions and suctions
inside his mouth. He'd let me almost slip out, then probe my cockslit with
his tongue, then slide all the way down my shaft until I felt his lips
brush my pubic hair. His other hand gently eased my legs apart.

He played with my balls and ran a finger along my perineum, a little
further each time until he naturally slipped all the way into my crack and
along my anal ring. Part of the excitement was the fear of what he was
going to do, what he wanted. Was he going to penetrate my hole with his
finger? Would it hurt? Would I like it? Did I want it? Would he try more
than one finger? What if he tried to turn me over? Would I let him? Did he
want to fuck me? Did I want him to fuck me? Would I let him?

I didn't turn over. Stephen did.He was naked. When had that happened? He
was naked. He was beneath me. I was naked. When had that happened?

We lay there pressed together. I snuggled into him, feeling the curve of
his back against my chest, my balls in the crack of his arse. I wriggled a
bit lower on the matress, not sure what I had in mind. My arms were round
Stephen's chest and waist; I could feel his hair against my wrist. He
reached round and pulled his buttocks apart. I slid my cock in till the
head was wedged in deep, the tip touching the heat of his ring.

"Just push," he whispered.

I pushed hard. I felt Stephen grasp my cock and guide it to his
hole. Another push. Something gave and the head of my cock was inside
him. I realised how slippery it was down there and explored with my
fingers. The head of my cock was inside him and the heat was
exhilarating. Steadily I pressed my groin into his buttocks, and my cock
slid in about three inches. Stephen pulled his left leg up into a kneeling
position, and my cock slid in another inch. Because of the way we were
lying, that's as far in as I could get. That was enough. I began to rock my
hips back and forward, pushing myself in and out of his hole. His asshole
was hot, very hot, and gripped me tightly as I entered and withdrew again
and again.

The room was filled with little grunts and squeaks and moans that would
have sounded silly in any other circumstances; then, they just added to the
intensity of the experience. I felt myself cuming as my hips and groin
began to buck and I stroked Stephen hard and fast. If we didn't spurt
simultaneously, there could only have been seconds difference, for we lay
there shaking, juddering, trembling, shuddering as our orgasms took over. I
felt his hot cum pump along his shaft as my own pumped into his rectum. His
chest rubbed against my back and there little popping sounds of bursting
sweat bubbles as our bodies shook uncontrollably. Then it died away, and I
lay there listening to our breathless panting.

Stephen tried to roll over but I gripped him tightly and whispered, "Let me
stay in you." He pushed his bottom into my groin, and we fell asleep that
way, cradled together like twins in the womb.

In the morning when I awoke Stephen was gone. I got up, wrapped his
dressing gown round me, grabbed my clothes and slipped downstairs to my own
room. It was 8.30. I'd slept soundly. I showered, dried, dressed and headed
for the refectory. Stephen was there, sitting with a group of mutual
friends having breakfast. Someone made room for me, and I slipped in
opposite Stephen. I was ravenous.

"Good morning," Stephen said. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead, man," I yawned. "Like the fucking dead."

"How does it feel to be 18, to be a man?" he said.

The whole table laughed but it was friendly, warm and welcoming.

"Great, man," I said. "Just fucking great."

What puzzled me then and still puzzles me. Within two weeks, Stephen had
found Maggie, who, as far as I know, turned out to be the love of his
life. Was I broken-hearted? No. We went on enjoying our 'special
friendship' (no sex) throughout our time together at the university. It
helped that I remained the happy predator I was and had sex with some of
the best-looking boys in Edinburgh.

Was Stephen bisexual? I never asked him. I'm not interested in labels. I
just do what I want to do with whoever wants to do it with me. But Stephen
remains special.

Eric and Dean

Now you might have thought my sex with Stephen was all very tame, so I'll
go back to Eric - and Dean - which was anything but tame, and shows me at
my worst - and best?

Remember Eric who introduced me to a world way beyond anything I'd imagined
with Mr. C. Eric who'd introduced me to his personal addiction to arseholes
and shit. I wasn't his first and certainly not the one who'd been corrupted
beyond anything I'd thought possible.

"Suck my hole," Eric tells me, and I start by licking his bum cheeks. He
reaches around and pulls them apart, telling me what he wants. "Sniff me,
smell the sweat in my bum hole, smell my farts. I run my tongue from his
balls to his crack. His farts smell like cracked walnuts. I probe his hole
with the tip of my tongue. "Fuck..." he groans. "Fuck me with your tongue."

Eric's hole loosens easily, easier than it should in a twelve-year-old
boy. I know he uses what he calls 'dildoes' to fuck himself with. I fast my
tightened lips over his hole and suck really hard, tasting his bum juices,
that mixture of sweat, shit and slimy fluid. Dean is kneeling at the other
end, fucking Eric's mouth. Dean is 13, in Year 8, and play in the school
football team with us. Dean can cum, really cum!

I start sliding my tongue in and out of Eric's arse as Dean slides his cock
down Eric's throat. Dean has almost seven inches, and lots of hair. I reach
under Eric and start working on his cock as Deam and I are fucking him from
both ends.  I feel his anus pushing outward into my mouth. It's like a
little red doughtnut. At the centre of the doughnut, the tip of a hard,
brown turd peeps out. The tip of a turd meets the tip of my tongue. Eric
holds it where it is while I start licking the tip.

We're pretty good at this now, so when Dean slides his cock out of Eric's
throat I know what to do. We make quick adjustments and Dean's on his back,
legs raised in the air with Eric straddled across his chest feeding him his
cock. I'm between Dean's legs, my tongue fighting its way into his hole. He
doesn't smell as good (bad) as Eric and his bum juices aren't so juicy, but
change is good as a rest and I'm happy to burrow my as deep inside as I
can. I worm further and further into his bum as he loosens up, and, Yes!,
the knobbly end of a Dean turd. I try to loosen him up but the turd doesn't
seem in the mood for fresh air so I content myself with the intoxicating
smell of his insides, and the taste of the velvety textures my tongue can
trace.

I don't know long we're at this but I get the signal from Eric and I know
it's time for din dins. Quick adjustments and he is squatting over my face,
lining his anus over my mouth. I heave his cheeks up a bit. What I love
most of all is seeing a boy's bum swell and the lips of hus anus open as a
turd pushes its way where the sun shines. Not that it will get sunshine for
long. Weird when you come to think of it. How many turds go from one tummy
directly into another?

I turn my face a moment to see Dean's face sharing the space with me, his
eyes fixed on Eric's burgeoning hole. We hear Eric grunt as he strains to
push the sweet shit out of his hole. His bum lips slowly open up. The turd
slides down. It's amazing how elastic the human bum is. I suck the end of
the turd but its a soft one and falls into my mouth. It's soft and
delicious and fills my mouth completely. Eric gets off me and I turn to
share his shit with Dean mashing it together in open-mouthed kisses.

Before I've swallowed everything, Dean is squatting over me. We know Eric
wants to fuck my throat with Dean's beautiful log. His hand is ready under
Dean's hole. Dean grunts loudly. His cheeks tense up, and it's a good ten
seconds before his hole starts to expand, and then it's open all the
way. His shit is dark brown, knobbly and hard, just like a boy's shit
should be. Eric pinches off about three inches and steadies the turd with
his other hand to prevent it breaking up. I immediately slurp up the juices
around Dean's anus.

Eric holds the turd to my mouth. I open my lips just wide enough for him to
insert and begin sucking it as gently as I can. Dean as shit the rest of
his turn into his hand and is rubbing it across Eric's lips and then
against his own. The whole thing is so over-whelming I feel a bit
faint. I've come a long way since Mr. C's first lesson. I gulp down Dean's
shit as it breaks up in my mouth.

"My turn now," says Eric.

I'm not sure what he means. He lies down on his front and puts his head
comfortably on his elbows. "He's not going to try and take a shit like
that," I say. Dean laughs and says "Just watch and learn."

Dean kneels down beside Eric's bum. His right hand is covered with
shit. "Get down here," he whispers. I get down and watch his fingertips
playing with Eric's hole. A finger slides in, the another, and then I'm
stunned to see the four fingers of Dean's hand are wrapped over each other
and are forcing themselves into Eric's rectum.

Eric grunts and says something like: "Do it."

I'm shocked as Dean pulls out his fingers, closes his thumb inside them,
and works his hand into Eric's bum. His whole hand! Right up to his wrist!
I didn't believe that was possible. "What are you doing?" I ask Dean,
scared about what's happening.

"I'm fisting him," he says. "It's called 'fisting'. I'm working my fist
right inside him." As he says this, he's still working his hand into Eric
until his wrist and a little bit of his arm is inside, too. "I'm past his
sphincters now," Dean says. "My first is in his guts."

Then he says, "Eric, turn over but be very careful. Slowly. Take it easy."

And turns over onto his back. And Dean says, "Watch his belly?" And I watch
his belly. And I see something moving under his belly. His belly changes
shape. And Dean says "That's my fist doing that. I'm fisting fuckcing,
Eric. He loves it. Do you want to have a go?"

"Not now," I say. "Next time. Not now."

Dean slides his fist from Eric's arsehole. He opens his fist. His hand is
full of shit, Eric's shit.

And I've just been introduced to fisting.



THE OTHER DEAN

Here's a photograph of me and the team I played with when I was 14. I am
standing on the left. It wasn't the school team or even the district
team. Mr. C. had put me forward for a summer football camp and I got a
place! Here's another photograph. It's me and Dean Tilson.

The camp was held at a small international school near Cambridge,England,
now closed.  The junior boys, 10 to 14, were housed in converted
stables. The senior boys, 16 to 18, were in the old manor house. We had
dorms that held about eight kids. The junior house was headed by an 18 year
old. We got Dean Tillson, and Dean Tilson got me. The Head of House had his
own bedroom with inside bathroom and shower.

The Head Boy and I, a scumbag junior, had only two things in common -
soccer and David Bowie. Maybe a bit more. We were both dirty blond,
athletic and sex-hungry.

Dean took things seriously. Training after school three times a week. He
and I got into the habit of staying on for an extra twenty minutes after
everyone had gone while he took shots at me in goal. Dean said it would
sharpen my reflexes and his shooting, so he had a double interest in extra
practice. A triple as it turned out.

There was one problem. By the time extra practice was over, I was sweaty
and muddy, and by the time I reached the junior block the showers were
cold. "No problem," said Dean, "use mine. They're always hot." Nobody
questioned this. Rules and regulations were relaxed. Dean was HB.

I got into the habit of staying on in the manor, in Dean's room, listening
to Bowie, rapping about life, the universe and everything, and sharing a
joint. The talk was a lot more interesting and intelligent than the
juvenile stuff in junior dorm. It was good to get a break from their
obsession with football sex and simple wanking.

We showered together and drying off in his bedroomroom while we listened to
music. In the presence of Dean, I was glad I'd a good body, and a
fully-developed cock for a fourteen year old. About six inches and thick. I
know it was fully-developed, nearly, since I've added only an other inch
since those days. Dean already had about eight inches. I suppose it was the
heat of the shower that made our dicks hang loose and free, and maybe the
heat in the room. We'd wrap our towels around us, I'd sit on the bed, Dean
on a chair near the stereo changing records, pass the joint and get high on
Ziggy Stardust. Of course, sometimes my mind would wander, and I'd wonder
if he'd ever been fisted.

I wouldn't be telling the truth if I said Dean's looks, body, and
personality didn't get to me. They did, every time, but so what? Every boy
in the junior block was horny 24/7. The sounds of boys jacking off in my
dorm got so outrageous we all talked about it one day and agreed we
wouldn't bother trying to hide it anymore. That night the sounds of half a
dozen boys jerking off simultaneously was one of my most erotic memories of
that summer. I say half a dozen and not the full complement of eight boys
because a couple of them resisted temptation. The truth came out later that
they were being sucked off regularly by the guy who ran the whole camp, but
that's another story, and who knows if it was their first time.

How the conversation got onto sex, I don't know. It wasn't something Dean
and I'd talked about before. There was a Bowie LP on the turntable. He was
sitting next to me on the bed. I could feel the heat from his damp skin. My
cock was thick, semi-tumescent, under my damp towel. Dean held the joint to
my lips with one hand while the fingers of the other ran back and forward
across my thigh. I drew deeply and held the smoke in my lungs. Dean drew
deeply and put the joint aside. His fingers traced patterns across the damp
towel.

"Continue," I said, rising as he tugged my towel away.

Dean dropped to his knees on the floor in front of me. He grasped my prick
which went from semi to full tumescence in seconds. He appeared to study
it, then pulled the foreskin back from the head of my cock which was
already embarrassingly swollen and purple. I have a very loose foreskin,
and there are a couple of blue veins that run from the base to the tip of
my foreskin. I've got big balls, and by then I'd lots of dirty blond pubic
hair.

Dean wedged my legs wider open, then sank his mouth straight onto my
cock. I almost blew it then and there. I might as well tell the truth: I
did blow it then and there. Within seconds I was spurting into the Head
Boy's mouth - "he was giving me head on the unmade bed" - so hard I heard
him choke. I couldn't stop cuming. I sat there watching Dean's dirty blond
hair (long), his powerful shoulders (freckled), and his spine (curving into
his towelled ass) while my thighs trembled, my balls rocketed into my
groin, and my cock squirted hot cum into his mouth.

Dean raised his head and looked into my eyes. I blushed. "Sorry," I
mumbled. He got up from the floor. I was encouraged to see he had a huge
hard-on under his towel. He sat on the bed next to me and again held the
joint to my lips. My cock was hanging between my legs, twitching,
dripping. I inhaled so deeply I thought the smoke would come out of my
arsehole, which felt so loose I thought I might shit then and there.

"You gonna go on a guilt trip?" asked Dean, chewing and swallowing the
roach.

"Naw, don't think I'll bother," I shrugged.

"Me neither," said Dean.

We sat there for a few minutes talking about Saturday's soccer
match. Amazing to think back on it. I was sitting naked, cock dripping;
Dean sat in his towel, huge hard-on; the smell of dope filled the room;
'Diamond Dogs' was playing. If anybody had walked in, we'd have had a lot
of explaining to do. The door wasn't locked. Dean never locked it. And, as
I was to discover, nobody ever walked in. Privileges of rank.

I felt a little guilty. Dean had a huge erection, and I wasn't doing
anything about it. The idea of having acock that size up my arse was
scary. God, he was big. But what the hell. I reached out and wrapped my
hand round him. Not that much longer than me, but thicker, definitely
thicker. Big nipples, too. I always remember Dean's nipples. I sat there
squeezing him, plucking up courage. "I'll do you if you want," I
whispered. Dean grinned. "Thanks, but no thanks, I'm saving that for
Stephanie. She loves the taste, too."

I gulped and nodded.

"What about you?" he asked.

I looked down. My cock was hard again, standing straight up so that the tip
hit my belly button. "Shit. Sorry," I murmured. Dean grinned again. Then he
stood up, undid his towel and dropped it. I gulped again. This wasn't a
boy, this was a man. His chest was hairless but his abdomen covered with
light blond hair, his legs were covered with the same hair that darkened as
it disappeared into the V of his legs. His cock looked huge, his balls even
'huger', to coin a word. I'm glad I wasn't taking that in the mouth, but I
panicked a little as Dean pushed me backwards onto the bed.

In the ass?!

"Shhh, baby" he whispered, it's not what you think.

I lay across the bed sideways, my shoulders against a wall, my feet on the
floor. Dean heaved a big cushion behind my shoulders, which made it a lot
more comfortable. I closed my eyes, hoping for the best, expecting the
worst. A fresh, clean, slightly perfumed smell cut through the dope
smells. I recognised it. It was Nivea Cream. The smell of Nivea combined
with shit, still turns me on like nothing else on the planet.

Dean's hand was round my cock. He smeared Nivea its full length. It feel
cool against my burning skin. "A hand job," I thought and relaxed. I felt
Dean clambering onto the bed. I mentally revised the
possibilities. What...? I blinked open my eyes. He was straddling my groin,
a knee on either side. I felt him take my cock and guide it into my crack
until the tip touch his asshole. I don't know who was burning more: Dean or
me. He lowered himself onto me, and I felt my cockhead slip through his
ring, his sphincter and into his anus. It was like an elastic band round my
cock. The band slipped lower and lower until my cock was buried into the
hilt, my hair brushed the cheeks of his ass. Dean began to raise and lower
himself on my cock. I was fucking the Head Boy! Or was he fucking me? Same
difference.

Embarrassed at first, I soon got into the swings of things (the dope
helped) and began to bounce my hips up in reaction to Dean lowering himself
onto me. It got easier and easier. Soon he was sliding up and down my
greasy pole, the friction was wonderful. I wondered if fucking a cunt was
as good as this. Dean's cock was like a projectile aimed at my face. I
leaned forward and grasped it with the thumb and fingers of my right hand;
they met, but only just. I jerked Dean off in time to our body rhythm. His
head and body were thrown back. His eyes closed. His blond hair bouncing
around his shoulders. The air was full of the sounds of Bowie and the
smells of sex, sweat, dope and Nivea Cream - and shit

Dean came first. Jets of semen exploded from the tip of his cock, the first
two or three hitting me smack in the face, the next two landing on my chest
and belly. I was able to go on longer. For another ten minutes Dean rode
me. Then I hissed, "Tilson, Tilson, I'm cuming."

His eyes opened. He grinned. "Well, fucking cum then, don't just talk about
it." I spurted up into his arse, as hard as before but with not quite so
much semen. My cock felt so swollen, I wondered if I'd get it out in time
for dinner.

"Shit, man, you telling me you haven't done that before?" whispered Dean as
we lay side by side exhausted on the bed.

"Nope, first time," I lied.

"I ain't a fag," whispered Dean. "I just love sex."

"Me, neither," I whispered. "But us it okay if I... naw, never mind."

Dean looked at me. "Go on say it, jusy say it."

So I said it.

"Is it okay if I get my cum back?"

It took the HB a whole minute to work out what I was saying.

"You wanna get your cum back - right out my hole?"

"Yes, please," I said.

"Shit. I thought only Stefanie was into that shit," he laughed. "Be my
guest," he said, rolling over and raising his beautiful bum in the air. I
squirmed my way between his legs, pried open his hole as far as I could,
fastening my mouth to his anus. To be honest, the taste of cum, Nivea and
hint of shit isn't all that wonderful but the smell, at least to me is
utterly intoxicating. I slurped and slobbered until I could slurp and
slobber no more. I raised my glazed eyes and licked my lips.

"You are one diirty little fucker," laughed Dean. "Now get your arse off
that bed. We'd better take another shower."

"We'd better," I repeated.

We had sex every day after practice and I introduced Dean to things he
could try out on Stefanie, though not fisting!That suited both of us. I'd
also wander round on a Saturday evening, during the disco, and Dean would
suck me off or let me fuck him. Then we'd go back to the disco, Dean with
Stephanie, and me with a bunch of juniors to find as much booze and sex as
we could get away with.

The last time I saw Dean was in a park in Cambridge on a warm July
afternoon. A bunch of us juniors were lying on the grass in a discreet
corner of the park trading joints and bullshit. Dean came strolling through
the park with Stephanie on his arm. He let her go for a moment and walked
up to us.

Looking right at me, he said, "I'm going to miss you, man." My heart
thumped, my pulse raced, I'd never been so proud. I looked up into Dean's
eyes. "I'm going to miss you, too."

Dean turned and went back to his woman. He left school that evening, not
waiting for Sunday and the last day of the camp. I never saw or heard from
him again.

Every few years, I look at our photographs in the Souvenir Book. I look at
what he wrote: "The end of the year is at hand and I suppose 'All things
must pass', but I'm hoping our paths will cross sometime in the future
because it's been great knowing you and sharing times with you. Dean - in
the year of the diamond dogs."

Our paths haven't crossed again yet - but I go on hoping they will.


FRANKIE

By now you will be wondering if I really got into shit. I'm sitting here
looking at the photo of Frankie Doyle, the only photo I've got of one of
the boys from school who is naked. Actually I've got a whole bunch of
them. They are digitised and on my encrypted flash drive. I love being able
to enlarge a photo and inspect Frankie's 'best bits' close up.

Frankie and I were thirteen. We weren't 'mates'. We hardly knew each
other. Frankie didn't seem much interested in sport, and I'd heard he was a
bit of a computer nerd. I wasn't interested in much else but sport -
except, of course, sex. Eric and Dean had turned me into a predator, but
maybe that was always there. What I didn't guess was that in the predator
stakes Frankie made me look like an amateur.

Frankie had that very Irish look: dark hair and freckles. Fine
features. Eyelashes that belong on a girl. Slim but no skinny - much like
me. And a 'bubble butt' that had me drooling in and out of the showers. We
were in the same group for PE; that's how I saw a lot of him in the
showers. And it was in PE class it happened.

We were wrestling. Our PE teacher watched to like "his boys" wrestling -
perv - in only our shorts. He paired me with Frankie Doyle. I was surprised
to find Frankie was a lot better than me. He managed to maneuvere mde until
he was practically sitting on my face, legs either side of my head. I
didn't put up much of a struggle as he wiggled his bottom with my nose half
up his crack. Was that the giveaway?

Anyway, after showers, I found Frankie at the doors.

"Hey, wanna walk home," he said. "I live in Morgan Street, just round the
corner from you. You're pretty good at wrestling." A blatant fib. "You
should think about joining the wrestling club."  We walked along talking
about nothing in particular.

Halfway down Morgan Street, Frankie said: "Hey, come on into my place. Mum
and did won't be hime till six. It's only four now. That'll give us plenty
of time." Frankie didn't specify what the time would be for, and I didn't
ask. We got into his house: "Come on, let's go up to my room. I want to
show you something." His new laptop?

Wow - Frankie had his own double bed.

"So you like smelling my bum?" he asked.

I froze.

He laughed. "That's okay. I like your bum, too. I watch it in the showers
all the time. It wiggles when you walk. Did you know that?"

"So does yours," I risked.

Frankie laughed again.

"Take off your clothes - all of them. Lie on the bed. And don't open your
eyes until I tell you." With that, he turned and left the bedroom, leaving
me with the option of walking out or following instructions. I did what I
was told. Stripped off - even my socks, and lay down on the bed, head on
the pillow eyes closed, dick hardening.

A couple of minutes later there was a tap at the door.

"Are you lying down? Are you naked? Have you got your eyes closed tight?"

"Yes... yes... and yes."

"Promise."

"I promise."

I heard Frankie pad across the carpet. Then the bed creaked. I knew he was
on the bed with me. I waited to feel his hands on me, maybe even his
mouth. "Okay, open your eyes."

Frankie's bum was right over my face. He was raised above me. I was looking
directly at his bum hole, a little pink orifice with hints of brown all
around it - not shit, just darker skin. What the fuck was I supposed to do?
I breathed in deeply through my nose and took as much of his smell in as I
could. No shit smell.Just a musky, almost spicy smell that went straight to
my brain - and my dick.

Frankie lowered his bum closer and farted! I wasn't expecting that! The
smell went straight up my nose - putrid but utterly intoxicating. Pure
Frankie. I tightened my grip on Frankie's thighs and pulled him onto me. He
let another one go. I almost choked. Above me, I heard him giggling: "I was
right, I was right. You're like me."

I scrambled my face out from under him.

"You're a cheat, you're a fucking cheat."

"Why am I cheat?" he asked, a surprised look across his face.

"Because... because..."  I tried to think of something.

"Look, Robert," he said - that was the first time he'd called me Robert -
I'm going to give you what you want if you give me what I want."

"And what is you want?" I said.

"I want you to fuck me," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the
world.

"Oh," I said... "So why are you sitting on my fucking face?"

"'Cos I want you to loosen me up."

"Loosen you up?"

"Loosen my hole up, of course. I want you to lick my bumhole - but, of
course if you don't want to..."

I yanked Frankie back into position above my face. I pushed his legs as
wide as I could, could be nose between his cheeks, and licked probed,
slobbered on his hole, then fasted my lips as best as I could to his browny
pink starfish and tried to suck him inside out. He opened up. I was
surprised to find he opened up so easily. I thrust my tongue up as far as I
could and felt him shudder above me. I wormed around in his smell anus,
holding my breath, as I thrust back and forward as fast and as far as I
could. Above me, I heard Frankie's unbroken voice begin to whimper and
moan.

"Fuck me fuck me fuck the shit out of me, which was exactly what I was
trying to do.

"My turn now," I heard him gasp. "How would you like me?" I showed him how.

Frankie lay on his back, head on pillow. I raised his legs which he grasped
and held almost behind his ears. Must have been his wrestling training. I
got back down and prised open his bumhole, against surprised that his hole
opened so easily. I spat into his hole a few times, then on my knees edged
forward and push the head of my hard-on deep inside him in a single thrust.

"Oooof!" went Frankie.

I withdrew, then thrust in hard again, rabbit-fucking him the way Eric had
shown me. My groin was bouncing off his bum; his head was bouncing off the
bed board. I then settled into a steady rhythm so that I was able to look
at Frankie's face as I fucked him.

"Spit in my mouth," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me. Spit in my mouth."

He opened his mouth wide. I formed a huge gob of spittle in my mouth and
then hawked into his. For some reason this aroused me even more and I began
to rabbit-fuck him against, my arsehole tightening on the in-stroke and
opening on the out-stroke. I knew I wouldn't last much longer and I didn't.

With what amounted to a squeal, I thrust in for the final time and held
myself there, pumping my cum deep into Frankie's rectum. Then, as his legs
flattened onto the bed, I flattened onto him and our bodies lay there stuck
together with sweat. We rolled sideway, held each other, and then began
french-kissing, swapping saliva as we did so. "I wonder if there's any shit
on your dick," he whispered.

Frankie slipped down the bed, inspected by dick and reported back.

"Yeh, there's some shit on your dick mixed up with your cum." He
paused. "So do you want to?"

"Want what?"

"Do you want to watch me take a shit?"

How the fuck did he know me so well?

"Yes, but..." I couldn't get it out.

"What? Just say it."

"I want to fo more than that?"

"What? Just say it, Robert, just say it."

Again I was tongue-tied.

"Fuck. Just say it. You want me to shit on you?"

"Yes but there's more..."

"What? Say it, just say it. You know you want to."

"Well, would it be okay if you..."  Deep breath.  "Shit in my mouth."

Frankie beamed. "And what are you gonna do with my shit? Just say it."

"I'm going to swallow it - if you'll let me."

"Of course I'll let you," he said and hugged me.

"Come on. Let's go to the bathroom. Then we can shower afterwards. Okay?"

"Okay."

In the bathroom, I inspected my dick and was surprised to see how much shit
had stuck to the crown. Then I inspected Frankie's anus and was surprised
to see how much it had opened, and stayed open. The 5p coin was now a 10p
coin and my sperm was leaking from the hole, oozing down his inner
thigh. When Frankie looked away, I scooped his shit off my dick and stick
two fingers in my mouth. Musky, spicy, a trace of bitter almonds.

"How do you want me?" he asked. "I can't hold it in much longer."

I arranged myself on the bathroom floor. As I was doing it, he said: "I was
hoping you'd want to do something like this. I'll do it for you next time."
I was really glad to hear him say "next time". He went on: "I know
everyione will say it's dirty and pervy. But it's my body and it's your
body, and if we want to do something and it's not hurting anybody else, why
not?"

"Do you know why we want to do stuff like this?" I asked.

"No idea" he said. "Now hurry up and get over me. I'll try to do it as
slowly as I can but I can't hold it in forever."

Frankie squatted over me. He held his bum up high enough so I could enjoy
his bumhole. He farted a couple of times. The area around his anus began to
swell on both sides creamy and ivory. I pursed open and the end tip of a
dark brown turd poked through. "Hold it," I whispered and begain licking it
with the tip my tongue. He eased out an inch or so and I managed to get my
lips round it. The turd began to soften and disintegrate into my mouth, and
I was forced to gulp down the bits that broke off. Frankie was doing a
wonderful job in easing the turd out slowly. He pinched off the first
couple of inches and I let them slide almost whole down my gullet.

>From above I heard: "Does my shit taste good? Ready for some more."

It did and I was, though it began to soften and wasn't so easy to make love
to. I decided to let it slip quickly down my throat and into my stomach. I
didn't want to make a mess of Frankie's bathroom after he'd been so good to
me.

"That's the lot," said Frankie, "But stay where you are."

He stood up. I looked up. He was holding his dick. He was pointing it
straight at my mouth. I opened wide. He began pissing into my mouth. I
couldn't swallow it all fast enough. I began to cough and splutter and most
of it ended on the tiles floor.

When he was done, Frankie shook the last few drops of piss on me then
helped me up.

"God, what a fuckin' mess," I said.

"Yeh, but look at this."

He reached and turned on a big silvery knob. It began to shower from all
over the ceiling. Well, at least it showered from six different shower
heads. I'd never heard of this but Frankie explained afterwards that the
whole bathroom was a 'shower room'. And as the water hit us and the floor
it was carried away in four different channels until the floor - and us -
were sparkling clean.

When our showering was finished, Frankie opened a walled cupboard and
pulled out two huge bathroom towels - and they were hot - not just warm,
but hot. We had great fun towelling ourselves and each other dry.

"I don't know about you," Frankie said, "but I'm always hungry after a good
shit. Let's see what mum's left for my tea. There's always enough for two,
so be my guest." So we put on our clothes and that's what we did.

Frankie became my 'shit buddy' until his family moved to Brighton and we
lost touch. But we took photographs of each other after making solemn
promises never to show them to anybody else. I never have and I bet Frankie
hasn't either. I've got one where he is squatting, laughing as a long turd
slides out of him. But you wouldn't want to see that one, would you?

Paul and Lendon

I know what you're thinking. Is this guy obsessed with shit? Can't he tell
a tale without scat coming into it. Yes, I can. But only if I tell about
something that happened when there wasn't any shit involved. And only if
it's true. I mean, I've got these snaps of Paul and Lendon. They've just
burst into my kitchen from the rugby field. The seat is pouring from
them. The mud has caked their shorts to their arses. They've run into my
kitchen because my 'home' is attached to their annexe. I'm teaching in a
school in the south of England - a school for boys with 'special
needs'. Isn't it funny how the big wheel turns?

I remember exactly what happened after I threw them out - or least out
until they used the showers in the annexe. And I'm going to stck myself in
the story - not as me, but as one of the characters in the story. It may be
factually true but it will be emotionally true, and that's always a greater
truth. And another reason I'm writing his is because Paul and Lendon were
and are real. Paul still keeps in touch with me after all these years.

Here goes.

"They raped Ross last night."

"They didn't."

"They bloody well did."

"When?"

"During Prep. In the Sixth Form Block. It was an ambush. They sent a note
for him, and he went over to the Block."

"Bloody fool."

"True."

"He didn't have to go. Fagging's not allowed in this school, so he didn't
have to turn up."

"True."

"Bloody good-looking though."

"Too much like a girl. Those eyes. Looks like a bushbaby. That hair. Those
lips."

"Wouldn't mind them round my cock."

"Dirty beast."

"Dirty beast yourself."

"Homo!"

"Homo yourself!"

"Come here and I'll show you who's a homo."

Laughter.

It was time to make my presence known. After all, I'd no right to be
there. I coughed and dropped my shoes on the floor, one after the other, as
loudly as I could.

There was a scuffling, then Paul stuck his head round the shower
curtain. His head disappeared.

"It's okay. It's only Dowson."

His head reappeared.

"What do you want, Dowson? This isn't your annexe. These aren't your
showers. Bugger off."

"Ours are burst, Paul," I explained. "The others have gone over to Main
House. I slipped in here. I didn't think there'd be anybody around. Do you
mind...?"

His head disappeared. Then reappeared.

"I suppose not. There's only Lendon and I here. Got permission from
Mr. C. Hurry up and get in here before I turn the water on. The hot only
lasts twenty minutes and we want to make the most of it."

I stripped as quickly as I could, hanging each item on a peg. As I did, I
looked around. This was an eight-boy annexe, attached to one of the new
houses built for the bachelor masters. Lucky blighters. Our annexe housed
twenty-four boys, so it was endless warfare, largely ignored by our Dorm
Master and his wife, who had enough on their hands with four kids of their
own to be much concerned with what we got up to. I'd only arrived in
September, a new boy, new to the public school system. Though this was a
very minor public school, it had many of the same traditions, including
boys addressing each other by surname, and sarcasm all round. I suppose I
was pretty shy in those days. I liked the place. I appreciated the
investment my parents were making. But settling in wasn't easy.

I was in the same year as Paul and Lendon, Third Form, but we didn't live
in the same annexe and they didn't have much need to communicate with a
squirt like me.

"Hurry up, Dowson. We're freezing our balls off in here!"

I stepped into the shower room. Paul and Lendon were standing under the
middle shower, naked, shivering, though it was far from cold. I moved
towards them a little surprised we were only using one shower. Paul reached
for a knob (shower) and turned it on. A cascade of cold, cool, lukewarm,
warm, fairly hot water hit us.

"Get in here, Dowson," said Meaby wrapping an arm round my waist and
pulling into the intimate circle. "One showers lasts twenty mins., two
showers ten mins., three showers... work it out for yourself. I'm
dyslexic."

"I'm dysgraphic," I confessed.

"And I'm bloody dyspraxic," laughed Paul, pretending to fall over and
grabbing onto both of us.

I should explain our school was for very bright boys with some sort of
dysfunction. So everyone had a 'dys...' of some sort labelled to them. So
everyone was equal.

"What were we talking about? Remind me," said Paul.

"Rape," said Meaby, passing a bar of Wright's Coal Tar to Paul. "Here, soap
my back. Ross got raped by the Sixth Form last night. You said he was
asking for it."

"Well, he was," said Paul. "Here, Dowson, do my back. Meaby'll do yours."
he passed me a bar of soap. I dropped it.

"Careful how you bend over," laughed Meaby.

I picked up the soap. Meaby started to soap my back. I blushed so hard I
could feel the blood in my prick. I felt Lendon's warm soapy fingers on my
back. I took a deep breath and started to soap his. There was something
elemental, primitive, satisfying about what we were doing.

"You'd better be careful, too, Paul," said Meaby, surprising me by the use
of a Christian name. "Half the Sixth Form are in love with you, the other
half just want to... you know."

"Rape me? Well, if you've got it, flaunt it, babe," laughed Paul, "but they
won't catch me in the Sixth Form Block after dark. Anyway, everyone knows
Mr. C. has got the hots for me, and nobody's going to risk offending him."
(Mr. C. was the master-in-charge of their annexe. Lucky blighters.) "Lower,
please, Dowson, lower. Don't be shy. We're all Third Formers here."

Meaby's fingers brushed my buttocks, then started soaping. I let my fingers
drift down to Paul's bum. It was true; he was the best-looking boy in the
school. There was nothing girlish about Paul, but his golden hair,
symmetrical features, high cheekbones, big hazel eyes, and ready smile
turned heads all around the school, including those of half a dozen
masters. Yet there seemed nothing boastful or arrogant about Paul; he
simply laughed and got on with life. Now here I was, washing his bum,
terrified I'd get a full erection.

It was terrifying but liberating. An only child, my parents were quite
elderly, and though there was love, there was a distinct lack of open
affection. My mother, if she kissed me at all, gave me a peck on the
forehead. I do not remember my father ever kissing me. Now here was real,
warm, living flesh under my touch.

Paul turned and half-faced me. "Frontsies now," he smiled. I looked
down. He had a hard-on. A column of pinkish brown flesh jutted out from his
body, his erection hot and hard, with the head of his cock a purplish
brown. Like me, and Lendon, there was a covering of pubic hair, mine dark,
Paul's golden brown, Meaby's glossy black, but none of us had enough to
intimidate the others. Our cocks were almost virginal, innocent, naive in
appearance. I stood there transfixed, my bar of soap circling the hollow in
Paul's right thigh.

"Come on, chaps, we can't waste the water." That was Meaby who dropped to
his knees in front of Paul. He started soaping the boy's genitals, then I
gasped as he let the soap fall, grasped Paul's erection between fingers and
thumb and started masturbating him. I knew about masturbation. It was
impossible not to know about it in a boys' school. Sometimes at night or in
the loos, I'd gripped my own erection and started drawing the foreskin up
and down the length of my hard penis. Exhilarating but far too scary, I'd
always abandoned the process when I felt an indescribably explosive feeling
build up in my groin and balls, a diffuse feeling that spread throughout my
body as I lay there in the dark listening to the night sounds of the
sleeping boys around me.

"You can leave if you want to." That was Paul. I didn't want to leave. I
dropped to my knees, my face level with his crotch. "Squeeze his balls, he
likes that." I laid my soap aside and felt Paul's balls. Squashy, soft and
vulnerable, they moved around in his hairless scrotum. "Mmmmm, you have a
nice touch." We knelt, heads close together, working on the boy's cock and
balls which seemed to swell and harden under our fingers. Meaby slipped his
hand away from Paul's cock, my fingers slid round to take his place. I
jerked him gently, the heat and hardness beneath my fingers communicating
themselves to my own cock which now stuck out fiercely between my legs.

Meaby's mouth closed over the top inch of Paul's prick, his lips coming
into contact with my hand. As he slid up and down the shaft, my hand slid
lower until I was gripping the base. My eyes were inches from Paul's prick
and Lendon's lips. I could see his cheeks bulge as the cock slid in. I
could hear the sucking sounds even above the noise of the shower cascading
around us. My cock ached so hard it hurt.

Paul's arms reached down and, slipping his hands under my armpits, he
pulled me to my feet. Before I could protest, Lendon's lips were around my
erection; he was sucking, sucking hard. I looked down and saw his dark head
bobbing over my hard cock; I turned and looked straight into Paul's
eyes. He leaned forward and kissed me gently on the lips. My face burned as
hotly as my stiff penis. Then he was sliding down my body to share me with
Lendon. At first I knew which mouth was round my cock, which fingers were
round my balls. But I lost track of who was doing what. I stood and stared
at the far wall, enthralled by the sensations running through my body,
exhilarated by the shame and guilt of it all. The best-looking, the most
popular boy in the school was on his knees before me, sucking my prick.

My legs shuddered, and before I quite knew what was happening, my hips were
jerking and I was shooting my sperm, my semen, my boy juices into someone's
mouth. I didn't see. My eyes were closed, my head thrown back. My whole
body shook, I thought I was going to faint.

Paul and Lendon were on either side of me. They were grinning. Huge,
friendly smiles. Water plastered their hair to their skulls, hung from
their eyelashes, earlobes, chins, ran down their chests, groins and legs.

"Do we call you Jon or Jonathan?" asked Paul.

"Jon, please," I mumbled.

"Come on then. Let's get out of here. The water's turning cold."

We stepped into the changing area. I started to dry off. Lendon put his
hand on my arm. "Not here. In the annexe. It's much warmer. And, besides,
we've still got half an hour."

We went to the annexe, and I learned to have fun with my body, and to share
the fun with Paul and Lendon without too much guilt. The following week I
transferred to their annexe. Mr. C. really did have the hots for Paul. As
far as I know, they never did anything together, and it turned into a warm,
loving relationship we all benefited from.

Paul used to read a bit from the Bible every night. He'd get on his knees
by his bunk and read a few verses out loud. Then he'd say his prayers. I
had the bunk above him. I don't know if it had any effect on me.

None of us ever tried anal sex.

None of us ever got raped.

I've put my story in the form of... a story. I'm no writer, but I wanted to
try and give you some of the emotions and feelings behind what
happened. Sex was fairly common place throughout the school. I think the
Headmaster and the masters turned a blind eye to sex amongst the boys as
long as things didn't get out of hand. Coop up a couple of hundred
pubescent and adolescent boys, and what do you expect - choir practice?

I never met any boy at the school who considered himself gay. In later
years I never met any boy from the school who was openly gay.

Ross is happily (as far as I know) married with five kids - all boys!

Lendon is something in the city. Paul is a leading figure in an
international charity organisation. And me...? Well, I'm just me.

************

Footnote

Some generous folks have written generous comments on my story
telling. Some have asked if there are more stories available on
Nifty. Indeed there are. And here is the list. There are others I have
written under other names but I've forgotten the names of these stories and
the names under which I wrote them. I occasionally come across them, read
them, and then realise I wrote them. Very few of these stories have
scatalogical elements. Scat is an aspect of sexuality I've begun to explore
in my mature years and I'm already running out of interest and insipration
in writing more of them. So here are the stories of Jon Kent, and, as
always, my thanks to Nifty for publishing them

THE STORIES OF JON KENT

Oscar My Love Sweet William Mine Still Life Water Colours You Never Can
Tell Suddenly That Summer Sweets To The Sweet Falling In Love Again These
Foolish Things Rescue Me Now And Then Boys Like Us Beautiful Game Sandhaven
Loving Boys

The easiest way to find them is, of course, to stick jonkent in the Nifty
Archive Search, and up they will pop.  The jonkent email no longer
functions. It's now jpcreamcheese@tutanota.com

Happy Reading Jon Kent