This story contains detailed reminiscences of childhood sex play between boys. If you do not wish to read such material, go away now.
I am happy to receive correspondence as Rimmer414@nospam.fsmail.net (take out the nospam.) - please do send your comments and your own stories.
That spring, Brother and I were sent off to Grandma's to give the parents a break. We had a week to fill and no company but each other, and there was only one game we enjoyed together.
Thankfully Brother rose to the occasion far better than I could have imagined - as much for his own sake as anything else. Being those two years older, he had a far more developed sense of fantasy for playing Pretend: complex story lines and schemes, which to me were like glorious legends and dreams.
He also had a far more developed sense of the contraband nature of the one game that we enjoyed, and this affected his perception of that game far more than it did mine.
That week he put these two things together to create the most wonderful play which went on all week. We played Kings and Servants: because Kings make the rules - so no-one can criticise - and Servants obey - they cannot say no.
The play went on in its constantly changing forms for almost the whole of the seven days, so the complete text would fill a book: but the core of it was this. The King of the far-away land, surrounded by his court and his country, would send everyone away except his Favourite Servant, or else retreat to the Royal Bed Chamber with said same, thence to ravish his chosen one, who could not say no, as the King is the King, and who might even feel charmed at being chosen.
In a rather exciting development, the Favourite Servant might be chained up still naked in the Royal Bed Chamber, to be ready for future use whenever desired.
It was wonderful to be the King, giving out the orders, choosing from the menu and taking whatever was there. It was wonderful to be the Favourite Servant, the chosen and privileged one - who even got the King's arse from time to time, fair's fair. It was wonderful to imagine having someone chained up and ready to use whenever throughout the day it took one's fancy. And it was wonderful to pretend to be that person, whose sole role was to enthral and delight with the thrilling power contained in the arse, a power which could bring the very King to his knees in adoration.
The whole play was imbued with a new excitement: the thrill of the chase and not just the capture. With my stomach churning and my mouth dry in anticipation, the play would go on through scene after scene until at last one or other would lower their trousers and bend over the bed or chair or settee and arse would be had at length and at leisure. And when the one had drunk their fill, the play would resume until some other contortion of story line brought about another scene of human enrichment by Rood. As writing and directing was, as always, a mutual affair, this really was something of the adventure of romance and seduction, to try to steer the play this way or that to get to the goal; it was also the thrill of foreplay, a thoroughly adult affair: the sensations of the ultimate moment spread out to fill a week - one childlike advantage being that we could manage our ultimate moment two dozen times a day if we wished.
Kings and Servants did go on all week, but one day we just didn't bother: we just played Rood, all day. And we tried to play it in as many different places as we dared: in the garage, in the car, in the shed, in every room of the house in turn, and, best of all, on the stairs - best of all because it was a whole new arse experience. Wondering quite how to position myself (trousers round my knees), I did not crouch to risk falling backwards: instead, imagining one particular stair to be like the edge of a bed, I found myself lying quite straight-bodied on the stairs, head above feet at forty-five degrees. Brother crawled up behind and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying poking around, and when we changed places I found out why. The prone male body has a wonderful profile. Suddenly buttocks are not just corners but great fleshy mounds with a shape of their own mixing softness at the surface with a firmness within: a whole new human experience. And that valley which had been just a feature in the landscape was now an envelope of flesh to be opened by hand with its prize down inside: hands and face could sink down into sensuous flesh of arse (my divinity) so that nose could reach holy of holies within and there inhale at the centre of new homage. We liked it. That was one amazing day in one amazing week.
A new intake of boys arrived every new term at school. There were two two-year reception classes: 1S and 1T. I was becoming an old hand in 1S.
The two reception classrooms were open plan, with the shared sinks and basins and the toilet block forming a divide between the rooms. Before lunch it was compulsory to visit the toilet, and the 1T boys had to queue through our part of the room. That autumn, one of the 1T new boys had an affect on me which took me totally by surprise. There was no denying it. It was the same, day after day. I did not know him, I had never spoken to him, I did not even know his name - but I wanted his arse. He had long ago grown into and grown out of the blue elasticated-waistband shorts which he wore. His arse was pushing to grow out of them in all directions at once: too tall, too wide, too deep. The visual effect was of a perfect arse covered tightly in shorts which were too short, too narrow, too awkward, just too small. And the arse within them seemed so perfect: two soft balls of flesh, mounted in hips between perfect torso and perfect legs, just pleading to be released from blue constraint and enjoyed.
One Sunday morning, I was upstairs with Andrew whilst mother was cooking chicken. She called to offer me the wish bone. For those who do not know: the wish bone has three parts, like a Christmas cracker; you pull and make a wish, and when the bone breaks, whoever gets the middle part gets their wish fulfilled. I was young enough to believe in its power.
Back upstairs with Andrew, we took one end each and pulled. I wished with all the wishing I could muster that I would have magic eyes which would see right through 1T boy's shorts and undies - see right through to his arse. The bone cracked, and I had won.
Andrew: "What did you wish?"
For a while now we had enhanced our games of Rood with the wonderful things I had discovered at Grandma's: long and complex games of Kings and Servants, and lying for long minutes prone on the floor to explore the full potential of the softness of the flesh of the arse in all its glory. Rood was now almost a guaranteed element in any game of Pretend, played prone on the floor or over the bed. Any story at all could be given a scene. It was the gem stone in the crown of creative play.
The scripting and directing of Pretend remained, as ever, a mutual affair, and Andrew did not always want to rush into Rood quite as quickly as I did. I would happily have played Rood every day - just as I had done with Adam. As soon as Pretend was announced as the game of the moment, I would have scripted in a Rood scene straight away, but Andrew was rather more restrained, wanting a more gentle build up, or to pass altogether just for today. I played fair. Other times Andrew would take the lead, creating an entirely original scene: first scripting and then enjoying the friendly nakedness.
Andrew: "What did you wish?"
"There's this boy in the other class at school and he has a really lovely bum. I wished that I could see right through his trousers to see it."
"What would you do if you could? Pretend."
"And there's no-one else here?"
"No." He was already assuming the position.
FIVE (i)
FIVE (ii)