Date: Sun, 15 Jan 2017 10:42:52 +1000
From: Storyteller Guy <newstories996@gmail.com>
Subject: Prodigy and Prejudice - Chapter 1

This is a work of fiction. It in no way resembles anything that has
happened in real life. You are reading this of your own accord. If you
shouldn't be, stop reading.

Comments to newstories996@gmail.com, I'd love to head what you think.

---

PRODIGY AND PREJUDICE

Chapter 1

"Hustle, Nick, get there!"

The youngster looked exasperated as his coach, standing at the net, hit yet
another ball deep into the corner of the court. He scurried across at full
pace and, with an outstretched racquet, just managed to bunt the ball back
with a light pubescent grunt.

He barely had time to stop before the ball came back to the other side of
the court. "Again, again, c'mon, Nick, fast feet!"

He sprung off his left foot and catapulted himself to the opposite side of
the court. With an unexpectedly graceful slide and a shriek of rubber on
Rebound Ace, which his well-used tennis shoes allowed him to do, a rather
powerful backhand slice (considering his position) sent the ball, again, to
his coach at the net.

"Go on, Nick, the line's open! Hit it!" His coach had deliberately, yet
only slightly, under-hit the ball to the opposite side of the court to give
his young charge the opportunity to punish it.

With a resolved frown, the youngster scrambled his way across the court as
fast as he could, wound up his left arm, and rocketed a running forehand
right out of the middle of the strings. The ball flew past his coach with a
*whoosh*, down the line, positively sizzling into the back corner of the
court.

"C'mon!!" came the yell of the youngster's unbroken voice as he came to a
stop. He'd used the last of his energy on the yell and proceeded to put his
hands on his knees to get his breath back.

"Bloody good job, Nick," his coach remarked. "Come and grab a drink."

Nicola Rabuzzo, or Nick to everyone apart from his grandmother, was twelve
– and he was bloody good at tennis. His mop of dark brown hair could
always be seen darting around the courts of the Townsville Tennis Club,
where he spent the majority of his free tme. His father, Orazio (or Ray to
everyone else), was always close by; he was his unscrupulous coach.

The day was another North Queensland January stinker. Nick loved tennis,
and he wanted to be on the court more than anything, but even he was
struggling. The sticky, tropical air was clinging to everything,
particularly when it was 30 degrees in the shade. His father thought that
with enough sunscreen, just before midday was the best time to practice
because you really got a workout under the beating sun.

Nick walked over to the courtside bench, which was thankfully protected by
a small corrugated iron awning, providing a brief respite from the
cloudless tropical sky. He took off his cap and shook his head to get the
sweat off his face and out of his shaggy dark brown hair. He felt the
familiar sting of sweat in his deep hazel eyes, and so he dabbed at them
with his fingers. He then ran his fingers through his hair it to get it
back under control, before guzzling half a bottle of water.

"I'm stuffed, Dad," he said truthfully, not even having the energy to look
up at his coach. "It's too hot."

"We've only been going half an hour, mate! We've got to do some work on
your serve."

"But Dad, I won every game on Wednesday! My serve is fine."

Ray looked at his son sternly. "Don't you want to win the age championship
next week?"

Nick looked away meekly and answered softly. "Yeah." He drank some more
from his bottle.

"Well, if you want to beat kids twice your size, you've got to attack the
lines on your serve. C'mon, finish that water and let's get back out
there."

Nick sighed, drank the last of his water, put his cap back on, and shoved
himself out onto the court. He knew his Dad just wanted the best from him,
but even so, his Dad wasn't the one running all over the court in the
middle of summer.

Even though he was wearing a synthetic tennis shirt designed to cool him
down, his ample sweat adhered it to his torso. Through the shirt, you could
therefore see the definition of his young pecs and abs, both of which were
beginning to form. He didn't have a rippling six pack, as a gymnast would,
but he was as fit as a fiddle. His torso was tight, and quite muscular; you
could make out a six pack when he tensed, though.

His shorts, which extended to just above his knees, billowed lightly in the
hot tropical breeze. Every so often, the outline of his slender thighs
could be seen through the fabric as the breeze pushed his shorts onto his
legs. If a gust was hard enough, you might even get a glimpse of a little
bulge. When Nick wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt, the wonderful
view of the waistband of his Bonds boxer briefs, and his beautifully flat
stomach, was presented.

At that moment, however, Nick couldn't have cared less what he looked
like. He just wanted to finish and get back into some air
conditioning. However, there was a person present that cared a lot about
how Nick looked – not that Nick knew anything about it.

Ryan Masters, and his gang of friends, played just about every sport there
was. They swam, they played cricket, they rode bikes, they played footy,
and of course – they played tennis. They had come down to the court (for
free, thanks to Ryan's father Barry being president of the club), tried
playing for a bit, but quickly decided it was too hot. They were sitting at
one of the tables by the canteen, gulping down Gatorades.

Ryan had basically grown up with Nick, with his father being in and around
the club, but after they finished Pee Wee Tennis when they were nine, he
had hardly spoken ten words to him. They went to different schools, and
Ryan never really was into tennis. But, what Ryan had never told nor let on
to anyone, for about the past few months, he was discovering that he had a
massive crush on Nick. After his father had mentioned Nick ("you know that
kid your age at the club, Ryan, he's bloody good") over dinner one night,
Ryan felt he should see what this Nick was really like. All it took was one
graceful, one-handed backhand from Nick and a chirpy "c'mon!" to get Ryan
hooked on Nick and his body.

Ryan couldn't explain – not even to himself – what drew him to
Nick. He'd recently discovered the joys of masturbation, and at nearly
thirteen, he found himself being turned on by just about everything. He was
supposed to like girls, because that's what every North Queensland boy was
expected to do. But, when he engaged in his favourite solo pastime, he
would think only of boys; often, he would then have to force himself to
think of girls. It wasn't so much a private struggle, in that before he'd
become attracted to Nick, it was just confined to his fantasies. But now,
there was an actual boy that entered Ryan's mind. He didn't know what to do
about it, other than to try and see more of the boy whenever he could.

Ryan had positioned himself at the table such that he could both converse
with his friends (or at least appear to be conversing) as well as watch the
youngster practise. He grew increasingly distant from the group's
conversation as he watched Nick, on command, serve exactly where his father
told him to. Ryan marvelled at the motion of Nick's body as he served, his
impressive vertical leap, and the way his shirt just stuck to his
torso. Ryan couldn't get himself to say it, but he absolutely thought Nick
was cute. And hot. At the same time. He loved how the shirt showed Nick's
sexy b-

"Oi, Ryan, I'm talking to you," one of his friends said, snapping Ryan out
of his trance.

"Sorry. What?"

"I said do you know what class you'll be in next week?" The friend's
annoyance was genuine.

"Oh. Nah. Hopefully with you guys."

"You right there?" Another of his friends asked.

Ryan lied. "Yeah. Just hot, and buggered." That seemed to satisfy the
group, as they continued with their conversation allowing Ryan continued to
carefully observe Nick's play.

Ryan was not looking forward to the start of school after the summer
holidays. Although he was smart, he would have much rather have been
skating than learning maths. At least all his friends had chosen to go with
him to Prindiville College, having all just graduated from year 7 at one of
the local private primary schools.

Soon after he'd been implicitly excused from conversing with his friends,
despite their being about 50 metres from each other, Nick and Ryan caught
each other's eye. For the first split second, neither knew what to do; they
just looked at each other with blank expressions. Ryan felt his heartbeat
suddenly spike, almost becoming paralysed by Nick's gaze. Ryan swallowed,
then smiled lightly, and nodded his head up ever so slightly in a `wassup'
motion, acknowledging the boy. Nick reciprocated the nod, before turning
back to his father.

Ryan's usual thoughts came back. `Man, he is cute. Man, he is hot. I wanna
touch his body, I wanna fool around with him.'

Ryan's moment was abruptly broken by his friends, who had begun to shuffle
up from the table. "Ryan, you fuckwit, are you coming?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry."

"Fuck me, you are out of it!"

The boys turned and left to move on to the next activity. Nick watched him
go, before being chided by his father to concentrate on his practice. I was
completely mystifying as to why one of the cool kids actually wanted to
watch him play.

The practice session continued, as Nick worked on his service motion. He
could already hit any spot on the court that he wanted, but father wanted
to try to extract some more power to use against the older boys against
whom he would be playing. Whilst flattening out the service motion impacted
the usual fluidity of it, there was a noticeable increase in power.

"You're gonna smash em, mate," his father said once he was satisfied they'd
worked on it enough. "Grab a drink of water, then serve against me. Pretend
you're serving for the championship. If you hold, I'll get you Maccas for
lunch."

Nick beamed and his eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Only if you win, mate," his father said with a wry smile.

"Better call up and order me a quarter pounder then, Dad," Nick shot
back. His father smiled, delighted at having turned on Nick's competitive
streak.

Ray knew that even he, a former North Queensland champion, would have to
play well to beat his son, who was twenty-six years his junior. Ray had
never told Nick this, but he thought Nick was the most talented player he'd
ever seen. He didn't want his son to have a big ego; he just wanted him to
work hard for what he wanted. Ray thought striking a balance between crazy
eastern European father-coach and loving dad would get the best out of him.

"Righto, mate," Ray said as they got in position, "5-4 up in the third,
you're serving for the title."

Nick stared his father down without saying a word with a blank expression
on his face and steely gaze employed. With his usual three bounces of the
ball, Nick launched the ball in the air and crouched, ready to hit it. He
leapt up, and with a strong `pop', the ball screamed down the T and dropped
in the corner of the service box for an ace, well past his father's late
push of the racquet.

Nick allowed himself a small fist pump. "15-love," he called out, moving to
the ad-court.

Thinking his father would be expecting another in the same area, Nick took
some pace off his serve and aimed for a slider out wide. `Ping', went his
racquet, and the ball swung out wide, taking a kick from the spin he
deliberately imparted as the ball hit the line. Ray jumped out nimbly to
reach it, but the ball sliced just past his outstretched racquet.

A couple of small fist pumps were employed this time as Nick looked right
at his father. "30-love."

Nick thought for a moment about what his father would expect. `He'll be on
his toes, ready to pounce left or right,' he thought. `He won't be ready
for one straight at him.'

With three bounces, and a slightly lower ball toss, Nick flattened out his
serve and smashed it as hard as he could, aiming straight at where his
father was standing. The ball positively slammed into the court and reared
straight up at his father. Only Ray's late protective swipe saved him from
copping a ball to the chest, which caught the frame of Ray's racquet and
ballooned out of the court.

"Yes," Nick almost hissed. "40-love. Three match points."

Nick felt himself tighten up. He couldn't recall ever having such a
comprehensive service game against his father, and he knew a love game was
the perfect preparation for the championships. As he let the moment get to
him, he hit a timid first serve, aimed at the far corner, which struck the
net just below the tape.

"Fault," called his father, stating the obvious. He was trying to get in
Nick's head.

Nick shook his arms, trying to get his composure back. `Just be solid,' he
thought, `get it in play and get him running. You can do this.'

The second serve plopped deep, albeit rather slowly, into the service
box. His father danced around it, smacking a powerful forehand back deep
into Nick's court. Nick managed to get to it and dig out a forehand slice,
straight back to his father who was standing in the middle of baseline. A
sizzling topspin forehand came back at Nick to the opposite corner; drawing
on his experience of successfully defending this play earlier, he scurried
to chase it down and hit a hard backhand slice down the line, forcing his
father to move to the side of the court.

Nick's chance to pounce came when his father's backhand bunt didn't come
out of the middle of the racquet, and was under-hit into the centre of the
court. His father was out of position, and the cross-court was open. Nick's
eyes lit up as nimbly took five quick steps forward, got his feet into the
perfect position, and launched a powerful, one-handed topspin backhand into
the opposite corner from his father. Ray, running as hard as he could, only
managed to get halfway across before the ball was past him. Nick raised his
arms in triumph and broke into a huge grin.

"Yes!" Nick yelled. "I won!"

Ray was astonished. His son had not only completely trounced him, but he
had totally been totally outthought by the 12-year-old. It was a stunning
display of athleticism, calmness, and strategy. Nick's serve was
impeccable. Ray was so pleased he'd convinced his son to work on it, and he
knew Nick was more than ready for the championships. He walked to the net
with a genuine smile on his face.

"Bloody hell, Nick," Ray said as he reached the net and held out his
hand. "Incredible. Just bloody excellent."

Nick, rather shyly, accepted his father's compliments – which were more
than usual – as he took off his hat and reciprocated the
handshake. "Thanks, Dad. I felt really good."

"You see why I keep you out here? Because it makes you play like that."

Nick nodded. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks, Dad."

Ray smiled. At six feet, he didn't exactly tower over his son's height of
just on 5'2", but nonetheless he tousled his son's hair. He immediately
regretted it as he was rewarded with a handful of his son's sweat.

"Crikey, mate," he said, flicking his hand to get the sweat off, "you need
to get yourself a shower! Go and sort yourself out, I'll get the balls and
then I've got to chat to Barry in the office. No Maccas until you're
clean."

Nick sighed and was about to protest as Ray turned and picked up the balls
they'd been using for their game. Nick was hungry, but he was also
disgustingly sweaty from the hard training he'd gone through. He put his
racquet back in his bag, and headed off for the locker room as his father
turned towards the office.

As Australia liked to think itself as more modest than the rest of the
world, the showers were all arranged in cubicles. Nick took the closest one
to the entrance, set his bag on the bench inside the cubicle and sat
down. He didn't bother to undo the laces on his rather worn Adidas shoes as
he ripped them off, one by one, and promptly took off his decidedly sweaty
socks in the same fashion. He smiled to himself as he looked down and saw
the sock tan on each leg, noting that the hair on his legs had just started
to darken on a few follicles. He was starting to grow up, and perhaps
starting to grow into his feet, which certainly seemed long for his age.

Nick then stood and removed his shirt, which had basically stuck to him,
and exposed his slender body. He noted the tan lines on his arms,
contrasting the tanned olive colour of his forearms to the paler, yet
distinctly Italian, skin tone of the rest of his body. He took off his thin
gold-chained crucifix from around his neck, itself wet from his sweat, and
placed it carefully in his bag.

He looked down again, and idly ran his hands down his flat stomach. It was
moist with his sweat, and seemed to accentuate each of his abdominal
features. His pert, caramel nipples responded, hardening from the touch of
Nick's soft hands. Having felt the muscles underneath this skin, Nick
smiled. He was a fit boy.

Nick pulled his shorts down, and looked down at what the rest of his body
had in store. The first thing that he saw, of course, was the bulge in his
now rather damp grey Bonds boxer-briefs. He sighed, both at the size of it
(or in his mind, the lack thereof), and at how he finally got his hands on
a pair of actually comfortable underpants. After embarrassingly pleading to
his father that the cheap five-pack briefs he had worn since he could
remember were far too tight and scratchy, his father exasperatedly took him
to the shops and just got him to pick the ones that he wanted. Settling on
the Bonds, he was quietly pleased that he'd now be wearing the `cool'
undies that he'd seen many of his classmates wearing while they changed for
school sports.

Nick tensed his thighs, testing the definition of his slender legs. His
quads responded, with their outlines more than visible, interrupted only by
the tan lines from Nick's shorts. He smiled; he knew he had a great
body. He just wished his dick would start to grow a bit more.

With that, he slid his undies down, releasing his young package. To all,
except to Nick, it was one of the most glorious sights there was. With a
perfect `V' guiding the eyes down to the main event, a small row of newly
sprouted dark pubes adorned a glorious uncut penis which, whilst it only
measured about three inches when soft, would inflate to a very respectable
four and a half when aroused. It was reasonably thick, perhaps amplified by
Nick's thin frame, with just a bit of skin hanging over the end when it was
soft.

Nick stepped out of his undies and rolled back his foreskin, almost
absent-mindedly, exposing his light purple head. He liked doing that, as he
loved the look of it. Deciding he was far too hot and bothered to even
think about getting it up, he stepped under the shower head and turned on
the cold tap as he replaced his foreskin.

He sighed as the cold water flowed through his dark brown hair and down his
body. He shut his eyes and felt himself relax as his body temperature
slowly decreased, making him feel human again. He put his hands on his
firm, round butt cheeks, lightly spreading them so the cool water went down
his crack. He ran his finger over his butthole, smirking lightly as he
recalled the first time he'd inserted his finger in there a couple of weeks
ago. He enjoyed the feeling of his tight, hairless pucker, wondering when
he'd next get an opportunity to feel the sensation of fingering himself
again.

Under the relaxing stream of cool water, Nick's mind wandered to the eye
contact he'd made with Ryan today. He'd always wanted to make friends with
Ryan, who was one of the cool kids from the expensive private primary
school that Nick always wished he went to, but Nick was far too awkward and
shy to ever start a conversation. In fact, he was pretty sure Ryan didn't
even know who he was. He was intrigued as to why Ryan, who had a whole
group of friends there today, would pay Nick any attention.

There was something in the corner of Nick's mind that wouldn't go away,
too. He wanted to know what Ryan looked like naked. He was unsure why he
felt this, but he'd felt it about a bunch of people recently. He wondered
whether other boys were fit like him, and whether their dicks were like
his. In fact, he just wanted to know what other boys looked like naked. He
wanted to play with their dicks, feel their bodies, and jack off
together. He'd thought about it a lot, and he certainly didn't get the same
reaction when he was thinking about girls. What even was a vagina, anyway?
Just a smaller ass crack with a different-shaped hole?

He shrugged it off as an accident. Maybe Ryan was just daydreaming because
it was so hot. Maybe he was just curious, and he'd get himself a girlfriend
this year. Or maybe it would be as it always was – playing tennis, with
his father, and no-one would pay him any attention. With a sigh, he shut
off the water, and began to towel himself down.

School wasn't exactly Nick's favourite place to be. He didn't have any
close friends there, and didn't really do much on his holidays other than
play tennis and hang out with his younger sister. Not to mention that Nick
wasn't that smart. Maybe if he spent less time thinking about tennis, and
playing tennis, he might have more of a hope. After graduating from his
primary school with Cs across the board, starting high school in a week was
not something he was looking forward to.

Money was always tight in the Rabuzzo household, which meant the public
high school to which his primary school fed would be his destination when
school started back in a week. He felt sure that the rough older kids would
tease him or beat him up, with him being a slender fellow and all, and one
without very many friends. It seemed natural that the tennis court would be
the place where Nick spent the majority of his time, not least because it
allowed him an escape from all the schoolyard issues.

With fresh clothes and the North Queensland staple – thongs – on his
feet, he let out a small sigh as the cool air conditioning of the club
office hit him and instantly relaxed him.

"Nicky! Mate, your Dad says you smashed him today!" Barry Masters, club
president and inimitable Aussie larrikin, called out as Nick stepped into
view.

"Well, maybe not smashed, but-" Nick was cut off by the larger-than-life
Barry who, once exuberated, was hard to shut up.

"Ah, none of that son. You're a bloody strong talent, you know that?"

Nick almost blushed and looked at the ground.

"Oh, thanks, Mr Masters, I-" poor Nick was cut off again.

"Now about this year," Barry continued, totally oblivious of his
interruptions, "your father and I have had somewhat of a breakthrough."

Nick looked at his Dad with a furrowed brow, who returned his gaze with a
smile. "Thought I'd keep it a secret, mate, so I didn't dash your hopes if
it didn't come through."

"Bloody good idea, Ray," Barry continued, as his thick moustache seemed to
hover above his top lip whilst he spoke. "Now, son, whaddaya think about
going to school at Prindiville College this year?"

Nick went wide-eyed and looked at his father. "Prindiville? But – but
that's really expensive! Dad ... ?"

Ray smiled warmly at his son. "Here's where it gets good."

"I took it upon myself to get a video of you playing in those age
championship qualifiers last Wednesday," Barry said as he began to pace
around the office, "bloody excellent stuff, that. Now, I sent it to my good
friend Arthur Mayall, who happens to be Prindiville's headmaster, you
see. Bloody legend, he is. He was so bloody impressed with you, he found a
spot in for you to start in year eight, and you'll be going there on a full
scholarship to play tennis. Straight into the team, you'll be!"

Nick was absolutely floored. "Me?" He asked timidly. "They really want me?
But I got all Cs in my-"

"Ah crap, mate, it's tennis they want you for! Who knows, getting you out
of that bloody cesspit of a school might do you good, eh!" Barry winked at
Ray, who embarrassingly frowned back.

"Well, I ... really, thank you, Mr Masters. I don't really, uh, know what
to do ... I mean, uh ... say." Nick was finding the news rather hard to
process.

"Now, I know what you're thinking, new school, and all that. Well, my boy
Ryan – you know him, don't you? – well, he'll be starting there with
you. Good old Artie, he's bloody gone and put you in the same class. How
about that, eh?" Barry was beaming at this point, with his hands on his
hips, waiting for Nick's reaction to his behind-the-scenes machinations.

Nick thought that sounded pretty bloody excellent. His instant fear at the
prospect of going to Prindiville was that he would know no-one in a new
school he thought he just didn't belong in. A safety net – someone he
was at least familiar with in his class – would be just the ticket.

"Ryan? Oh yeah, cool. Thanks a heap, Mr Masters! That all sounds pretty
good." The excitement was beginning to be heard in Nick's voice.

A weird thing happened when Nick said Ryan's name. His little dick almost
felt like a small bolt of electricity went through it. Nick thought nothing
of it any just put it down to the randomness that his genitalia often
exhibited. An unexplained phenomenon. Something to place in the back of his
mind and disregard.

"Still got it, Ray," Barry excitedly said, almost to himself, "I've still
bloody got it. Righto then, Nicky, we'll sort you out with some uniforms
and what not in the next few days."

Ray laughed and shook hands with Barry. "You're a good bloke, Barry, thank
you."

"Now piss off and get that boy his lunch, you cheap bastard!" Barry shot
back with a wide smile. Ray laughed, and Nick smiled, as the two left the
office and headed to Ray's car.

"It's going to be a bloody good year, mate," Ray said to his son, "just you
watch."

Nick smiled happily back at his father. Maybe he was right; a fresh start
at a fresh school doing what he loved might be just the ticket. And maybe,
just maybe, Ryan could be the catalyst Nick needed to finally get some real
friends.

As Ray pulled his car out of the tennis club car park, Nick looked out the
window and smiled. That quarter pounder was going to taste sweeter than any
lunch he'd had in his life.

---

That afternoon, Ryan cycled through the driveway gates to the Masters'
expansive hilltop home just as his father cruised up the street in his
Mercedes four-wheel drive. A sharp "parp" from the horn gave one hell of a
fright to Ryan, who had not even noticed his father approaching. As Ryan
stopped outside the garage and turned to give his father a frown, his
father laughed and wound the window down as the garage door was opened.

"Got ya, mate!" Barry called out.

"God, Dad, why'd you do that?" Ryan spat angrily as he wheeled his bike
into the garage and stowed it against the wall. "You scared the hell out of
me!"

Barry drove the car in and the garage door began to close, noting his son's
apparent anger. "Just joshing, mate. C'mere, give your old man a hug," he
said as he got out of the car.

Barry engulfed his son in a large bear hug. "Crikey, mate, you're a bit
moist there!" Barry remarked to his still clearly annoyed son, who was
indeed rather sweaty.

Ryan scowled further at his father for the obvious innuendo. Barry grinned,
eliciting exactly the response he wanted, as the two walked through the
downstairs area of the house and out to the expansive kitchen. Barry loved
his house on the hill. He loved the way the house opened up to the wide
deck, taking in expansive views of Townsville, the coastline, and the
island up to the north. He could always feel relaxed by cracking open a
beer, turning on the air conditioning, and looking out over the water.

"Did you hear that, Mum? Dad scared me!" Ryan said, clearly still annoyed.

Glenda sighed as she continued to slice the vegetables for dinner. "Yes,
darling." Barry's riling up of the kids was a usual occurrence, so she knew
the moment would pass as she looked at her son with a tired smile. "He's
just joking around, you know."

Ryan frowned at his mother and frustratedly stomped upstairs to his
bedroom. "Take those sweaty clothes off before dinner, would you please?"
His mother called out as he bounded up the stairs.

"Bloody hell, anything else!?" Ryan retorted loudly as he shut the door to
his room in a huff.

Ryan threw his backpack down on the floor next to his king single bed. He
couldn't explain to anyone else why he'd been so irritable lately. Other
people could just put it down to hormones, or puberty, or whatever; but he
knew the cause. And he didn't want it to be true. Seeing the top of his
tennis racquet poking out of his bag gave him a gentle reminder of the
source of his anger. Ryan flopped down exasperatedly onto his bed, where he
lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling.

It was Nick. It had been for months, ever since Nick popped into Ryan's
head as a result of a particularly vivid and erotic dream. Why Nick? Why
was Ryan so attracted to him? Ryan had grown up with Nick in the periphery
of his life and he'd never paid him any attention. He was just the awkward
kid that didn't do anything except play tennis. Hell, if Ryan's Dad wasn't
president of the club, he wouldn't even have known he existed.

"It can't be like this. It's not supposed to be like this," Ryan muttered
to himself as he rubbed his eyes.

In North Queensland, boys became men. They didn't become queers, and they
most certainly didn't get attracted to other boys. Your milestones were
your first beer, your first punt at the casino, your first kiss (with a
girl) and your first root (with a girl). What `homos' did was not talked
about and it was certainly not approved of. Even his own father had made
his views on homosexuality pretty clear. Ryan knew what his father thought
of `the bloody poofters'.

In an attempt to take his mind off the matter, Ryan sat up and pulled off
his sweaty shirt before tossing it into his laundry basket in the corner by
his door. He ran his hands through his unruly light brown hair, before
lying back down on his bed. He took in a big, deep breath, and let it out
slowly as he closed his eyes.

Taking off his shirt had clearly done nothing to alter his thoughts,
because the moment he closed his eyes, Ryan imagined Nick in the locker
room at the tennis club slowly, erotically, taking off his own shirt –
and revealing a sexy slim body and that perfect `V'. Ryan's blood
immediately began to flow south. His mind synthesised what he hadn't yet
seen; there would be cute little brown nipples, a hot six-pack, and that
enticing downwards-pointing pelvic feature that everyone went wild
for. Absent-mindedly, Ryan placed a hand over his crotch at the thought and
squeezed his package. He was already getting very hard.

Ryan imagined what would come next. Nick would take off his shorts,
revealing his striped boxer briefs tented out and straining from a rock
hard boner. Nick would smirk as he slid down his undies, tossing them to
the side, showing Ryan everything Nick's young body had to offer. Ryan's
mind synthesised that Nick's dick would look exactly the same as his, but
just a bit smaller (you know, the I've-got-the-biggest-dick sort of
thing). That would therefore mean, Ryan's mind concluded, a rock hard,
uncut, smooth four-inch cock jutting out from Nick's pelvis, with a bit of
an upward turn.

The imagined hardness of Nick's cock had sent Ryan's actual cock to full
size in his underpants. He slid his hand inside and grabbed his cock with
relish, squeezing it a few times. He was hard and horny alright. Ryan
absent-mindedly opened his mouth and let out a little `ahh', as he bucked
up his hips and slid off his underpants and shorts, tossing them off the
bed. He was now lying fully naked on his bed with a raging hardon. He began
to stroke his cock at a quick pace, remarkably easily turned on by his
thoughts. He absent-mindedly ran his spare hand through the very sparse
bush that had recently appeared, proud of his slow development.

The bird's eye view, had it been available at that moment, would have been
gorgeous. Ryan was, it must be said, a very good-looking boy. He was only a
centimetre or two shorter than Nick, and what he lacked in abdominal
definition he made up for with gorgeous, slim, long legs that just went all
the way up, as it were. His uncut cock, with its boyish upward turn, was as
hard as a nail at just over four inches and its average thickness filled
Ryan's young hand adequately. His balls had descended far enough into what
was now a sizable, spacious, plump bag. Ryan began to slowly stroke his
cock to his thoughts, exploring his chest and stomach with his free hand.

Ryan imagined that Nick would bend over and spread his cheeks, exposing his
tight, pink pucker. Nick would jack himself with one hand, and put a finger
into his hole with his other. At this thought, Ryan was really going to
town. He was breathing heavily, and he grabbed his sheets in his left hand
as his right hand furiously went up and down his young shaft.

Maybe Nick would stand up, and turn around, and jerk his cock
furiously. Maybe his cute face would scrunch up as the ecstasy took
over. Maybe Nick would tense his abs as he got faster. Maybe Nick's balls
would dangle around below his cock, slapping into his body as he hastened
his pace. Maybe, as Nick grunted to climax, he would show Ryan his few
drops of boycum shooting out of his cock and onto the floor. Maybe Nick
would say, "show me your cum, Ryan."

"Here you go, Nick," Ryan breathily muttered to himself in response to his
fantasy, as he tensed up his legs and opened his eyes. He felt the point of
no return pass as he hastily frigged himself to completion. With a little
`oh', the first shot was an opaque dribble that just ran out of his piss
slit and down his shaft. The second shot was more powerful, sending a glob
of pearlescent liquid just above Ryan's belly button. The third shot was
more of the same, ending up further up his stomach. The fourth and fifth
spasms sent the final amount of his young cum dribbling out of his cock and
down his shaft, thus signifying the end of Ryan's orgasm. He took a deep
breath and he sighed, opening his eyes and looking at the small pool of
semen his balls had just produced. A good jerk always made him feel better.

As he recaptured his breath, Ryan lazily felt on his bedside table for his
box of tissues before ripping three out and wiping the remnants of his
orgasm off his belly. It took the thoughts of Nick from his mind, albeit
briefly, before he went over to his dresser grab a new pair of underpants,
an old t-shirt and some comfy shorts. Now fully dressed, he eyed himself in
the mirror. The sun-bleached blonde tips on his otherwise sandy brown hair
looked pretty cool, he thought. His bright blue eyes shone back at him
confirming that perhaps he should give himself more credit in the looks
department.

As if on cue, his mother called out that dinner was ready. It wasn't until
Ryan heard his mother's call that he realised just how starving he was,
particularly after his most recent activity.

Dinner was always a highlight of Ryan's day, as his mother was an excellent
cook. After making his way downstairs, grabbing a glass of milk, and
sitting through grace, he hungrily tucked into the chicken schnitzel and
roasted vegetables provided for him like it was going out of fashion.

After some initial small talk between the family, Barry excitedly spoke
up. "Ryan, my boy, I've got some news for you, mate."

Ryan looked up from his dinner at his father and raised his
eyebrows. "Anything good?"

"Nick Rabuzzo from the club's got a scholarship to Prindiville with you
next year."

It took everything Ryan had not to choke on his mouthful of food and drop
his knife and fork. `He's fucking WHAT?' his thoughts immediately said. A
mixture of excitement, dread, hope, lust and worry, to name just a few
emotions, immediately raced through Ryan's mind. He felt like he was going
to just blurt out something stupid and it was all he could do to just act
cool.

Thankfully, whilst he was swallowing his mouthful of food, he quietly
placed his cutlery down and regained his composure whilst his mother
answered.

"Oh, that will be wonderful for him! Poor Ray, he works so hard but he
always seems to struggle to make ends meet." Glenda politely responded.

"Bloody oath," Barry said, "Nicky bloody deserves it too. I tell you,
Glenny, he's gonna go places, that boy. Bloody talented."

"Cool, Dad," Ryan eventually managed after his parents' exchange had
finished. "I don't really know him, but I'll look out for him."

Barry smiled. "'Atta boy! It'll be easier for you, too, because he's gonna
be in your class, mate. Good old Artie, he thinks of everything!"

`He's IN MY FUCKING CLASS? Lord in heaven, have mercy on us!' Ryan's mind
was sent racing again. `Surely this is too good to be true!' He could feel
his heart begin to beat out of his chest.

Ryan was well and truly struggling to control himself, and using all his
mental fortitude, managed to prevent himself from just blurting out his
thoughts. "Great," Ryan said, which was a phenomenal achievement given the
torrent of emotions sloshing about in his mind.

"It'll be good to finally see Prindiville win something this year," Barry
continued. "He'll win the tennis all on his own, don't you know."

Glenda looked at him with a furrowed brow. "You really think he can make
the First Four in his first year? He's not even thirteen yet, Barry."

Barry put his cutlery down. "Glenda, I've seen just about every kid north
of Mackay play tennis since 1989. And let me tell you, in all my years up
here, I've never seen anyone play like he does. Anyone. Let me tell you,
love, we're all going to be saying `Lleyton Who?' in ten years' time."

"You and your bold predictions, Barry," Glenda jabbed with a smirk, "your
hit rate's pretty low, you know."

"Oh, this one's definitely gonna be true, hun," Barry said, pointing and
waggling his finger as he always did when making a point. "Don't you worry
about that."

Glenda turned to Ryan. "You know, honey, I don't know why you and Nick
never became friends."

Ryan shrugged as he toyed with his vegetables, maintaining the charade that
he really wasn't that interested. "Guess I'm just not that into tennis."

"You'd be good at it if you gave it half a chance, son," Barry said. "I
even saw you today, you were even bloody wiping your mates off the court!"

Ryan started to blush. "No I didn't, Dad. We were just, y'know, mucking
around."

Barry smiled. "You know, you really need to give yourself some more
credit. You're a bloody good kid!"

Ryan couldn't help but smile back at this father. "Daaad!"

"Tell you what, Ry, Nick's playing in the age championships on the weekend.
Why don't you come along and watch? I can guarantee you now, he'll walk
into the final."

Ryan gulped much harder than he anticipated. He was lucky no-one else at
the table heard it. `Hide it, HIDE IT!' Ryan's body yelled to himself. "Uh,
sure Dad, let me know when it's on. I'll come down."

"'Atta boy! Maybe I'll finally get your arse into the tournament next
year!"

`Maybe I'll have Nick's arse at the tournament nex-' "Maybe, Dad," was all
Ryan could manage before his now wildly escalating thoughts got completely
out of control. "Maybe."

Ryan didn't care if Nick was gay or not. All he cared about what the fact
that Nick was about to actually enter his life. Maybe there wouldn't be
anything to it; nevertheless, the possibility that there might put Ryan on
a high.