Date: Sat, 15 Apr 2017 19:55:19 +0000
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Six Weeks With Jack Chapter 1

Author's notes:

(1) All this is written in British English. Hence, arse (ass), willy
(penis), wank (masturbate), pants (underwear), fanny (vulva).

(2) There is a historical inaccuracy - the Nintendo game, Super Mario
World, was not released for the SNES console in the UK until 9 months or so
after this story takes place. Please forgive me for warping that little bit
of reality.

(3) Part of this story (but by no means all) is accurate to real life, and
it is written about my youth, and so rather than using my alter-ego, Zack,
I've used my real name throughout.

Anyway, enough of that - on with the story.


Six Weeks with Jack, by Zack McNaught
(b/b 11/11)

Chapter 1

What's the worst break-up you've ever had? I used to think some of those
I'd been through were pretty bad, but then I found out, by living through a
friend's while lodging at his house, that really mine hardly registered.
They were, in most cases, in fact quite amicable by comparison. It turned
out there was a reason for that, although it took a long time for me to
understand it.

The least friendly - if you could call it that - was my most recent.
Jennifer Halliwell was, I was quite certain, the woman for me, for the rest
of my life. For whatever reason it didn't really work out that way, though,
and although I was a little sad to see the dream washed away down the drain
like that, I did find myself feeling strangely neutral about the whole
thing. I wasn't exactly jumping up and down with joy the day she ended it,
but I wasn't propping up the bar and asking the barman to keep plying me
with whiskey, either. I went to look around flats to rent for a couple of
months until we could decide what to do with the house, and I rented a van
and moved out my things, and two days later I was already happily ensconced
in my new home, hardly being bothered at all that Jen wasn't there with me.
And that really was about as bad as it usually got. I tended to find that
girls were happier being my mate than my lover. I never even considered
that it might be my fault, that they were in fact picking up on my
reticence to settle down and have a family, a reluctance of which - may I
add - I was not myself aware.

One of my ex-girlfriends once asked if I was gay. I denied it at the time,
because I'm not. Not really. Don't really fancy men. I mean, there have
been times when I've been attracted to guys, yeah, but I just assumed it
was a small quirk, nothing to come out of the closet over. I've always been
fairly certain that I'm mostly a straight guy, and none of my adult
relationships have ever suggested to me that may not in fact be the case.

But the recent thing with Jen got me thinking. I sat alone in my new flat,
and in quite a clinical way, I started going through the reasons why it
might be that despite the fact that I was clearly quite successful with
women, that I couldn't convince any of them that I was long-term material.
See, that was always the complaint - that I didn't seem committed enough to
them, or to the relationship, or to whatever.

I started going through Facebook, checking out the profiles of all the
women I'd dated over the years, and most of them seemed to have made a
pretty decent stab at life after they'd left me, and so I was fairly
certain that it wasn't some as-yet-undiagnosed condition which they all
shared. No, the problem was without a doubt me. I'd been doing something
wrong all this time, and it was up to me to work out why I couldn't form a
lasting relationship.

I was just about done with Facebook when I noticed a new friend request. It
intrigued me because I don't get a lot of friend requests - I have a
private profile, and I don't go out to actively engage people on
Facebook. I'm mostly friends with family members and a small cadre of
people I see regularly enough that I don't need to watch their lives
playing out on social media anyway. So it's unusual for requests to pop up,
and as such I was intrigued.

I opened the request, and for a brief moment was paralysed by a thousand
thoughts colliding in the forefront of my mind, all clamouring for
attention. This was not expected. Not that it was unwelcome, either, but
this was not expected. I found that my heart was racing and my breathing
ragged.

I hadn't heard from Jack in years. Almost two decades, in fact. The last
time we'd connected in any way he was a slightly angry teenager and I was a
mess of hormones, and what had happened tainted my view of a certain part
of my life so thoroughly that for a while I thought I had been completely
wrong about an important part of my life.

I'll tell you about the last time we met, though you'll have to read the
rest of the story to find out why it had such an adverse affect on me.

It was at a party, thrown by a distant cousin of mine to celebrate his
sixteenth birthday. I think I was only invited because I was part of the
wider family, and at just fourteen I felt a little out of place; two years
is a big gap at that age. At the time, I was at an all-boys boarding
school, and the issue of female companionship was one fraught with tension,
hopefulness and a fair quantity of disappointment. Of course we got up to
the usual boarding school antics to pass the time and relieve the tension
(maybe I'll tell you about it one day), but what most of the boys wanted -
and what we simply couldn't get - was a nice pair of tits and a suitably
moist muff.

So, to arrive at the party to find myself surrounded by my cousin's school
friends and acquaintances, many of whom were definitely, shockingly,
obviously female, well... I didn't quite know what to do with myself.

I thought I wouldn't know anyone there besides the cousin, and he was too
busy illegally drinking to even say `hi', but I was wrong. The way I found
out was, to say the least, a little disturbing.

I hadn't seen Jack for nearly two years, and yet even in the dark shadows
of the treehouse, I recognised him immediately. I'd gone out there to
escape the noise and the people, and had stumbled upon a private scene. I
knew what was happening without having to quite see it for myself - my
cousin's eleven year old step sister was on her knees in front of Jack, and
though her actions were hidden by her head, I knew that Jack's dick was in
her mouth.

For the briefest of moments our eyes met. He was still Jack - still
ridiculously good looking, still with a mop of blonde hair heaped
haphazardly, but perfectly, upon his head - but he had changed. Just in
that split second I could see it in him. He was no longer the boy I'd known
for six incredible weeks, he was a young man. I'd barely changed - to my
mind, at least - but he was someone else now, someone with experiences I
couldn't match. Didn't want to match, either. Someone who got their dick
sucked by a little girl at a party.

Upset, embarrassed and somewhat turned on despite my discomfort, I fled the
scene. In fact, I left the whole party.

And, until that friend request nearly twenty years later, I hadn't heard
from Jack again.

At the time, it bothered me because... well, I couldn't say why. Perhaps I
thought it was the fact that it was such a young girl, though in retrospect
that was somewhat hypocritical, given how young I'd been when I first
wanted to have sex; certainly not much older than her. Now, of course, I
realise that what really upset me was my unjustified sense of betrayal,
mixed with a healthy dose of jealousy. For me to really explain why I felt
that way, I need to tell you everything. Let me take you back to the summer
of 1991.

- - -

It was going to be the summer I turned twelve. School had broken up, and
the days were long, hot and endless. They probably weren't, but positive
memories breed positive memories, and so in my mind I've made the weather
better than it really was. As I have the whole experience, I imagine. It
probably wasn't quite as idyllic as I'm about to recount, yet my memories
(brought to the fore by that friend request) were all bathed in golden
light.

Our first meeting was rather inauspicious, truth be told. It happened
through the front windscreen of my mum's car, as she braked as hard as she
could, tyres screeching on the hot asphalt. I think we missed him by about
an inch. Maybe less. I'm fairly sure we at least tagged the back of his
blue football shorts with the front left indicator. He scurried past with a
wave and grabbed his football from the gutter at the side of the road, and
then was gone again, while my mum sat there shaking, and gripping the wheel
so tightly her whole hands went white. She muttered swear words I'd never
heard her use before, and I giggled at the litany of profanity.

I was more bothered by the hilarity of the event than the boy himself. He
was just another boy at that stage - looked to be about my age, dressed in
a Chelsea football kit (a bit unfashionable at that time, so probably a
proper fan) and blonde haired, and that was all I knew of him. I did
briefly wonder what he was doing on my road, but I thought nothing more of
it than telling my dad of the scandalous language my mum had used when he
ran in front of the car.

The second time I met Jack was a little less fraught, but a whole lot more
interesting. In our little village, with its pretty houses and community
atmosphere, there really weren't many kids my age, and the ones I did know
were the rough kids from the council houses on the other side of
town. These days I've abandoned such prejudices, but at the time I only had
my parents' attitude to go on, and though they're both lovely, they do hold
unsavoury opinions on class. So there I was, an only child, and to all
intents and purposes the only boy my age in the village. There was a girl,
Annalise, but she didn't like me very much.

When, one day, I wheeled my bike around the side of the house and out to
the road, I saw him again. In the front garden of the house two doors
down. Mrs Brown's place. Suddenly it clicked; she'd often told me in the
boring way old people have that she had a grandson my age. This must be
him!

I took a closer look - he looked nice enough, not like the kids I wasn't
meant to play with. He looked like the boys at my school - clean, neatly
cut hair, no sign of the perpetual scowl the rough kids wore. And he was
dressed in the same Chelsea strip as the day before. He was playing
keepy-uppy with a Mitre Delta, size 5 (hey, any self-respecting
football-playing lad would instantly recognise it in those days!), and
doing a far better job if it than I ever could. I watched him for a moment,
undetected, and marvelled at the ease with which he kept the ball in the
air. It was always precisely in his control. He could even do a few tricks,
like the one where you catch the ball on the back of your neck.

I hadn't been intending to ride that way, but quite without reason that I
could fathom, I decided that I wanted to go past him. The chance that he
might stop playing in order to speak to me seemed very appealing indeed. So
I turned my bike away from the direction I normally took, out into the
woods, and instead went towards the village, and towards Mrs Brown's
grandson.

He didn't stop playing as I went past. I'm not sure he even noticed me at
all, given the way he was concentrating. Disappointed, I nearly turned the
bike around for another pass, to see if I could make any impression at all,
but then the part of my brain which was tasked with preventing irrational
decisions actually kicked in for once, and stopped me. Strangely despondent
for no reason I could fathom, I carried on my way, circled back on anther
road and went to the woods anyway.

The little area of woodland just beyond the southern edge of our village
was a strange and wonderful place. It's as achingly pretty now as it was
back then, best viewed in autumn when the leaves are turning on the big
oaks, chestnuts and sycamore. It's criss-crossed with gullies, home to
endless pathways, and a wonderful place to ride a bike. Back in those days,
walkers hadn't started to get all antsy about cyclists on footpaths and all
that crap, so I could spend sunny days in my little playground on my
slightly knackered old BMX. Tree roots made excellent ramps, and the
swooping dips of the rolling gullies provided all the adrenaline a young
boy could want. Combine that with the epic skids to be had on dry,
leaf-littered soil and the overall result was a little patch of heaven.

But the woods also provided me with something else. They were the setting
for a good number of my earliest sexual exploits. They were away from the
house - and my mother's prying eyes - and there was something exceedingly
titillating about doing `naughty things' among the trees, out in the open
but still secluded.

The things we got up to will be familiar to most. The woods were the place
I first saw a girl's parts, for instance. I suppose I would've been about 6
or 7 at the time, and at that time I hung around with a group of kids who,
by the time this story is set, I no longer knew. The girl, Mandy, and I
were the youngest of the lot, and it was Mandy's older sister who goaded
her into showing me. They left us alone, and little Mandy, showed me her
pudgy little notch, and pulled it apart to show me the red depths
inside. In return I showed her my little spike, which although it was short
and thin, was at least capable of getting very hard and pointy indeed,
which on this occasion it duly did.

And, of course, there was the joy of outdoor urination. It started
innocently enough, with the simple need to empty my bladder while I was in
the woods one day. There was no point making the ten minute trip back to
the house, so I just went behind a tree and sprayed up against the bark. I
didn't think anything much of it until I'd done it a few times; I
distinctly remember the first occasion that I realised there was an erotic
edge to the act. I would've been about 10, I suppose, and was out in the
woods on my own. I remember it had been raining, and there was a wonderful,
earthy smell in the air. It was an autumn day, and though the sun had come
out, it wasn't very warm in the shade. I felt the urge to pee, and so
without another thought I leant my bike against a sturdy oak, walked around
the back of it (goodness knows why - I was entirely alone in the middle of
the woods) and pulled my half-hard little willy out into the air.

Up to now, hardness usually denoted nothing more than the urge to pee,
being controlled by the fact I'd grown stiff. But this time, as I was
letting rip, a chill breeze blew through the forest, and right under my
balls, and suddenly my dick was lurching skywards.

I held it and squeezed out the last drops, which fired out as powerful
little jets, and realised something I had somehow missed before - it felt
really great to pinch and roll my dick when it was hard. And, more than
that, the longer I carried on, the better it felt! This was amazing! I
stood there for several minutes with my shorts and pants around my knees,
and played with the hard thing at my centre.

I don't remember reaching any kind of peak that time, or for many times
after that, but each time I went in the woods I would make sure I needed to
piss, and then stand there afterwards playing with myself until my knees
started to shake and I had to stop. Little did I realise at the time that
carrying on would have led to something altogether grander, but the truth
of it was that until my mum gave me a sex education book about a year
later, I didn't have a clue that there was something to strive for. Nor,
indeed, did it occur to me until months later that I could play with it any
time I wanted, and that I didn't have to wait until I needed to wee to pull
and tug at the thing. Ah, the innocence of youth.

Still, those early explorations set a pattern - those woods (and
practically any other of size decent enough to find seclusion) represented
the most erotic place in the world for me, and still do. To this day I get
a huge thrill from doing things among the trees, and as a teenager I must
have spilled my seed up against hundreds of them, watching the pearly drops
tumble through the air and catch against the bark, or drip down into the
undergrowth at my feet.

So it was the day I saw Jack in his gran's front garden. I circled around
to the woods and spent a few minutes playing about, before the urge came
over me. By this time, I had become a proficient little masturbator, and
since a few months prior (thanks to the wonderful information in the book
mum had provided) I had been keeping at it long enough to give myself
little dry cums almost every time I did it.

As soon as the days had grown long and warm enough, I had transferred the
activity out of doors, and into the woods. Wanking out there, with my
shorts dangerously low around my ankles and my bare bum caressed by the
wind, was quite simply my favourite thing. I would feel a lurch of
excitement (and still do) each time I approached the trees, and though I
told myself each time that this time I would definitely spend a while
riding around before doing it, I never did.

Within minutes, just as on this day, I would find one of my favourite
spots, lean back against a tree trunk and pull down my shorts. I was always
hard already, and loved to catch my iron spike in the waistband of my
pants, before letting it spring back up. It was actually a little too stiff
and small to allow it to slap against my belly if I was standing up, but
the twanging sensation was funny, and felt damned good.

I even remember where I wanked the day I met Jack. Well, that's not
actually entirely accurate - I know, because I wrote it down. At that age,
I was obsessed with recording my day, so each evening I would write notes
in a little diary. Of course, I didn't write things like "had a wank by the
old oak tree near the edge of the field", because I knew there was always a
chance my mum would read it, so I used a code. And I still have the diaries
now, so I can tell you that among other things on that day in July 1991, I
wrote: "Saw the boy with the football. He was in Mrs Brown's garden. I
think he is her grandson."  And I wrote: "Complete. Oak by field. No
stuff."  That, in the admittedly rather weak encryption of my youth, meant
that I'd had a wank by the oak next to the field (which meant I had been
feeling particularly daring, as you could usually be seen by dog walkers in
the field), and that I had made myself cum, though without discharge.

I had started recording every wank this way, and most of my entries by this
point began with `Complete', unless I was interrupted, which was also duly
noted. It would be October that year before I was able to write "Stuff! (v
little)" at the end of the record, and so I know that I was 12 years, 2
months and 13 days old the first time I had a wet orgasm. By that time, I
was also keeping a length and hairiness record, so I know that my dick was
just over three inches long, and though ringed by almost transparent fluff,
still without a hair to call its own. Those notes turned out to be a weird
little precursor of my scientific approach to life.

But as is so often the case in my writing, I'm getting somewhat ahead of
myself. Let's go back to that summer day. The wank was amazing, if I recall
correctly; a proper knee-trembler. That had nothing to do with having seen
Mrs Brown's grandson, you understand - my young mind didn't think that way,
at least not yet. But something weird did happen, even if I didn't quite
appreciate the significance of it at the time: the boy I'd seen, whose name
I still didn't know, came into my mind's eye as I was wanking. I assumed it
was simply because I'd seen him recently - after all, my brain tended to
throw up all sorts of images as I played with myself - but it was to end up
taking on a far greater significance in the coming weeks.

End of Chapter 1

zackmcnaught@hotmail.com