Date: Wed, 11 Aug 2010 13:54:02 +0000 From: Jeffrey Fletcher Subject: Chris and Michael Part 1. This is a story that involves a little sex between males of different ages. If such a story is offensive, or illegal for you to read where you live, then do not continue, go and surf elsewhere. This is a work of fiction and in no way draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. If there is any similarity to any real persons or events it is entirely coincidental. The work is copyrighted (c) by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author. My thanks to John and Brian who has read this through and made a number of corrections and suggestions. Any remaining errors, grammatical, spelling historical or whatever are entirely my fault. Thank you to those who have commented on my stories. If you want to comment on this story then do contact me on Jeffyrks@hotmail.com. CHRIS AND MICHAEL Chris and Michael. Part 1 Where an older and a younger male are involved it is sometimes difficult to say who was the seducer and who was seduced. Modern society always blames the older man, he is presumed to be old enough to know better, to resist, to say 'no'. There is some truth in that position, but often responsibility is far from one-sided. The truth is not always simple. If you talk to a man who was involved with an older man in his youth, and ask him who did the seducing, he may well give a laugh, knowing quite well he was to a greater or lesser extent responsible. Perhaps he was in a Public Convenience and an older man was there near him. He wanted to see the older guy's equipment and looked. The older guy saw the interest and did a slight turn to show what he'd got. The younger one then turned more, and their mutual desires were revealed. Perhaps he was standing near a school master, so close they were touching, a smile was exchanged, it was obvious they both enjoyed the physical contact and their mutual desire was revealed. Perhaps the youngster knew of a cruising area, and went along, saw an older man playing with his cock, and unzipped himself to show the older man what he had to offer. There are older men who abuse their positions of power. Schoolmasters with their pupils, scoutmasters with their scouts, choirmasters with their choristers, priests with their boy parishoners, the catalogue is long. Yet if you talk further and ask if those who were younger regreted what happened with the older man in the days of their youth, there are many who will say 'Yes, I do'; and they seem to bear scars for the rest of their life. But there are others, perhaps many others, who will firmly answer 'no'. Some even say that the relationship with the older man in their younger days was the best thing that happened to them in their youth, opening social doors and widening cultural horizons that may well have remained closed, and preparing them for life in a way that would never otherwise have been possible. That far more was involved and given by the older man than mere sexual experience. But, yes, there are others for whom it was abuse, who were scarred by what happened, often to find it to resurface painfully, even catastrophically, later in their life. That must always be remembered; there are those who are criminally guilty of sexual molestation and abuse. So let me tell you a story, an entirely fictional one in one sense, but made up from what ex-boys have told me in their present years of maturity. *-*-* The scene was a small preparatory school set in the rolling countryside of southern England. It was reckoned to be a good school by its academic and sporting results. The main building was an early Victorian mansion, built by a banker who had made a lot of money in the City. The stables and other outhouses had been converted into classrooms, a gymnasium and other facilities. There were seventy-five boys at the school. It was expensive. There were basically two sorts of parents. Some sent their sons because of the school's good reputation. Others sent their sons there because such a school got them off their hands for a large part of the year, and the large cheque that they had to make out at the beginning of each term salved their consciences and enabled them to think that they were doing what was best for their sons. At this school there was the headmaster, a man in his late forties, tall and distinguished looking, which gave parents a sense of confidence in entrusting their sons to the school. He was a mathematician, and taught maths to both the bottom and top classes in the school. He was assisted by his wife. She was a maternal figure, teaching the first class a variety of subjects, and dealing sympathetically with the usual bouts of homesickness and other more obvious ailments. There were four other assistant masters. There was also a school matron overlooking the care of the boys in more than just matters medical. The headmaster's secretary worked part time. Then there were a couple of cooks, the cleaners, and a groundsman who prepared and marked out the pitches for the various games. There was also a gardener and odd job man. It was basically a happy establishment. Chris Carstairs was a boy at the school. He had not come to the school as a seven year old, but entered the school when he was ten. He did not do at all well at his school work. Pages written by him were always untidy with crossings-out and all in an almost illegible scrawl. Chris's parents fell into the second category. His parents were separated, his mother having gone off with the professional at her tennis club. His father had the care of their son, but his work frequently took him abroad. Holidays were a real problem for Chris's father, he had neither the time nor the patience to deal with his son. He certainly showed him no affection. The bad reports that Chris brought home at the end of each term did not help. Chris's mother agreed, under protest, to look after her son for just one week during each holiday. She resented that time, and left the boy to his own devices for as much of the time as she could. It was not a happy situation for Chris. He felt unloved and unliked. There was another problem for him. His father was Anglo-Indian. Chris's skin was a slightly darker colour that that of his peers. He could be described in the racist and intolerant language of a more prejudiced previous age,as 'having a touch of the tar brush about him.' The headmaster was against the expression of any such prejudice and totally against all forms of bullying, but the staff were not around the whole time, and boys can be very cruel to boys. School for Chris Carstairs was, like almost the whole of the rest of his existence, something to be endured. He was not loved by either of his parents, not liked by many of his fellow pupils at the school, sometimes bullied, often teased, and his school work always fell below the standard expected of a boy of his age. Michael Goodyear was one of the assistant masters at the school. He was in his early thirties, a graduate of a provincial university, who wanted to teach in a private school where there was some freedom from the rules and red tape of the public sector. English was his subject, teaching both grammar and literature. He was also involved with the school's sporting activities, with cricket in the summer term and football in the other two. He was a house master, and had a couple of small rooms of his own, a combined sitting room and study, and a bedroom. There was a special assistant masters' bathroom with the usual facilities, but that involved going along a landing and corridor away from his rooms. Near to his room was a dormitory containing the beds for eight boys. He enjoyed the work with its small classes where individual tuition was a possibility. It really all began in an English lesson. Michael Goodyear had set the class an evening preparation [homework] of writing a short essay on 'Pets'. He had collected them the following day and sat marking them in his room. Chris Carstairs' essay was the usual mess to behold with a number of crossings out, and almost impossible to read. Michael persevered, and realised that buried in the visible and grammatical mess there were some good phrases. He wrote at the bottom of the essay. 'Good, I believe you have tried hard.' It was the first time he had ever put a 'good' on any work of Chris', and it was in fact the first 'good' Chris had ever received for any school work. He refrained from making his usual comment on tidiness and handwriting. Such comments he thought now fell into the category of 'vain repetition', and in danger of being counter-productive. At the English class the next day, he distributed the marked work to the boys with appropriate comments. "This was a good effort, Carstairs. Keep it up." As he handed Chris the exercise book he saw a look of happiness on the boy's face. It was the very first time he had seen that look. He gave Chris a smile in return. Such small encouragements can mean a lot to a schoolboy. Chris thought over the comment, and decided he liked Mr Goodyear, and would try to do better. When it came to the next essay a week later Chris had tried. It was not the total offence to the eyes of his usual work. Even the handwriting had improved slightly. Michael's comment at the foot of the page was "Good. You can do it." All through that autumn term Chris tried hard and did improve. It was not only in English. The Headmaster was heard to make a comment over morning coffee that Carstairs' had done some much improved work. "Perhaps we will succeed in doing something for that boy. I thought he was going to end up one of our gamma triple minuses." The autumn term passed and it was Christmas. Chris went back for a few days with his father. His father had a small but very comfortable apartment in central London. His school report had arrived with the Christmas mail. This was usually a painful matter, an angry father, followed by a very strained relationship for the next few days. Chris was in the same room as his father when the recognised envelope was opened. He sat watching with some trepidation. His father read the report, looked over at Chris, then read the report again. "I can hardly believe that this is your report, Christopher. I've even checked the name on it, wondering if I'd been sent some other boy's. English grammar and literature, 'A definite improvement, though hand writing still leaves much to be desired.' Mathematics, 'Has begun to approach the subject seriously, and his results are encouraging' French, 'Some slight improvement, though he needs to work hard at the grammar.' History, 'Good, asks some intelligent questions at times.' The housemaster's comment, [Michael Goodyear] 'This is a very encouraging report. If he continues to work hard then it will soon show in good examination results. With application could go far.' The Headmaster, 'Well done, Carstairs, keep it up.' "Well done, Chris. I'd given up expecting to receive a report like that. I think we should celebrate. Where would you like to go, a museum, the Tower of London, or where?" Chris looked at his father with surprise. His father had never volunteered to take him out. He usually sent him with the housekeeper or his chauffeur. "I would like to go to the Science Museum. Some of the boys at school have been and said that it's great." They went to the Science Museum, and both enjoyed it. Father and son started to talk. Mr Carstairs wanted to find out why his son had started working at school. Chris chatted on, talking about school, all that went on, and one name cropped up a number of times, - Mr Goodyear. "You like this Mr Goodyear don't you, Chris?" "Yes, father, he's great. He explains things well." There was a definite improvement in the relationship with his father. In the few days with his father the name of Mr Goodyear was mentioned every time Chris talked about school. The time Chris was with his mother was not so successful. He immediately felt unwanted. His father had told him to show his report to his mother. When he handed it to her she said she would read it later. Chris noticed that it remained unopened for the whole of his stay. His mother and 'Uncle Steven' spent their time playing golf or tennis, going to cocktail parties and out to dinner. Most of the time Chris was left behind to fend for himself under the eye of the staff, cook, maid, and a general man-about the-house. Chris was pleased when his stay in France came to an end, and for the first time he actually looked forward positively to returning to school, no longer regarding it as another part of the purgatory of existence. ** It may have been his Indian genes that caused Chris to feel and see the effects of the onset of puberty before most of his peers. Towards the end of the autumn term he had noticed that hair was appearing on his upper lip, and also a small patch close to his penis. He began to wake in the morning to find his penis hard, and had to think of school work to make it go limp before getting out of bed. He did not want those who shared the dormitory with him to notice. When he was in the showers he noticed a couple of his fellows, who were almost a year older than he, were showing the same thing. He knew the facts of life, but he was uncertain whether he first knew that from information passed around among the boys, or from the sex education lesson they had had a year before. But schoolboy smut and sex education had not prepared him for the feelings he was having, nor for such frequent schoolboy experiences as an erection early in the morning. The moustache had become more pronounced over the Christmas holidays, so much so that other boys noticed and were calling him a hairy ape, and the missing link. Michael Goodyear noticed and raised the matter with the Headmaster and the matron over staff coffee one morning. "Is there a school policy over boys showing the outward effects of the onset of puberty?" "What do you mean?" asked the Head. "I'm thinking of Carstairs. He needs a shave very soon. He's being teased by the other boys." "I don't want him teased, not when he is so much more settled into the life of the school and beginning to progress academically." "I don't think I'm the one to talk to him about shaving, do you?" asked the Matron, a middle aged maternal woman. The eyes of the Head and the Matron turned on Michael Goodyear. "It's really the job of his father, I suppose," added the Head, "but I doubt whether his father even noticed during the holiday." "You want me to take on the role of his Dad?" "I don't see why not," said the Head. Michael thought for a moment. "I suppose I could.......I could have a word with him, perhaps show him, he could use my shaving gear." "Why not? If you're happy, Michael." "I think that's an excellent idea," added Matron. "I don't think a morning a good time, everybody is rushing around at that time of the day. Could do it as a part of the washing and bedtime routine. I'll have a word with him, and I'll initiate him into the mysteries of shaving when most of his year have passed through the bathroom. Don't want a bevy of spectators do we?" At the end of the next class when he was taking Chris's form, Michael asked the boy to stay behind. This was usually for a sound telling off, and Chris looked apprehensive as he waited behind. "It's nothing to worry about, Carstairs, you're not on the carpet. I want to have a personal word." "Sir?" "You are growing up fast, and it is noticing." Chris had a puzzled look on his face. "I am thinking about the dark moustache you are rapidly growing." "Oh, that!" "And the comments from some of the other boys." The old look returned to Chris's face. "So, Carstairs. Shall we shave it all off?" Chris felt his upper lip. "Yes, but how?" "Has your Dad ever spoken to you about shaving?" Chris shook his head. "I'll show you how I do it, and watch over you while you shave yourself. I'm afraid I'm rather traditional and use a safety razor, rather than an electric razor. I think you feel better after it." "Thanks, Sir." "So shall we do it just before you go to bed tonight? You hang back in the washroom, and we'll wait until most of the others have gone back to the dorm, then we'll do it." Chris's face lit up. "Thanks, Sir." That evening when most of the other boys had returned to their dormitory Michael went along to the washroom with his shaving gear in his hand. Chris was cleaning his teeth. Matron who supervised this bedtime ritual was present. "The madding crowd are dispersing, I'll leave you two to it," she said. The three or four other boys who were present were all eyes and ears wondering what was going on. "Carstairs needs a shave." "I should say, hairy baboon." said one of the other boys. "Enough of that! He is becoming a man a little ahead of the rest of you, that's all. You'll be a hairy baboon within the next few months, remember that!" "Do you use a cut-throat, Sir?" "No, Donaldson, I do not. I wish I did because yours would be the first throat I would cut!" "Can we watch," asked Donaldson. "If you behave. I use soap and safety razor." Michael turned to Chris. "I'll show you how I do it, then you can do yourself." Michael wetted his face, rubbed the shaving stick on his face, and then with a brush worked up a lather. "The best brushes used to be made of badger's hair, but not these days." He then shaved himself. When he had finished he washed the brush and razor and dried his face. "The rest of you can get off to bed. Carstairs doesn't need a lot of spectators for his first shave." The others left, saying, "Goodnight, Sir." Chris Carstairs began to shave himself. He needed no guidance as he had watched Michael carefully. Soon he too was drying his face on his towel. "That looks better, Carstairs. Very good, you haven't cut yourself at all." He reached out and with the back of his forefinger stroked Chris's cheek. "Smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom." Chris's hand now felt his face. "Thanks, Sir." He looked at himself in the mirror. "And it looks better. Thanks Sir." Matron came into the room. "How's it gone? Oh, that's much better, Carstairs. Trouble is you'll soon need shaving again." "How soon, Sir?" "If you're like me, a week or ten days, but all too soon it will be every day. If your father uses an electric razor try that out, and see which you prefer. I'll tell you when you need another shave." "Thanks, Sir." They packed up their things and walked along to their rooms. Their ways parted, at the door to Michael's rooms. "Thank you, Sir, and good night." Michael saw the look of appreciation on Chris's face. It was a look he had not seen on the boy's face before. "Good night, Carstairs." He turned into his room thinking the boy was really quite pleasant, and attractive. *** A few nights later, Michael was asleep in bed. He heard a knock and the outer door to his sitting room open. He listened carefully, wondering what was going on. He was just about to investigate, when there was a knock on his bedroom door. "Come in." The door opened and the pyjama-clad figure of Chris Carstairs stood in the doorway. "Sir, Donaldson has been sick." "In the dorm?" "Yes, Sir." "All over the bed?" "No. It's all on the floor, and it smells awful." "Okay. I'll come." Chris continued to stand in the doorway. "Don't stand there gawping, I haven't anything on. Go back to the dorm while I put some clothes on." Carstairs turned away, with a grin on his face, and disappeared. Michael, got out of bed, and put on his pants and bathrobe. The smell of sick greeted him as he entered the dormitory. There was quite a quantity of sick spattered over the floor by Donaldson's bed. "I'm sorry, Sir." "That's all right, pity you couldn't have got to the bath room, but at least it is not all over the bed. I'll get a bucket and deal with it." He turned to Carstairs. "You stay here, and if he's sick again try to make sure it all ends up on the floor and not the bed." Michael knew where there was the necessary equipment to deal with the problem, and also a bottle of disinfectant. He was soon back in the dormitory and quickly dealt with the problem. He then went out to pour away the dirty liquid he had used to mop up the sick. There was now a very strong smell of disinfectant in the room. He left a pail by Donaldson's bed should he feel sick again. He beckoned to Carstairs to follow him out of the room. "That's really matron's job, but you did the right thing calling me. No point in waking more people than necessary. I don't know about you, but I'm wide awake now." "So am I." "So what say we have a cup of hot chocolate and then try to get some sleep?" "Yes, please, Sir," came the enthusiastic answer. It was a cold night, and there was now no heating in the room, but Michael had a small electric fire. He turned it on. "Sit down, and keep warm. I must fill this kettle with some water." He disappeared for a couple of minutes, before returning to make the hot chocolate. He pulled a chair closer to the fire. Soon the kettle boiled and the chocolate was made. Carstairs was looking round the room. "You've got a lot of books. Are they all for English?" "They are not all books for teaching you monsters if that's what you mean. Some are purely for pleasure." "Have you read them all?" "No, though I have probably read a part, at least, of most of them." "Do you prefer poetry or novels?" Michael thought for a moment. "I must confess I like reading novels more than poetry, though I feel it should be the other way round with me teaching English literature." "Who's your favourite author, Sir?" "Now that's hard to say. Not J.K.Rowling." "Oh," came the disappointed sigh from Chris. "I have read all the Harry Potter books, I have to keep up with what you boys are reading. They are very good, but not my preferred reading; but what do you like?" "I've read the Harry Potter books a couple of times. Somebody suggested that I try Lord of the Rings." "Now that's a tougher proposition." As they sipped their hot chocolate they talked about the merits of both the Harry Potter films and the books, and they relaxed. They began to feel warm. Michael did not at first notice that his bathrobe had slipped open, and the vent of his pants was open and part of his penis could be seen. Chris's eyes had seen the slowly opening bathrobe, and saw his first adult penis half revealed within. He wished he could see more, but then Michael followed where the boy's eyes were focused and realised what what happening. He pulled the bathrobe together, and closed his legs. "I don't think that is for your young eyes, do you?" "No Sir." But there was a broad grin on Carstairs' face. "If you've finished your chocolate I think we should be trying to get some shut-eye." They stood up, and moved towards the door. Michael opened the door. "Good night Carstairs, sleep well." He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Chris briefly put out an arm and gave his schoolmaster a gentle hug. "You did the right thing." "Thank you, Sir." "I think what's happened in here should be just between us, don't you?" Michael Goodyear was thinking of the hot chocolate, but Chris Carstairs was thinking of the open bathrobe. ** One of the tasks of a schoolmaster in a small preparatory school was to take games. In the first two terms of the school year this was football; [I believe this is called soccer on the Western side of the Atlantic!] Michael was the referee, Sometimes it was quite enjoyable, but at other times when a cold wet wind was blowing it was not so pleasant. The boys usually got covered in mud. After the game they would all troop back to the school, where everyone had a shower. Often on the walk back to the school most of the boys would rush back to get into the shower early, while a few others would walk back with the master involved. Three or four days after the night of Donaldson's sickness Chris was one of a group of five boys who walked the hundred or so yards back to the school. The talk was mainly about school affairs, with the usual schoolboy questions that they hoped would get the master concerned talking about something interesting. Michael's task also was seeing that all went well in the showers. Only when they were all clean and clothed back in their school uniforms could he go and have his shower. The shower room was a mass of noise, steam and naked boys. Naked pre-pubescent boys held no attraction for Michael. His first experiences had been as a maturing teenager at school. There had been further gay encounters while he was at University, and a very few since leaving college. There had certainly been none at the school, or anywhere near where he was working. When he arrived the shower room was at its most full. The first boys were beginning to think of getting dry and dressed, while the final party was stripping off their muddy clothes and plunging into the melee. Michael's job was to see that it did not degenerate into a brawl. He was not looking out for Chris Carstairs. Then from the back of the group he saw the boy. The boy turned his head, looked at him and grinned. He smiled back. There was a movement and he got a side view of the body of Chris. Chris now turned full frontal towards Michael, it was a movement obviously flaunting his nakedness. Chris looked down and his hand reached down and for the briefest of seconds held his cock and balls. He looked back up at Michael and smiled. There was a further movement among the other boys and Michael saw no more. But he had seen that there was quite a lot of hair around the pubic region of the boy. His cock was large for his age, might even have had a slight erection. His balls had descended. Michael turned away. What was the boy doing? What was he saying? There was something sexually attractive about the youngster. He felt a stirring in his groin. He smiled to himself, and moved a few steps away, where he could no longer see, or be seen by young Carstairs. He stood by the door into the main part of the school. The uniformed and clean boys began to go past him. Several of them made brief comments about the game. Then Carstairs came along. There was a broad grin on his face, as he looked fully at Michael. "Thank you for the game, Sir." And was that a wink also? ** That night they were both finding thoughts racing through their heads. Michael Goodyear could not get out of his mind what had happened in the showers. He kept seeing Chris stark naked, the water running all over him, with his hand lightly and quickly fondling his cock and balls, and then looking at him fully in the face with just the barest hint of sexual flaunting. Then there was that smile as he left the showers. Was there a hint of mutual conspiracy, of sexual yearning there? He had to admit that the boy was attractive, and attractive sexually. He was not pre-pubescent like the majority of the boys in the school. He was, at the least, rapidly approaching sexually maturity. Was the boy's cock getting hard? The boy's balls had descended. Were they already producing semen? No doubt Chris's Indian genes were making his body mature earlier than the majority of boys in this country at that age. Did Chris know the pleasures of mutual masturbation, so frequent among boys of that age? Did he even know the pleasures of masturbation? What would it be like to introduce a boy of that age into the joys of man to man sex? Michael's cock began to harden. But what of his position and his job? The consequences of anything happening between the two of them could be dire. He would lose his job, his reputation, get his name on the list of sexual offenders, and be facing the probability of prison. He turned over. The boy was attractive. The boy was wanting something. Michael knew something of Chris's background, an uncaring father, and an unloving mother. Looked after by a servant or two when he was in his father's care, and just not wanted when it came to his mother. Only over the last few months had one area of his life become bearable, and that was this school. Had the boy ever been loved? Did he know what it was to be held in the loving arms of another, to be kissed out of love, and not as a duty? He thought of holding Chris, of holding him close, showing him love, giving him a kiss, bodies pressing together. His cock hardened again. His hand went down to his groin. He gave in to his need, and soon his cock was producing a good load of semen in a convenient handkerchief. On the other side of the wall lay Chris. He was deliberately thinking of Mr Goodyear. A few nights before he had had that glimpse of part of that mature man cock. It was in its flaccid state. What would it be like when it was hard like his own one now? Did he produce that semen that had been alluded to in that sex lesson a few months ago? He wondered what it felt like to push his cock into the moist warm welcoming vagina of a woman. But he did not like that idea. What was wrong with him? Why was he thinking in this way of Mr Goodyear? It was wrong, it was unthinkable! But the thoughts were there. What did Mr Goodyear look like with no clothes on? Did his cock get hard, like his own one now? He thought of his hand reaching out to hold the master's cock. He thought it would be big, much much bigger than his own. It would be more hairy too. Would Mr Goodyear like to hold his cock? So he twisted and turned in his bed, and long after the subject of his longings had fallen asleep, he too fell asleep. It was two nights later in the early hours of the morning when Chris began to dream. Later when he tried to remember it he found it was only a hazy memory. There was a man, and they were pressed together. His cock was hard, pressing into the man. The man was holding him, stroking his head. Then the most wonderful sensation began to creep over him, centering on his groin .... and he woke up. His intitial reaction on waking was to regret the fact, wanting his dream to continue. His cock felt wonderful, his hand reached down to hold it, and to his horror his pyjamas felt wet. Not just the wet of perspiration but something more. It was slightly sticky. Had he wet the bed? Was he bleeding? There was a new and not unattractive smell coming from underneath the bed clothes. Panic! What should he do? He couldn't remember when he had last wet the bed. What would matron say? What renewed teasing he would receive if it was know he was a bedwetter. He dared not turn on the light to investigate, as that would have wakened the other boys in the dormitory. What should he do? He could not leave it all until morning. There was a little light through the open door, and through the drawn curtains; not enough to invstigate, but enough to see his way out of the dormitory. The thought of running away from the school even crossed his mind. There was only one person he could turn to in such a situation, and surely he would understand and know what to do – Mr Goodyear. Chris got out of bed, put the bedclothes back over any telltale stains, and made his way to the door of Mr Goodyear's study. Without any noise he opened the door, entered the room and shut the door. There was just enough light to see his way across to the bedroom door. He knocked. This time Michael Goodyear had not heard the outer door open, the knock on his bedroom door awoke him out of a deep sleep. "Yes, what is it?" The door opened. "Who is it?" Michael Goodyear felt for the light switch to his bedside lamp. The light was very bright shining into his eyes, and he could just make out the woe-begone figure of Chris in the door. "Sir, I think I've wet the bed, or something." "Something?" "It doesn't smell like wee. It smells different." "Let me see." Without thinking Michael swung his legs out of the bed, forgetting he was naked. His nakedness was flood-lit by the bedside lamp, and even in his anxious state Chris took it all in. Chris took a step closer, with a worried expression on his face but with his eyes on the adult cock in front of him. Michael realised where the boy was looking and quickly pulled part of the duvet over his crotch. He sniffed, and realised the strong smell of a youth's semen. "Congratulations, Carstairs." "Congratulations, Sir?" came the puzzled reply. "You have made another important step in becoming a man, alongside having to shave, and your voice beginning to break. You've had a nocturnal emission, commonly called a wet dream." "Sir?" "Your testicles, or balls as you boys probably call them, have started producing semen, or sperm, or seed, or spunk, or nowadays cum, whatever you boys call it.. You could now father a child, my boy." "Me, Sir?" "Yes, you're just a normal healthy young man. All men, certainly in their younger years, have wet dreams. Your balls are producing semen all the time. Most of it is passed out along with your urine, but sometimes the reservoir gets very full and nature's way of getting rid of the excess to give you a wet dream. Do you remember anything about the dream?" "A little." "A nice young girl in your arms?" With hesitation Chris replied. "No, Sir." "So what was the dream?" Chris blushed. "Come on, tell me." Michael smiled. "I'd rather not say." "Why not? Tell me." "Well, Sir......It wasn't a girl.....It was a man a grown man." "Oh!" It was now Michael's turn to blush. "Is that wrong?" "Not really. Though it may be significant." "In what way?" "Most men are attracted sexually to women. But there are some men who are attracted to other men. I don't believe that it is a matter of right or wrong, it is what is natural to each one." "So it's not a problem then?" "Not really." Michael reached out and with his hand lightly rubbed Chris's arm. To his surprise Chris took hold of Michael's hand and kissed it, in the middle of the palm. They looked at each other in surprise. "Sorry, Sir, I shouldn't have done that." "That's all right. You wanted to do it, I'm not angry. Is that how you feel about me?" "You've been good to me, Sir. It's because of you I like school more, and am working harder." He shivered. "You're getting cold. Take those trousers off, and I'll dry them" Without really thinking Michael added, "And hop into bed, before you get cold." Michael then realised he was in a predicament; he was covering his nakedness with the duvet, had invited Chris to get into bed, while he had to get out and deal with the damp pyjama trousers. He decide to make a quick move. He removed the duvet and very quickly placed it on the bed, and then grabbed his bath robe and put it on. Chris quickly took off his pyjama bottoms, and still with the top on he got into bed, but his eyes made sure he got an even better look at his naked school master. Michael went through into his sitting room, unplugged the electric fire and brought it back into the bedroom. He set up the pyjama trousers to dry in front of it. "That won't take very long." He sat down on the edge of the bed. He turned to Chris and smiled, the boy's big brown eyes were looking up at him. "Thank you, Sir. I'm beginning to feel warmer. Aren't you cold, Sir?" "I am near enough to the fire to keep warm, thanks." Chris snuggled down into bed, and put his body closer to Michael, who could feel him close through the duvet. "I can talk to you, Sir. I think you are the first grown up I feel I can talk to and be listened to." "Thanks, Chris. I appreciate that." It was the first time Michael had used the boys forename, and he smiled with pleasure. "Don't you talk to your parents?" "No. My father always thought I was a complete waste of time, until the last report. He was so surprised, and pleased, he took me to the Science Museum." "Hasn't he ever taken you out before?" "No. He leaves his man to take me out, and when I was younger an au pair girl." "Your parents are separated?" "Yes, Sir. My mother left my father a few years before I came here to school." "Who looked after you?" "The au pair girl and the chauffeur mostly when I was with my Dad. He's away a lot, working. After about a year or so I was sent here, so that meant I was looked after and taught during a large part of the year." "And school holidays?" "I usually spend a week with my mother. She lives down in the south of France now, with Uncle Steve. All they want to do is play golf or tennis, go to parties or dinners." "None of which are for you? So what do you do?" "Amuse myself. As I have got older I am allowed to go into the town a bit, but my mother is not really happy about it. Uncle Steve says she's got to let me grow up. I don't think he likes me. I don't think my mother likes me. She has to have me to keep up appearances, that's what my father says. "That doesn't sound much of a home life to me. How do the chauffeur and the au pair treat you?" " They just do what they are told. Holidays are dead boring, whether at Dad's or Mother's, " Chris looked at Michael with his big brown eyes, a lock of his black hair was almost into his eyes. Michael reached across and pushed the lock of hair back into place. "Thanks, Sir." He smiled. Michael's hand went back and gently stroked the side of Chris's face. The smile became broader, and this time there was a slight wriggle as the boy made himself even more comfortable. "Don't you love your mother?" "No. She doesn't love me. She doesn't like me." Then very quietly he added, "I love you more, Sir. I wish you were my father, or an uncle." "I wouldn't want to be your father. Too much of a responsibility." He paused for a moment. "I wouldn't mind being your uncle." "I really wish you were," said Chris wistfully. "I could take you to museums and show you around London." "That would be nice." He paused. "May I ask you a question, Sir?" Michael grinned. "You may ask, but I don't promise to answer." "You won't be cross?" "No, nor are you to be if I don't answer the question." There was a long pause. Michael wondered what was going to come. "Sir, do you have wet dreams?" "I don't think that's the question you should be asking me. What if I said I had one every night and you went and told every one in the school?" A hurt look came on to Chris's face. "I would never tell anyone about you, a thing like that." Michael looked into Chris's eyes and saw the hurt. "I don't think you would. I think I can trust you. I used to have them quite often, but not so often now. I'm getting older." "Thanks for telling me. I quite enjoyed the dream, but woke up just a moment too soon." Michael laughed. "I know. That is what happens with wet dreams. You seem to just miss something really enjoyable." Chris though for a moment. "I wish the dream had gone on for a few seconds more." "I expect you will have more." "And always miss something?" Michael thought carefully for a while. Chris's father would never do the necessary man to man talk. Perhaps Chris would learn things from other boys, in a smutty dirty way. Why should he not tell Chris? "There is a way of doing it to get more enjoyment." An eager to learn look came into the boy's eyes. "Have you ever heard the older boys talking about wanking, or tossing off?" "Once or twice, but I didn't know what they were talking about, and they shut up, and sent me away when they saw I was near." "Does your cock get hard?" "Sometimes I wake in the morning and it is hard." " Ever during the day?" "Sometimes in class. Even in your class. I'm sorry, Sir." Michael laughed as he remembered many inappropriate times when he had got a hard on. "Well, when you are alone, and find yourself thinking and wanting it, get your hard cock out, and hold it like this." He stuck out a finger and put his other hand round it and worked it up and down. Do that, and you will feel something wonderful happen, and cum, or spunk, semen, whatever you want to call it will shoot out. But have a handkerchief or some tissues ready. It can shoot quite a way. The correct term for doing that is masturbating:- possibly from manus the latin for hand, and stupare to defile, but most men just call it wanking." Chris was thoughtful taking it all in. "It feels nice?" "Most men find it great, and do it alone when they can't do anything with anyone else." He immediately realised he was possibly saying too much. "Anything else being making babies?" "Surely you were told something about all of this when you had one of the sex education lessons?" "Does the lady have a baby every time the man puts his," he paused for a moment, "his penis into the lady?" "No." "I don't want to put my penis into a lady." "Why's that?" "Mother and Uncle Steve are often doing it." "There you are, does your mother keep giving you half brothers and sisters?" "No. I'm not thinking clearly." "But how do you know they do it?" "I was sent out one afternoon, and came back soon as it began to rain. I heard strange noises upstairs and crept up to see what was happening. Their bedroom door was slightly open, and Uncle Steve had nothing on and was on top of mother, and she was groaning and asking for more." "Were you caught?" "No." Said with a broad grin. "Sir, do you wank?" "You are certainly asking some personal questions tonight." Again Michael paused before answering. "Yes, I do." "Often?" "Fairly often," "When was the last time?" Michael looked at Chris firmly. "Can I trust you not to let this out round the school tomorrow morning? Earlier tonight, before you came barging in." "Wish I'd been here to watch." "Oh you do, do you? I think these pyjama bottoms are now completely dry, and one school boy ought to be back in his bed." "Won't the bed clothes be wet with my cum?" "I should think they will have largely dried. There will probably be little or no mark in the morning." Slowly with great reluctance Chris got out of bed. He made sure he stood immediately in front of Michael as he put on his pyjama bottoms. "Good night, Sir. Thank you for telling me all those things. I won't tell anyone else. None of the rest of the boys really like me because of the colour of my skin, so I wouldn't dream of telling any of them." He walked to the door, turned and gave a little wave and disappeared. Michael continued to sit on the edge of his bed. Chris was a nice lad, and a very attractive one too. He hoped he hadn't gone too far. He turned off the fire, and got into bed. XX Jeffrey at Jeffyrks@hotmail.com