From 4 to 14
- a memoir and a reflection - Part 3

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 (take out the nospam.) - please do send your comments and your own stories.

FIVE (i)

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.

FIVE (ii)

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 (iii)

Despite winning with the wish bone I could not see through the blue shorts. And then he got new trousers - "to grow into" - and the tantalising sight was gone. Despite many more weeks of forlorn looks from me, nothing emerged. I had even tried Walt Disney's promise and Wished Upon A Star, but all the star-gazing wishes I could muster had wrought no effect. I was deeply disillusioned at discovering for myself that this was just one more adult lie.

I was confused by Andrew's occasional reluctance to play the Game of games. Stephen's crazy energy - one minute here, one minute there - was at least predictably unpredictable. Brother's very occasional approaches, with feigned show of indifference - presumably hiding a gagging desperation - followed a predictable and enjoyable pattern, even if I was there for the pleasure and he merely for the fix. But Andrew I did not understand. One day he would take an amazing creative lead and be up my arse for hours - another he would steer right away. On those days I felt lonely and bereft, despite his friendly company.

Pondering these things late in the night, wishing upon a star, I realised that even the King could feel lonely and bereft if his Favourite Servant did not really want to play. And what could he do? What could even the very King do? Giving orders is one thing: having a real friend is another. And experience with Andrew seemed to suggest that having a real and willing friend is a third. I had failed yet to work out any reliable method even for turning friend into willing friend. What was a lonely King to do except wish? To wish that Favourite Servant would also be friend, and willing friend?

The wishes and dreams of that night became the all time classic play. If we played it once we played it scores of times. It has had countless secret performances with only the cast present. Its title was even to replace the word Rood. This was our intricate, complex, stylish new game, evolved and reborn.

So now, for the first time in written form, I present: the time-honoured legend of The King And The Wishbone.

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, in a kingdom of crowded cities and bustling markets and busy sea ports, there lived, surrounded by a glorious court, in a sumptuous palace, a King. Despite his riches, his power, his kingdom, and even his court, the King was a lonely King. More than anything else he desired a special, intimate friend; and the particular person he desired every day was one of his servants: his Favourite Servant. Day after day he watched the Favourite Servant at work, and honoured him with special duties and tasks, and work which was always in the presence of the King. He even made him The Privileged Servant Of The Royal Bed Chamber. But none of this was enough: he wanted the Favourite Servant's Arse.

Even that - the King could tell even now - was not enough. What the King really wanted - needed - was for the Favourite Servant to feel the same way. He needed the Favourite Servant to Want It, just as he Wanted It himself. Even the King with all his power could not command that.

Then one day at a banquet the chef brought out for the King The Wishbone. The King called the Favourite Servant to pull it with him, and made a wish: a wish that the Favourite Servant would Want It. The bone broke in the King's favour, to polite applause. The banquet continued. And when the guests had all gone, the King retired to The Royal Bed Chamber in the company of The Privileged Servant thereof.

No question and answer needed to be exchanged. The King already knew that The Wishbone would have granted The Request. The Privileged Servant pulled down his trousers and lay over the bed for the King. And some time later - a real radical image, this one - the King pulled down his trousers and lay over the bed for his privileged friend.

Reflecting on this story more than twenty years on, it has incredible power and depth. It is amazing that we could devise it so young. In an adult world which disapproves, who can refuse to take the disapproval except for the King? That King is an assertive, in-your-face celebration of Gay Pride: this is what I want to do, and no-one tells me otherwise. Oh to be that King. There seemed to be no other adult role which could 'play'. There was this nagging fear that one day adulthood would come and the pleasures of Rood would be over for ever. The role of the King was our rebellion against that, our assertion - our fantasy - that adult life need not be so dull.

And then the Wishbone is just as important. The King can spit in the face of disapproval, but he cannot make anybody love him. And more than anything else, that is what he wants: not just sex, which he could buy or command; not just consent, which a servant, overwhelmed at the privilege of being with the King, might easily and genuinely give; but actual mutual love, between equals. That is what the King wanted. That is what, in our play, by the power of a wish, we granted to our King. Oh - and the mutual sex as well, of course.

An amazing tale.

FIVE (iv)

Stephen took me into his bathroom and locked the door. He sat on the edge of the bath.

"Now," he said, "take down your trousers and I'm going to have a look at you."

I pushed them down. He helped me, pushing them all the way to the floor. I was facing him. He ran his hands up the sides of my legs until he had hips by the heels of his hands, buttocks at his fingertips. "Lovely," he said, and then he gently began to push and pull, as though trying to rotate me. Shuffling in tiny steps - with trousers and underpants all tangled up round my shoes at the end of naked legs - I obliged. He was muttering appreciation and approval and praise as he turned me slowly with his hands.

I enjoyed this enormously. Nobody had ever praised this child quite so confidently and for such a long time. Stephen said I was beautiful, and more. It went on and on. It was wonderful. I was being admired by my hero - at great length. He was taking his time to cherish me.

I kept shuffling round. Once my arse was in his full view, he placed a kiss at the top of the valley of my arse, and then nuzzled my buttocks, inhaling when his nose was buried deep in the soft flesh by the heart. Then the rotation and the mumbled praise resumed.

Once I was facing him again, he looked up - he looked me in the eye - and said, "Fantastic. Now you do it." He stood up and dropped his trousers straight away, right down to his feet. I sat bare-ass on the edge of the bath, pants still round my shoes, and took his hips.

I had not examined any upright view before, and certainly not this full frontal. The rude front was just the other side of the coin to the Rood behind, which was my real focus; but I took a look: belly button, smooth stomach, flat triangular crotch, tail, leg fronts tapering to the points of the hips. I began to turn him. He was taller now: taller than before, taller than me. He began to shuffle round. My real interest was behind.

As he turned I marvelled at a wonderful new sight. Upright and moving, even better than prone, the arse had real form, real style, and this was most conspicuous from the side. As the profile swung into view I was truly impressed - and some gut reaction inside was shouting Yes. The arse from here began with a beautiful curve outwards from the back, round complex three-dimensional mounds, to fold back perfectly at the bottom into the crotch and the legs. There were opening and closing dimples in his cheeks. These were the most exciting things: a whole new inviting feature of the newly soft and firm temple of my developing religion. Following his lead, I kissed the top of the valley of his arse, and then nuzzled to feel the flesh and to draw the scent. That was the target achieved for me: I just turned him around the rest of the way for form, watching as he went.

I stood up. He sat down. "Now," he said.

The door handle turned and the door was pushed. "What are you doing in there?"

"Just washing our hands."

We scrambled with two layers of trousers, and tried to get them straight. He was fiddling with his belt. He opened the door and we made straight for his room, heads down. He examined his hands as he went.

As soon as we were in his room his head was held high. "Oh well," he said.

We played classic Rood later that day, to make up.

For some reason at my place we just never were disturbed. We could wander around the upstairs without interruption. Both in my bathroom, some months later, well into a session of some classic Rood play, both with our pants around our ankles, he once again sat down on the edge of a bath as I faced him.

"Let's have a look at your dick," he said. "Ah yes," - stroking mine - "long and straight, just like mine," - and he stroked his own. I looked down - at his, at mine. His was indeed long and absolutely straight, pointing upwards from its base in his groin, a soft sack below. And mine was in its stiff mode as well, pointing straight out away from me. I had never really given either of them any thought before. I knew that mine had hard phases - when it would refuse to pee and become a detectable nuisance in my pants - and most of the time was soft and just hung, but I had never really thought about it, or about anyone else's. They were just there, hanging off underneath, of no real interest compared to the pleasures which I knew and which I sought. The moment trousers were down, the arse dominated everything: no time was wasted on this other thing which happened to be around. But that day in the bathroom I took another look. Yes, long and stiff and straight, with skin loose around it still attractively soft, pleasant to the touch, despite the stiff core. I realised for the first time in that moment that stiff mode went with the playing or dreaming of Rood. Stiff mode was part of the precious thing which I shared with my Rood companions. It actually mattered.

Stephen played with his own dick and with mine. Then: "Come on," and he led the way back to my room. There he lay down on the floor, not prostrate this time but face up. "Smell it," he said - a classic line. Kneeling by his side, I went down to see.

I did not much like the smell. There was definitely something alluring there but it was much too bitter, too sharp. But the sight was a new fascination: soft generous skin over a straight rigid form which rose diagonally over his lower belly and hung in the air of its own accord, and small balls in their wrinkled sack at its base where it disappeared into his groin; much more interesting than the shrivelled floppy form.

I was ashamed about not liking the smell. "Smell it!" he said again, insistent. I sniffed warily; then, to make up for such hesitation, I leaned right in - field of vision filled with hips and white flesh - and touched the tip of my nose to the shaft. That was pleasant. And now he could take a turn.

I lay back on the floor and he went down to my crotch and nuzzled and inhaled and murmured pleasure: nuzzled my ball sack, nuzzled my cock, even - outrageously - kissed the shaft. I was acutely aware of the hardness of dick: it made sense now, it was all about Rood, this involuntary thing. It was my body's independent internal assessment panel shouting out its approval of my favourite game. My body approved. My body was cheering. Stuff the adult world and its illegitimate social mores. My body approved of this.

Stephen, my hero, was clearly pleased. I liked that.

The game then took a more conventional turn. We sniffed arses again for a while, and then I proposed a version of Kings and Servants. I started to explain the scene, when he decided he wanted to be a wealthy trader, not a King, and he wanted to go to the market at the port, to buy a slave. Off we went to the market - the bathroom - where the rich trader - Stephen - was to choose his slave. All the slaves were lined up for inspection with the slave merchant keeping a watchful eye. Stephen told the merchant that he wanted to choose the slave for his arse, so would he kindly get them all to turn round, bare all, and bend over. I did, and I was the slave he chose. He took me home, and had my arse. Then we played it again, switched about: I chose him, bought him, took him home and had him. And then a variation: first scenario again, only this time Stephen did not buy the whole slave, "just the middle bit," he explained, making sawing motions across the middle of my back and half way down each thigh, before picking me up by the hips from behind and carrying - we pretended - "the middle bit" home. "It's still alive," he said, "but I only want the middle bit." It made perfect sense, now that the front was as valuable as the back, and that whole section was the best bit. Pure carnality. No complications.

I tripped back to the bedroom, pretending to be just the middle bit being carried home, and was happy to be had, in front and behind; and then once more it was my turn to buy. Back at the market - back in the bathroom - I demanded to see the arses of the stock. I chose the arse played by Stephen. It was beautifully developed by then, well filled out, a good and handsome size, immaculate in form, the object and token of my desire, the core substance of my hero. I was buying it and taking it home.

It was incredibly stimulating, buying just the middle bit, cutting it out from the middle of the back to the middle of the thighs, and taking home just this naked stretch of the most exciting flesh. The idea is incredibly erotic even now, in a praying mantis brainless fuck kind of way (the female mantis eats the head of the male during copulation, to reduce his inhibitions).

I actually saw lots of "middle bits" a few years ago, in Marks and Spencers of all places. They had taken a deliberate decision to start stocking sexy underwear for men, and it was displayed in store on middle bits: perfect muscular male bodies in athletic poses which began half way down the back and went via perfect buttocks and improbably large front bulges to end half way down the thighs. I imagined having one in the house as an ornament. Imagine having one of real flesh and blood, alive and willing and uncomplicated. You could keep it on your desk whilst you were working: fondle a buttock idly whilst writing, cup balls and finger ass playfully whilst on the phone; lay it down to spread and kiss soft mounds and snort pheromone between jobs; suck a hard cock in your coffee break; kiss and rim in a tea break; fuck it on your lap during lunch. In a praying mantis brainless fuck kind of way.

I bought the middle bit of the slave played by Stephen. I took it home to the bedroom and had it, front back and sides and all around. Then the story lost its way in a seemingly endless orgy of uninterrupted arse sniffing - pausing only for as long as it took to change places again and again and again - which went on and on and on and on till we were sated to the point of mutual, exhausted inebriation, and we called it a day.