I disclaim, we disclaim, they disclaim, everybody disclaims, right! Okay so that’s got that out of the way!
Well, after something of a transitional chapter, we’re right back into it. Toby’s got his exams finished and it’s time for him to enjoy himself. Read on and enjoy! Feedback is as welcome as always; please send your comments to email@example.com and I’ll reply as soon as I can.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Even though I wasn’t worried about the exams, having finally got them out of the way is still a big relief. Of course, the four of us that did the scholarship papers have still got our ‘O’ level maths to do, but we won’t do that until the beginning of June. The difference now is that we’re having our extra lessons during normal class time, with Mr. Halford looking after three of Mr. Thompson’s classes so that he can teach us.
I’m really enjoying maths now; I’ve improved so much since Mr. Thompson’s been here. He’s a great teacher, there’s no doubt about it. I had my doubts about him when that stuff happened with Martin and Patrick back before Christmas, but that’s all just about forgotten. As far as I know, he’s still having sex with Martin, but that’s it. There’s been no hint of him doing it with anyone else. And Martin’s changed so much you’d hardly know him; changed for the better too, so what can you say?
Even though we’ve finished our exams, we’re still expected to keep working. Some of the kids don’t want to, of course. Idiot Face has been in trouble three times already. Mr. Halford caned him today for arguing with Mr. Chandler and not doing as he was told. He’s such a tosser; when I used to argue with Perky at least I was arguing about something, not just trying to get out of doing any work.
Anyway, it suits me; I’d get bored if we were just sitting around the whole time, and if we’ve got things we want to work on, we’re allowed to do them, within reason. For me, that’s anything to do with film making, of course. For English, I’ve got hold of this book about writing television scripts, so I’m taking some of the stories I’ve written and trying to turn them into screenplays. It sounds easy, but it’s not; it’s going to take a lot of practice before I get it anywhere like right.
0 o 0 o 0 o 0
Justin walks into the dorm and sits on my bed. He’s looking agitated.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
Apart from Paul with his nose buried in a book, there’s nobody else here.
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
“Patrick’s asked me to go and spend a few days at their house over Easter,” he whispers.
“So?” I ask, not really getting it.
“The thing is,” he continues, “his dad knows he’s, er---, you know.”
Now that has perked my attention up!
“Shit!” I say. “That makes things a bit awkward.”
“Well, Patrick says he’s all right with it,” he says. “He realised before Patrick even came here.”
“Sounds weird to me,” I comment.
“That’s what I thought,” he agrees, “but Patrick reckons that last year, after his dad told him he knew, he asked him to invite Brian to go and stay with them, so he could meet him.”
“Fuck! Now that is weird!” I say. “So did Brian go?”
“Yes; Patrick says they even slept in the same room,” he confirms. “Well, he’s asked me for our phone number so he can give it to his dad to call my mum and dad and ask them if it’d be all right for me to stay with them for a few days. D’you think I should give it to him? He says there won’t be a problem, but Mum and dad would hit the roof if they knew, you know, what we were doing.”
“Well, seems like Brian got away with it okay.”
“Yeah,” he concedes. “So you think I should give it to him then?”
“Well, I would,” I tell him. “Your mum and dad won’t go asking lots of questions, will they?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” he says. “They don’t usually.”
“Well, you might as well do it then,” I say, grinning at him. “You never know, it could be fun!”
0 o 0 o 0 o 0
“Okay, lads!” Mr. Thompson says, as the bell goes to signal the end of second period. “Well done today; put your things away and make your way out to break.”
As the other boys leave the room, Justin and I stay behind.
“Sir,” I ask, once everyone else has left, “You know on Wednesday when you’re taking the cross-country team to the Prep Schools Championships, would it be possible for me and Justin to come and watch?”
“Hmmm!” he says thoughtfully. “I am taking some of the younger boys so that they can see what it’s like, but there’ll still be room in the minibus. I’ll have to ask Mr. Halford, but it should be okay. But if you’re coming I’ll want you to help. The start and finish are some distance apart. Before the start of the race, when the boys take their tracksuits and trainers off and get into their spikes, I’ll want you two to gather all their stuff up. I’ll give you a couple of plastic sacks to put it in then you can take it across to the finish area. It’ll save me having to do everything myself. Okay?”
“Sir,” I say, nodding.
“So how d’you think we’re going to do, sir?” I ask.
“It’s hard to say,” he says, smiling at me; “We’ve never done it before. Top six would be a superb result, but at this stage it’s all about experience.”
“So how many schools will be there?” I continue.
“Sixty odd, usually,” he says. “They won’t all have full teams, but most of them will. There’ll probably be about three hundred and fifty runners.”
“So who’s our team then, sir?”
“Craig and Martin,” he says, “Patrick Naylor, who’s starting to run really well, Alan Scott, John Mitchell and I’ve borrowed Evan Williamson from the rugby team. We should have had Jamie Barnett, but he’s had a bad cold; matron won’t let him run.”
It’s a shame about Jamie; that’s Chris’s brother. He’s in third year and I know he’s pretty good; sometimes he beats Patrick; sometimes Patrick beats him, but there’s never much in it. Even so, our team doesn’t sound too bad. I’m not sure about John and Alan, but I know Craig and Martin are doing well and it sounds like Patrick’s improving too. Evan’s a superb runner; he can run all day. At the end of a rugby match when everyone else is completely knackered he’s still running as fast as he was at the start. I guess it depends what they’re up against. Sixty schools sounds like a lot and some of them will have been doing this for years. It should be an interesting day out.
0 o 0 o 0 o 0
It takes us over two hours to drive to the course. Everyone’s pretty quiet, just like we are when we’re going to an important rugby match. Just before one o’clock we arrive at a big new sports centre right next to the course. Some of the other schools are already there. Quite a few of the kids are dressed in their school uniform. We’re all in tracksuits and the lads who are running are already wearing their kit underneath so they don’t have to worry about getting changed till afterwards.
Before the start of the race, Justin and I gather up the kit and take it to the finishing area. The gun sounds just as we get there; three hundred plus runners surge up a long steady incline, trying to get a good position before they reach the first corner. We leave the sacks by the post with the number ‘51’ pinned to it then trot across towards the far side of the course so that we’ll be able to see the runners as they come back downhill. I look over to my left. The leaders have made the first turn and are heading across the top of the course. They’re still pretty bunched together; at this distance I can’t make out whether any of our boys are there or not.
We get ourselves into position, just by a stream crossing. It’s only ankle-deep, but it’s still going to feel bloody cold at this time of year. After a couple of minutes they emerge from behind the trees. Martin’s right up with the leaders, with Craig tucked in a couple of yards behind. Now that’s good!
“Well done, Martin!” I shout, really starting to get into the atmosphere. “Come on Craig! You’re running great!”
Justin’s counting, or trying to; it’s pretty difficult at the speed they’re passing us.
“I reckon Evan was about thirtieth and Patrick about fortieth,” he says.
Mr. Thompson comes flying past us, sprinting like a lunatic, trying to get to parts of the course that we’re not quick enough to reach.
“They’re running fantastic!” he calls before disappearing into the distance.
After crossing the stream, the course turns left-handed before heading up a second, steeper climb. We trot fifty yards along the stream, crossing it where it disappears into a culvert, and pick up the course right after the one really muddy section, at the bottom of the slope where they come back down again. A minute later they’re flying downhill towards us. Martin’s still right up there; I can’t see Craig. They plough through the mud and run past us. They are seriously dirty! A group of six has broken away at the front. Martin’s still there; Craig’s hanging on about five yards behind. We shout more encouragement. Justin’s counting again.
“Evan’s lost a couple of places but Patrick’s catching him,” he tells me.
Now we’ve got to sprint. They’ve got to run back behind the start then turn right-handed to begin their second lap. If we get a move on we can cut the corner off and catch them as they head back up the hill. I set off with Justin following in my wake. We make it just in time, both of us totally out of breath; how these kids can run a couple of miles even faster than that I shall never know. The position’s much as it was; Martin’s still in the leading group, Craig’s about ten yards behind but still well inside the top ten; Evan’s in the mid thirties with Patrick right behind him. It seems like we’re doing okay, but I can understand why Mr. Thompson wanted Evan to run; there’s been no sign of John or Alan. I just hope we can hang on.
It’s time to go again, a steady trot across the course to the stream crossing. Even that seems hard. The leaders appear from behind the trees. The group’s down to four and Martin’s still there; I can hardly believe it. Craig’s in eighth place a good thirty yards back. Less than a minute later Patrick goes past with Evan a couple of places behind him. Evan’s obviously tiring, but he’s very tough; I know he won’t let us down.
We jog across the culvert to where we were before. As they approach us down the hill, I can see that a tall, dark-haired boy has broken away. He flies through the mud and runs past us twenty yards clear; he looks superb. Behind him, a small sandy haired kid is in second place, with Martin a couple of yards adrift and battling to stay in touch. There’s a gap of ten yards back to the boy in fourth. Craig comes past, still in eighth place, but with two other kids close behind him. Patrick’s still more or less where he was; Evan’s dropped a few places.
It’s time for us to get to the finish. We stroll across; it’s only about a hundred yards. We take up our position by where we left the kit. The winner is just emerging from the finishing funnel. A few seconds later the sandy haired kid follows him, with Martin close behind. He walks across to us.
“Was that third?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he confirms, showing me his finishing disc. “I should have been second but that kid got a couple of yards on me and I couldn’t get it back.”
He puts on his tracksuit top and starts to unlace his spikes. A few moments later, Craig appears and flops down on the ground. He looks shattered!
“How did you do?” I ask, handing him his tracksuit top.
“Tenth,” he gasps, still struggling for breath.
Mr. Thompson runs across to us.
“Fantastic!” he breathes. “You’ve done great!”
It seems like ages before Patrick emerges. He’s finished thirty first.
“Amazing!” Mr. Thompson tells him, “That’s the best you’ve ever run, by a long way! You’ll be right up there next year.”
Half a minute later Evan’s back too; he was forty fourth. He all but collapses.
“Man!” he gasps. “I never dreamed it was going to be that hard! Patrick was unbelievable; eighteen months ago I could beat him without even trying!”
Pretty soon we’ve got them all. John was ninety eighth and Alan one hundred and thirty ninth. I think about it for a moment. There were over three hundred kids in that race, so all our runners were in the top half of the field. It seems we’ve done much better than a lot of the other schools, even without Jamie. Mr. Thompson collects the finishing discs and fills out the results envelope.
“How did we do, sir?” I ask.
“Too early to say for sure,” Mr. Thompson says. “We must be in the top six, but I’ve no idea where. We’ll have to wait for the results.”
It’s time to make a move but Evan can hardly walk.
“I don’t train for this,” he complains. “My legs are so tight, it feels like they’ve got knots in them.”
Alarm bells ring in my head. We’ve got our final rugby match on Saturday and we’re going to need him for that.
“Sir,” I say. “Evan’s legs have gone really tight. We’ve got a big rugby match on Saturday.”
“Have a shower now,” Mr. Thompson tells him. “When we get back to school I’ll take you to my flat so you can soak in a nice hot bath with plenty of bath salts. Then afterwards I’ll give you a massage, okay? Don’t worry, you’ll be fine by Saturday.”
After the incident with Patrick back before Christmas I’m wondering if a bath and a massage is all he’s going to get, but I’m not worried about it. Mr. Thompson’s okay; nothing will happen unless Evan wants it to.
As we leave the finishing area, Martin suddenly veers off, trotting across to a man he’s spotted. A few seconds later the two of them are heading back towards us. From the look on Martin’s face I’m guessing the man’s his dad. Martin hadn’t said anything about his dad coming to watch so I guess he didn’t know. Martin introduces him to Mr. Thompson; there are smiles and handshakes. Martin looks the happiest I’ve ever seen him. I’m wondering if his dad would be looking quite so happy if he knew what else had been going on, but he doesn’t and there’s no reason for him to find out, so it’s not a problem. I’m pleased for Martin; I know he’s had a lot of help from Mr. Thompson, but he’s still had to put the work in. It takes balls to do what he’s done, and it’s not so long ago that I didn’t think he had any.
As I look up, Patrick’s with a man too, quite definitely his dad; I can tell by the way they’re looking at each other. They’re heading our way.
“Dad, this is Justin and that’s Toby!” Patrick says excitedly. “They came along to help Mr. Thompson.”
“Hi Justin, hi Toby,” his dad says, smiling and shaking us both by the hand. “I’m pleased to meet you both; Patrick’s told me a lot about you.”
Justin and I look at each other, not knowing what to say.
“I understand you’ve both just done your scholarship exams,” he says. “You must have been doing well to even get put in for them. I just hope you’re going to get the results you want.”
“Thanks!” we say, almost in unison. “I think I did okay,” I continue, “but Justin’s the real clever clogs.”
“I spoke to your mum last night,” he says, turning to Justin, “explained that we’d invited you to spend a few days with us during the holiday. It’s all fixed up; You’ll go home as usual then we’ll drive down to Salisbury to collect you on the Sunday afternoon, if that sounds all right.”
“Yes, thanks,” Justin says, like he wasn’t expecting it.
“Well, I must let you go,” he says, smiling warmly. “Great to have met you, Toby! Justin, I’ll look forward to seeing you a week on Sunday.”
We stroll back to the sports centre. Justin and I park ourselves in the sports hall, keeping an eye on the younger kids while Mr. Thompson and the team get changed. Jamie’s sitting next to me; he was allowed to come and watch even though he couldn’t run.
“Disappointed?” I ask gently.
“Yeah,” he says. “A bit; but I’ve got next year and the year after, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “And by then you’ll right up at the front.”
I glance across at him; he’s not really like Chris, who’s big and strong. Jamie’s almost as skinny as Gavin; he’s cheeky like Gavin too, quite cute in his way.
“I’m going for a piss,” he says, grinning up at me.
He stands up and heads towards the toilets. After walking a few yards, he turns and grins at me before carrying on. Is he thinking what I think he’s thinking? Well, if he is, I’m not biting; I guess I’m not as mad as I used to be. There are several hundred people in this building; it’s far too risky. I’ll have Ian waiting for me when we get back in any case. He returns a few minutes later and flops back down again, giving me a wry grin; another time, maybe.
Mr. Thompson and the team rejoin us just as the results sheets appear. I quickly take a ten pence piece from my pocket and buy a copy. We got third team; the winners scoring fifty seven with second on seventy one. We scored eighty eight, so all our team will get a medal. Mr. Thompson’s delighted and the lads are over the moon.
“We did very well, sir,” I comment to Mr. Thompson as we wait for the presentation. “Some of the schools didn’t have anyone in the top hundred.”
“You saw all those boys who arrived in their school uniform?” he asks, grinning. “Well, you could write most of them off before they even started. They won’t have trained; they’ve probably just done an inter-house race at school before they came here. They stood no chance. Some of the more traditional prep schools have the attitude that taking part is what matters. We don’t believe in that; we believe that if you’re going to do something, you should do it as well as you can.”
Well, I’ll go along with that. A couple of years ago I wouldn’t have believed that some schools are even more stuffy and old-fashioned than Hartswood, but it sounds like they must be. I’m glad I didn’t get sent to a school like that!
“So what about the school that won?” I ask.
“Winsthorpe College Junior School are always tough,” he says. “They’ve got sixty boys a year to our thirty, they’ve been doing cross-country for years and the school’s up in the Pennines; a course like this must seem easy compared with where they train.”
Considering we’ve never done it before, finishing third is fantastic. Fourth team got one hundred and six, so it was vital that Evan ran; we couldn’t have done it without him. I just hope he’s going to be all right for Saturday.
0 o 0 o 0 o 0
Mr. Cooper’s been at Hartswood for almost seven years. Before he came to the school, the rugby team was barely average, but since he arrived it’s got better and better. Last year was the school’s best season ever, with us winning fifteen matches out of eighteen, including a win against Martlington County Grammar School in our final match. Well this year, we’ve done even better. Not only have we beaten all the other prep schools we play against, we’ve beaten Queen Elizabeth’s Grammar School home and away, something we’ve never managed before. We also squeaked a 25-22 home win against Martlington too, although we were very lucky; their fly half missed three kicks at goal that he should have got.
So we’re coming into our final match with a perfect record, played seventeen, won seventeen. And now it’s the big one, Martlington at their place. We’re in the minibus with Mr. Cooper with a coach-load of supporters coming along behind. There’s no conversation at all; we all know how hard this is going to be. Martlington is the one team who’ve been able to match us up front and their three quarter line definitely had the edge, stronger and quicker; their ball-handling skills were good too. If their fly-half had kicked as well as he should have done, they’d have won at our place. But we want this; it would complete a perfect season. They’re going to want to stop us, of course. We’ve beaten them very narrowly the last two times we’ve played; they’ll be desperate to put that right.
We pull into the car-park and head into the changing rooms. Evan’s walking next to me.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, great thanks!” he says, smiling.
“So how was the massage?” I continue, lowering my voice.
“Fantastic!” he says, “made me feel really good.” He pauses for a second. “Nothing happened, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he whispers. “I was wondering if it would. I was lying on my tummy just in my underpants while he was working on me. It felt so good I got a right hard-on. Then he finished and said I could get up. He must have seen it; it was sticking right up. But he just told me to get dressed and said I could come back the next day if I wanted.”
“Oh, right!” I say. “So did you?”
“Yeah! Same thing again.”
So it seems Mr. Thompson’s being a lot more cautious about who he does stuff with than he was back before Christmas. Maybe he saves himself just for Martin; I guess that would make sense. We change into our rugby kit and troop out onto the field. Even I’m nervous. It’s a big occasion in another way too, the last match that I or any of the other Upper Fourth lads will play for Hartswood; it’s quite sad in a way. I guess that’ll all be forgotten if we win. Mr. Cooper has a final word with us and we stride out onto the field. After the usual preliminaries, the whistle sounds and we’re off.
They’re on us right from the start. When we played them before Christmas it was drizzling, the pitch was muddy and the ball greasy; playing fast-flowing running rugby was almost impossible. Today the conditions are just about perfect and although we’re matching them up front, we’ve got their backs all over us. Apart from Paz, they’re bigger, stronger and quicker than we are, and their ball handling is superb; they’re the best I’ve ever played against. The only thing that’s keeping us in it is the kicking. Paz is scoring with every kick he takes; their lad is making less than half of his. As the half time whistle sounds he’s landed one conversion attempt out of two and one penalty out of three; Paz converted Alex’s try and kicked two penalties, so they’re leading 13-12. After the mauling we’ve just had, it’s amazing that we’re still in it; we’re going to need a miracle to win.
The second half is more of the same. We score another try, Paz making a dazzling run down the left wing before running round to touch down between the posts. He kicks the conversion too. At the other end they score two more tries, converting one of them, and we’re giving away penalties like it was going out of fashion. Yes, we’re making mistakes, but we’re being forced into them. Fortunately, they only score from two of the four we concede. They give away a couple of penalties too; Paz kicks them both. We’re approaching full time with them leading 29-24. A converted try would give us victory by a single point, the same as last year. But it’s not to be; miracles do happen, but not today. They close the game down leaving us no way through. The final whistle sounds with no addition to the score. I’m gutted.
I leave the field feeling more tired than I can ever remember. I guess it’s always worse when you lose. We brought fifty-odd supporters and didn’t give them the win they’d come to see; I feel disappointed for them as much as anything. It wasn’t that we played badly; the truth is that we just weren’t good enough. At least the scoreline was respectable; that’s down to Paz. If their place-kicker was as good as he is they’d have buried us.
We make our way into the changing room, strip off and head for the showers. Everybody’s pretty subdued; there are no celebrations even though it’s our final match. We return to the changing room and start to get dressed. Mr. Cooper comes in, carrying something in a paper bag. As soon as we’ve finished he asks us to sit down.
“I know that you’re disappointed,” he says quietly. “But the fact is you gave a great account of yourselves against one of the best teams I’ve ever seen at this level. They’ve been winning most of their matches by twenty or thirty points; we beat them at home and held them to five points here. Remember that they have four times as many boys to pick from as we do, so that was a magnificent effort. And despite today’s defeat, it’s still been a record-breaking season for us. We’ve won more matches than ever before, we’ve scored more points and conceded fewer. That’s been the result of a superb team effort, and every one of you can feel proud of what you’ve achieved.” He pauses for a couple of seconds. “I do have one special presentation to make though,” he continues. “I’ve been keeping records since the present fixture list has been in place, which is five years now. So for setting a new record for the number of points scored in a season, with the incredible total of two hundred and thirty four, this special award goes to Pascal Donnelly.”
He produces a trophy from the paper bag; Paz goes forward and collects it. We all applaud; that is pretty special; it works out at an average of thirteen points a game; incredible like the man said.
“There will be a further presentation at Monday’s assembly,” Mr. Cooper goes on. “In the course of today’s match, Pascal broke the record that Russell Pearson set two years ago for the number of points scored for the school team. The record now stands at three hundred and twenty nine. Okay lads; well done! Let’s go home”
It was what we needed to hear, I guess. He’s put it all in perspective, reminded us that we’ve a great deal to be proud of, even though things didn’t end the way we’d have liked them too. I’m not sure many teachers would have done that. I walk back to the minibus feeling much better.
0 o 0 o 0 o 0
It’s Rob’s idea, not that I’m complaining, but I’m going to have to ask Alex about it, and even after being with him for over a year I’m never sure how he’ll react. He’s still very quiet, and although he seems to get on pretty well with everyone, he doesn’t have many what you’d call mates. He and Peter are pretty close, but that’s about it.
“Alex,” I say quietly. “Rob’s suggested that next Tuesday we could have a little foursome down in the trunk store, you know, Rob, Darren, you and me. I said I’d ask, but it’s up to you; if you don’t want to do it I’ll just tell him to forget it; it’s not a problem.”
“Yeah, let’s do it!” he says, his eyes lighting up. “That’ll be cool, man! Darren’s hot; I’d love to bum him.”
“Great,” I say. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem; Rob says he loves having it up the bum. Then afterwards we’d have a swap session, you know, me with Darren, you with Rob. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, as long as you don’t mind,” he says, smiling. “Rob’s got a beauty!”
So that’s got that sorted out. Watching Alex bumming Darren has got to be worth watching. If it wasn’t such a pain in the arse with the lights and everything I’d take my camera.
0 o 0 o 0 o 0
I let us into the trunk store. Darren’s not been here before; he looks round in amazement.
“Cool set-up, man!” he says. “How did you get the key?”
“Don’t ask,” I say, grinning at him. “And don’t tell either. You’re one of a handful of kids that knows about this place, so don’t go saying anything. You’ve never been here, okay?”
“Yeah, cool,” he says smirking at me.
“Great, let’s do it,” I say.
We all know what’s on the agenda. Rob and I sit on the trunk watching Alex and Darren get on the bed. We get our cocks out and gently stroke each other as they pull each other’s clothes off. Fuck! I wish I could have filmed this! They’re all over each other, kissing like their lives depended on it.
Within a couple of minutes they’re both naked. They get into a sixty-nine. Wow! That is hot! Alex grabs the KY, squeezes some onto his fingers and starts to work it into Darren’s bum. I’m amazed at how positive Alex is; he’s in charge, there’s no question about it. It’s a total contrast to how he is with me. Darren doesn’t seem to mind, from the way he’s working on Alex’s dick I’d say he’s loving every second of it. Although he’s a fraction taller than Alex, he’s actually six months younger; he won’t be twelve until the end of next month. He’s the only one of us that can’t cum yet. Alex has been able to cum for months. He cums quite a bit now; it’s creamy and almost white.
Alex lets his fingers slide out then gets Darren onto all fours. He kneels behind him, smearing KY over his dick. He crawls forward a few inches, guiding it right onto Darren’s hole. He pushes forward and stuffs it right in. He grabs Darren round the hips and starts to bum him. Within a few seconds he’s fucking him senseless. I know that it’s not the first time he’s done it; he and Peter bum each other regularly, but seeing him actually doing it is still a shock. Shit! I really should be filming this; you couldn’t get anything much hotter. The Danish lot would pay a fortune for it.
As they build towards a climax, Darren moans and squeaks, begging for more; the intensity is unbelievable. I have to push Rob’s hand off my cock or I’ll cum before I want to. Alex slams his dick in one last time then collapses over Darren’s back, gasping and growling as he unloads his spunk up the blond boy’s bum. Man! That what a gas that was!
Alex gently eases his way out. Now it’s our turn for some action. I bring Darren to sit on the trunk with me while Rob gets on the bed with Alex. I bury my head in Darren’s lap, sucking eagerly on his slim three and a half inch dick, uncut like the rest of us, a little nozzle of foreskin sticking out past the head. He tastes perfect! After a minute I let him go, wrapping my arm round his shoulder. He turns to face me, our tongues dancing together. Fuck! He is so cute!
“Did you dry cum when Alex fucked you?” I whisper.
“Nah!” he says, grinning. “Nearly did though!”
“Well, I’ll have to make sure I put that right won’t I?” I say, licking his nose.
I pull him right onto me, our mouths meeting in a full-scale lip-lock. He kisses beautifully; I’m getting harder by the second. I pull away and stand up.
“Suck me!” I hiss.
He takes me into his mouth, sucking me as well as anyone ever has, his tongue working overtime on the most sensitive part just below the head; I’m tingling so much it’s a struggle to stay upright. I glance across to the bed. Rob and Alex are kissing passionately, Rob’s fingers working in and out of Alex’s bum. I allow myself a little smile. Rob reckoned he wasn’t into kissing; it seems like he’s learning. They pull apart and Alex lies face down, his legs spread, the pillow under his hips. I have another little smile; that’s Rob’s favourite position.
It’s time for us to do it too. I’ve positioned the desk so I can watch Rob and he can watch me. Darren bends over it, almost begging me to bum him. Alex is using the pillow so we have to manage without, but Darren doesn’t seem to mind. I stand back for a moment to admire my prize. Man, he’s got a beautiful arse! His hole’s already slightly open; he’s been well fucked! I don’t bother with lube; there’s no need. I just step forward and stick it right up him. Well fucked or not, he’s tight enough for me. I set right to it, bumming him harder with every thrust.
“Oooh Toby!” he moans. “Oh, yeah! Do it, man!”
Yeah, well I wasn’t going to stop anyway. I look at the other two. Rob’s down on top of Alex, fucking his big cock into the kid’s arse with long, powerful thrusts. Alex grins up at me. Fuck! That is such a turn-on! I reach down and grab Darren’s cock, giving him everything I’ve got, his moans and gurgles spurring me on. He bucks and shudders, his bum tightening round my dick, his stiff little spike jerking between my fingers. A few more thrusts and I’m there too, my spunk spurting over and over deep inside his arse. Man! That was off this planet! As a way of celebrating the end of the rugby season, you couldn’t beat it.
We clean ourselves up and get dressed. Rob and Darren leave first, while Alex helps me put everything back where it should be.
“So was that okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, man!” he says, his eyes sparkling. “That was fantastic! When are we doing it again?”
“Next term, I promise,” I say, grinning back at him.
We make our way onto the corridor and go our separate ways. We will do it again; you can be sure of that. Not all the time, but once I’ve got this final film made, maybe every couple of weeks or so. Now that will be something to look forward to!