Date: Sun, 1 Mar 2015 10:53:30 +0100 From: Jon Kent Subject: FALLING IN LOVE AGAIN by JON KENT The following story is fiction, you might even say fantasy, and has been written to amuse, intrigue, entertain, divert and delight. It contains scenes of graphic inter-generational sex, including some instances of mild scat. If these are not to your taste, or if they are outlawed in your city, state, providence, country, or jurisdiction, read no further. Above all, if you have not yet reached the age of consent, read no further; it is not the intention of the site nor the writer to fill your head with dreams, desires and urges which, as yet, may be only vague and inchoate. There's lots of fun to be had on the Net; go and find what is appropriate for you. What would we do without NIFTY? It has served us so well for so many years that it is difficult to think of a world where we had no NIFTY to turn to when we need the wonders it has to offer. And, frankly, it performs a wonderful service by allowing us to release those desires in the safety of our own homes. NIFTY protects us and it protects others. It deserves not only our thanks but whatever donations we can afford. NIFTY belongs to all of us - let's support it. Please support the Nifty Archive: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html For the record, 'Falling In Love Again' is a substantially revised story of a piece I wrote for Nifty more than 10 years ago. This is what I wanted to write all these years ago. Only now did I have the courage and the talent to have another 'go' at it. FALLING IN LOVE AGAIN A sunny summer day - one of those hazy, crazy days of summer we all have in childhood -and I'm down on the rocky shore, paddling in the pools, chasing tiny crabs, licking the salty seaweed, and thrilling to the utter freedom of being alone. I'm breaking the cardinal rule, committing the cardinal sin: I'm down here on my own. Mum would kill me if she knew; kill me, extract a promise never to do it again, then hold me tightly in her arms, cuddle me until the sobbing died away until I'm let go to run around in utter freedom again. Alone on the rocky shore, until the man came. The man who showed me how to catch the crabs without being nipped, how to paddle safely in the shallows without my shorts being soaked -simple, take them off. When I grew tired, sun-bleached, skin hot and tender, he carried me into a golden cave that caught the shadows, and played fingers of lights across its walls as his fingers played across me. The man who held me in his arms, sat me in his lap, stroked me, and whispered things in my ear that made little or no sense, but that made my little penis go achingly hard before he even slipped his fingers inside my underpants and stroked me. The words I didn't understand; the feelings they thrilled me; and I still remember - can never forget - the heady mixture of tobacco and tweed, rum and sweat, and bristles sharp against tender skin. Deeper, darker smells when he slipped off his trousers, slid out of his underpants, and threw them alongside mine on the silent sands of the cave. He took my hand and wrapped it round his hugeness, my fingers couldn't touch, then raised the palm to my face and held it against my nose, my lips, my eyes as I drank in the intoxicating smells. How he slipped the hand between his legs, explored deeper, gave a grunt as he did whatever it was he was doing, then pressed his finger to my nose, my lips, until they opened and he let that big middle finger slide inside my mouth. Down it went again, back it came, in and out, in and out, again and again, until the smell and taste were of an unbearable richness. He slipped off my vest, laid me on the sand, so cool to my skin, knelt, placed a knee on either side of me, and ran his huge thing against my lips. "Don't close your eyes. Keep looking." So huge it was. His huge hairy balls resting on my upper chest. The head of his huge thing running against my lips. "Open your mouth, baby. Open your mouth. Open it for me. Come on, you'll like it." I opened my mouth. The man was gentle. He ran the head of his thing against the tip of my tongue, whispering, "Lick it, baby, just lick it. You'll like it." I licked it. I liked it. I'd never tasted anything like it before. I didn't have the words to describe it, even if some had asked me to. The taste was like nothing before, the texture of the skin was smooth but rough as I licked it, and he pushed a little more in. My mouth grew wide, like when the dentist asks for the biggest "Ah!" you can do. I felt it hit around the insides of my mouth, his hand was making it do that. I felt his body stiffen above me. Then the whispered words: "Wait, baby, wait." I felt him crawl up my body using a knee on either side till his bum was right above my face. None of this made any sense. I closed my eyes tightly. I sensed rather than saw him pull his cheeks wide apart. He must have lowered himself. I was enveloped in a deeper, darker world than I'd ever known. The deep, dark smells again, way beyond any smells I could make. I screwed my eyes tightly shut but I couldn't keep the smells out. I sensed rather than felt his knees rocking his body above me; heard the strange slurpy slappy sounds; heard his groan as if he'd been stabbed in the back, his body rigid above me. I felt myself being lifted up, my legs dangling, opened my eyes to find myself balanced on a rock. "It's a game, baby. It's a game. You'll like it." If it was wrong, I had no way of knowing. I felt safe, secure and wanted. And if his lips ran over my chest, my tummy, inside my thighs, to those secret tender places, it made him happy at no cost to me. I snuggled deep into his chest as he held me and made my senses tingle, made my skin goose-bump, and my twig stand hot and hard till it jerked between his lips, exploding like sugary sherbet. though there was no sherbet, no pee, just blinding bliss. Then he took me down to the water. Washed me, Washed himself. We lay in the sun. I fell asleep. When I woke, my clothes were back on, and they, like me, were bone dry. I was tired, so very tired. I went home, fell fast asleep on my bed, and dreamed no dreams, but the smells stayed with me -they still do. The kaleidoscope spins and this time I am the man hearing the voice of the boy: "You owe me a massage, sir," and there is a note in his voice that tells me exactly what he means, though not quite what he wants. Joseph is 12, tall for his years, not heavily built but with the elegant muscularity of a gymnast. Deep chest, narrow waist, rounded buttocks, long legs, and a face that is already more handsome than cute. In the youngers section of the House, home to sixty boys between 7 and 13, he effortlessly dominates his year group: what Joseph says goes, what Joseph wants he gets, and what Joseph wants now is a massage. For several weeks I've been giving Joseph massages in the privacy of my study room. He has stretched his elegant body along the carpet while I massaged his neck, his shoulders, his back, my hands sliding lower and lower until I reached the globes of his buttocks. Squeezing, kneading, massaging and manipulating the firm flesh beneath my fingers. Then turning him over to let me palms slide under his sports vest, massage his chest, focusing on his nipples, before letting them slide over the flatness of his belly, edging just under the tops of his trousers, jeans or short. Always drawing back just before the line of no return is reached, but pulling the skin with me so he feels the tightness on his pubis. Drawing back because once a line is crossed there is no return. Joseph has had enough, he wants more, and he wants it this afternoon. He is stretched out on the rug by the couch. Strong eyebrows over large, wide-set eyes. Thick golden brown hair that flopped over one eye. He looks up at me, into my eyes, fearlessly, and whispers: "I like having a hard-on." None of the boys in the House has ever used this word before, has ever used what they know to be a forbidden word in my hearing, but now Joseph, looking into my eyes, states a simple truth: "I like having a hard-on," and I know the moment of decision has come. I slide to the carpet and kneel between the legs of a beautiful boyn who has just whispered, "I like having a hard-on." The evidence of his erection is obvious. I ran my fingers its length. The line has been crossed. We both know there is only one place left to go. Joseph stretches out on the Persian rug, flicks nack his hair, cups his head in his hands, and then sighs as if to say "at last". Has he had sex before? I doubt it. Does he know what to expect? I doubt it. But he trusts me. Lying there, he seems so vulnerable, so young, so innocent, so anxious, so determined. The bulge is clearly discernible through well-worn denim jeans. My fingers trace the denim on either side, fingers that have massaged his chest, shoulders and neck for half an hour, fingers that have kneaded and moulded his back, fingers that have clenched and unclenched on his denim-guarded buttocks. My finger tips trace the innocent, satin skin of his stomach, the line where denim meets. skin, where snow white cotton peaked out from under the slate-blue jeans. My right palm slides over his stomach, down over his belt, onto the bulge, and presses against the flesh, hot and hard beneath the denim. Even then I could stop, I could draw back, I could retreat into my role as teacher, master, mentor, man to the boy. I look into Joseph's eyes and see the storms of desire, gold-flecks amongst the hazel. I hear his sigh, feel his fingers My thumbs flicked open the buckle of his snake belt. My thumbs grasped the edges of his jeans and worked them down and over his hips. Joseph raises his hips high as I work his jeans down his knees. His underpants are those I'd expect a six-year-old to wear. I am surprised; Joseph seems the most sophisticated boy in his Year if not in the House, but perhaps this is the impression created by his cut-glass accent and self-assured carriage. His underpants are purple with small yellow ducklings printed across them. The outline of his stiff cock makes it obvious the boy is not six years old. And, as I run my lips its length, I feel it stiffen and harden even more till it stretches the think fabric even as I soak it with my spit. I feel the boy's fingers wriggling near my face. I realise what he is doing. He is pushing down his underpants. He is impatient to feel skin against skin, flesh against flesh, my lips against his pulsing penis. I raise my head to let him free himself, open my mouth and let him slide in. My head begins to bob above his tummy. My lips tighten and slacken as I draw him in, draw him deep, then let him slide almost out. The boy is fucking my mouth; it is instinctive; his hips rise and fall from the carpet to press deeply in until I'm able to swallow his balls too, hold his complete genitals in my mouth, pressing gently but insistently on the flesh. As he rises, my hand slides under his bum. At first I'm not sure how far he will let me go, but as he pushes rhythmically into my mouth and throat, I realise he doesn't care what I - at least till now. My fingers edge between his cheeks, feeling the heat increase until the tip of my middle finger is against his anus. For a while the muscle resists, then with the equivalent of a sigh, it surrenders and opens, and my finger slips in to the first knuckle. I'm tempted to drive it in deeper but I don't want to hurt or scare him. Gently, gently, until he gives himself to me because he wants to, because he needs to. Joseph is fucking my mouth. His increasing intensity tells me he will orgasm soon, though I doubt he can 'cum' yet, but you never can tell. He may be ready but I am not. I raise my head, I let him slide from my mouth, he tries to slide back in but I close my lips. I hear a little grunt of frustration as I slide away from him, turn alongside him, then gently edge the boy over onto his front. As he turns, he looks at me questioningly out of those wide hazel eyes. I raise my eyebrows and he turns over, resting his face on his elbows. His jeans and underpants are at his knees. The boy is not sure what my intentions are, and, to be honest, neither am I. I seem to be acting on instinct. I gently prise open the cheeks of his buttocks - millimetre by millimetre. There's the thrill of discovery, the thrill of the forbidden, but I don't want to scare the boy, so I'm giving the chance to clench his buttocks and warn me away. But he doesn't, and I can see my goal. It's a tiny starfish, slightly discoloured at the centre of ivory-cream skin. I press the tip of my middle finger against it, draw the tip back and forth on the miniscule serration, and move my face closer. Can Joseph feel my warm breath on it? Would he feel the tip of my......? The tip of my tongue is touching the tiny centre. I have gone too far. There is no way back now. I know the men around me might appreciate the attraction a 12-year-old boy has for me. Fondling, naive kissing, even masturbation might be acceptable - even if it meant instant dismissal - my adult tongue licking his juvenile anus? No, far too far. For them that's dirty, unnatural, unforgivable. For Joseph? I don't know. His rhythmic breathing tells me nothing. Panic strikes. With as much dignity as I can manage, I raise myself from the floor. Joseph rolls onto his back. He looks up at me, questions in those mesmerising hazel eyes. "Must be nearly Prep time," I gruffly announce. But I reach down to give him a hand up, then kneel to draw up his underpants and his jeans. I try not to but I can help myself. Before zipping him up, I lean forward and kiss the erection below his underpants. I'm rewaded by a smile. "Can we have football after Prep?" he asks. "Yes, I don't see why not. Go downstairs, ring the bell for Prep. Pass the word: football after Prep." Joseph grins. Leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. Then turning, slips out of the door. I collapse on the sofa. I realise I'm trembling, shaking, sweating. I'm not taking Prep., so there's plenty of time before I ref a House football game. Time for a shower. Time for a G&T - make that a double. Time for... my erect cock is aching. The quicker under the shower the better. But he kissed me. The boy kissed me. I spent the next few hours in ecstasy and dread. I'd crossed the line. I'd undressed a 12-year-old boy, I'd sucked his cock, licked and kissed his anus. Whether any of it had been at his invitation was neither here nor there, at least in the eyes of the school and of the law. He was a boy, a minor, and he was in my trust, and, according to them, I'd betrayed it. At least I didn't sit there rationalising; I knew what I was doing, I'd made the decision. But, oh, the ecstasy. After the football game, after dinner, after free time, showers, bed time, I sat in my room playing images in my head over and over. Those wide-set hazel eyes. The curve of the eyebrows. The auburn hair. The perfect nose, the perfect skin. The elongated, slim but powerful body. Nipples like raisins. The smooth flow of the torso, curvature of the tummy, and the bones of those hips as they slide down to the flat pubis - hairless, smooth, silk, with Joseph's erection straining towards his belly button. Three to four inches, the solidity of the shaft, the foreskin that slipped so easily back over the slick head with its single eye demanding to be kissed. But, oh, the dread. The knock at the door. The polite request: the Headmaster would like to see you in his study, please. The long walk down to the main house. The shame. No, not shame, that would be a lie. The embarrassment. The humilitation of sitting there thinking, "I did it because I wouldn't to. I did it because I couldn't resist the beauty, and, yes, the sensuous sexuality of the boy. And, yes, I would do it again. I'd like to go back to the House, call Joseph to my room. Suck him silly. Kiss, lick and suck his anus. Then fuck him silly. And send him and me to bed happy." It would all be so polite, so pleasant, so civilised, almost sympathetic, for how many men in boys' school would like to fuck at least some of the boys silly, night after night. What a selection! What paradise! That's what often made them such great teachers of boys - the unspoken, unadmitted, even unconscious bond between man and boy. The boy wants sex, and doesn't much care where he gets it; the man wants sex, and he cares where he gets it. That's why he puts up with all those long years of isolation, incarceration, separation from the adult world. To share the lives of the boys, forever and ever, Ah boys! I was wondering if, like Mr. Chips, I would pass away as a stream of boys passed before me, tipping their caps, smiling, and saying: "Goodbye, Mr. C. Thanks for hot fuck," when the knock came at the door. They say your heart leaps into your mouth; it doesn't; but it fucking well feels as if it has. It must have been around 10.30, bit late for the Headmaster, or his emissary to be calling. Why had he waited so long - to let me sweat it out? "Come in." Joseph came in. He was in his pyjamas. Off white with blue vertical stripes. They were a bit frayed and battered. They didn't cover his ankles. He was the tallest boy in the House. The rope belt hung down over his crotch, the tassles bouncing against an erection. Few of the boys kept on their underpants at night. "Well, Joseph, it's good to see you. But it's a little late to come calling." The boy took two steps forward. I'd never noticed how big his feet were. Shapely but big. Where were his slippers? He could splinters in the corridor. Such are the concerns of a Housemaster (assistant). "Got a headache, sir. It's throbbing. I can't get to sleep." The boy had my sympathy. "Isn't Matron in?" (I knew she wasn't. It was her night off.) "It's her night off, sir. She won't before midnight. And she'll be..." His voice tailed away. We both knew how Matron would be on her night off. "Okay," I said. "I'll make up a Lemsip for you." "It's not that kind of headache, sir." In recollection, what amazed me about Joseph was his ability to look right into one's eyes and maintain the contact even when he knew I knew what he meant. He took two steps forward. He was standing inches from me. My eyes level with his chest as I sat on the couch. I reached forward and undid the tie of the pyjamas. They slid to the carpet. His erection, his stiffy, even looked as if it was aching. I slipped one palm underneath his balls - unlike many boys in the House his balls had fully dropped and swung in their sac - leaned forward and ran my tongue up and down his shaft. I could feel it throb beneath my lips. I slid my lips over the head, pushed down the foreskin, and ran them round the glans. I ran my free hand over his pubic area - flat and smooth as ivory - across his tummy, up his chest, to tweak each nipple in turn. I felt the boy's hands either side of my head, pushing himself deeper into my mouth, and regulating the speed at which I was fellating him. As I've mentioned, Joseph found it easy to take command. My other hand slipped round his bum so that I could squeeze those luscious cheeks. His legs began to tremble, and I wondered if he would be able to ejaculate semen into my mouth, my throat, my stomach. "Can you do some of the other thing, please, sir?" For a moment I was puzzled? The other thing? Reluctantly, I felt him slide from my mouth. I looked up. The boy was blushing. This was another first. I'd never seen Joseph blushing before. "Oh, the other thing?" "Yes, please, sir." I stood up, shift my erection to a more comfortable position, took hold of Joseph's hips and turned him round, gave his back a gentle push, and he bent double, resting his head on the back of the couch. I slid to my knees and urged him to open his legs wide before I opened his cheeks as wide as I could without causing him too much strain. Every boy in the House has a shower every night before bed. Few sights are more stimulating that twenty or boys, naked, dripping, soap-sudded, cavorting in the showers - no cubicles, everything open to all. Laughing, making jokes, pointing at each other's 'willies' - "Look! Tim's got a hard-on! Look! Robert is getting hairs! Look at Robin! Bet he'd like a butt-fuck!" But no matter how much they scrub and soap, they still smell - hamsterish. Like a freshly cleaned hamster cage, different soaps adding personal scents to each boy. There were times I had to leave the shower area as I felt myself getting light-headed as well as randy as an in-heat jack rabbit. I could have kneeled in front of Joseph's arse till morning, just gazing in awe and wonder, but my tongue wanted more. Again the thrill of running the tip of my tongue over the tiny anus. I wondered how significant a shit could escape from anything so small, so beautiful. And this time I knew I could peel open those tiny lips and my tongue tip fractionally inside. The smell hit me. No, not smell, that's too crude a word. The scent hit me, enveloped me, literally made shivers down my spine. Joseph's anus was slippery, as if he hadn't wiped himself properly, and I was surprised how easily my middle finger slipped inside him. He grunted and pushed himself backwards, sending the message I wanted. This affair had all started with body massages, now I could reach up inside his anal column and massage its walls with my fingers. I did. This increased the smell tenfold. "Faster, sir, harder, sir." I heard the boy's voice from far away. I did what he asked. Could I get my finger deep in his rectum? Could I locate and massage his prostate gland - small as it might be? I finger-fucked the boy faster, harder, the slippery sweat letting me fuck him even faster, even harder. Suddenly Joseph's legs trembled, shook as if he had the palsy, and he fell forward face-first onto the couch, his arse bobbing backwards and forwards on my finger. The boy was cumming. I got my free hand round his front, my fingers round his hard-on, drove his foreskin back and forward over the head, whipped him round, opened my mouth and let him shoot whatever he had into my mouth. I slid my finger from his bum, stood up, and looked down at the amazing sight of a semi-naked twelve-year-old boy crumpled on my couch. For a moment I was sick with worry. Then Joseph stood up. Hauled his pyjamas up and threw himself backwards onto the couch. Red in the face but laughing. Laughing. "That was great, sir, that was great." There was a silence, but it was my silence, not the boy's. "May I have that Lemsip now?" he asked. "I really have got a teeny weeny headache. I didn't just come here for the... massage." He laughed again. I made a Lemsip for Joseph, and a gin&tonic for myself. We sat together on the couch, sat and sipped and chatted and gossiped - mainly about the hockey tournament on Saturday (Joseph is Captain of Hockey) but also about..... oh, I can't remember. What was important, and still amazes me, is how self-confident, self-assured but not cocky, good-humoured the boy was. Not a trace of shame, not a trace of regret. If there was to be any of that, he was leaving it to the adult, to me. Around 11.30 I grew firm. "Time for bed, Joseph, and no argument. Get your sweet little ass - " (the boys loved Americanisms) "out of here and into bed. And no playing with yourself. Too much of that and you'll go blind. Not much use having a hockey captain who can't see the puck." Joseph rose. Stood over me a moment. Leaned down and kissed me on the lips. "Thanks, sir. Thanks for the Lemsip. Thanks for the... massage." A smile and he was gone. Now here's the thing. Joseph and I never had sex again, nor did he ask me for a massage, and it wasn't until a few months later I understood why. Nothing else had changed in our relationship. He remained friendly and fun, kind and considerate, a leader amongst boys, but even though I sent out a few gentle signals that I was available, he didn't respond. Which was fine. We settled down to the predictable life of a boarding house, which, on a day to day basis, ran itself on automatic pilot. But I did discover why. It was a lazy Sunday morning after church. An exeat weekend when the majority of boys, including Joseph, were up and away. I was strethed out on my couch, Leo stretched alongside me. I ran my fingers under his T-shirt, marvelling at the satin smoothness of his skins and the lightness of his bones. Like many boys at 11 years old, Leo felt unbelievably light, as fragile as a bird or a kitten, though Leo was a tough little rugby player with the face of an angel. We were passing the time before lunch. I gently open and closed Leo's legs, watching the shape of the small bulge beneath his sports shorts. "With Robert, defo. Ben, too. Not so sure about Jason, but I know Joseph will get round to him." "And you?" I smiled. "Has Joseph got round to you yet?" "No," said Leo, an indignant note in his voice. Joseph and I have been at the same school since we were five. His mum and dad are abroad. He stays with us a lot of the time. Joseph and I don't..." Leo paused and gave the matter some thought. "It would make things too - complicated." "I see," I said, and I did. Small fingers tugged at my zip. "Before lunch?" I laughed. "An aperitif," laughed Leo, whose parents owned one of the most renowned restaurants (two Michelin stars) in London. I swung my hips round to make things easy for Leo. He slid down my body. I knew he would take his time. Life is good, I thought to myself. A lazy Sumday morning. only half a dozen boys in the House. Leo liked to take his time. He would nurse my cock with his fingers, lips, mouth, taking me to the edge again and again, before racing to the finish line and I would spurt again and again into his mouth. I wriggled my down down the back of his shorts, his underpants, to let my middle finger tip caress his love button. I'd ease my finger deep inside, then find a rhythm to match the boy's. Yes, life was good. What I remember about Joseph is his voice. Though not broken, it seemed deeper and richer than the boys around him, and his diction was flawless. Completely natural, completely flawless. And it was this voice that was calling me: "I like having a hard-on, I really do." And the seasons they go round and round Let's call him Dean Dean is sitting in my study-bedroom in the boarding house for the Senior Boys. The boarding house is an old, dilapidated extension of the manor house that holds the main school here, somewhere, as the used to say, in the south of England. Manor House is a private school, an independent school, a rip-off that 'caters for' the sons of professional families from all over the world. I sometimes sit in this room and wonder how the fuck I ended up nowhere, at the back of beyond, right slap bang in the middle of nowhere. I love it. Being Housemaster to the Senior Boys is a dawdle. We came to an understanding early on: they do not drink alcohol before my very eyes, they dispose of the bottles off-school, they do no fug up the place with the smell of tobacco or cannabis, and they most not take the slightest of anything that happens in my rooms. Someone said 'Happiness is a warm gun'. So it is, as long as it isn't pointing at someone's brains. My gun didn't point at theirs; theirs didn't point at mine. Result happiness for all. We of the Senior House had little to do with the Junior House, who, anyway, had their own resident pedophile. Even I was staggered on the few occasions I visit the juniors to find their Housemaster stretched out on a mattress in his bedroom surrounded by small boys, drinking in his tall tales, eyes watering at the incense, if it was incense, that hung in the room. Dean bunked in the Junior House but otherwise spent most of his time in class, on the sports field, or in the Senior House, where he had several friends and was accepted by everyone, though not permitted to drink or dope in which he had no interest. Dean is 14 and has pubic hair; ipso facto, he is of no interest to his housemaster. He interests me. Dean is sitting in my study-bedroom. It is late September, a Sunday afternoon. We have been out on the soccer field. Dean is my goal keeper. I'm taking pot shots at goal. I'm expert at hitting the ball above his head so he has to rise and tipit over the crossbar. As he rises, he reveals an expanse of skin kissed by his long hot summer in Turkey, where the family have lived for a few years. His skin is so beautiful I'm paralysed by the need to see, touch and kiss it. Does Dean suspect? At the time I would have said no - now I'm not so sure. Did I seduce Dean or did he seduce me? I hope it was mutual seduction. We've been cassette tapes to each other. Dean is dressed in his denim 'uniform' - jeans and battletop studded with badges. He loves my company and I love his. Our conversation wanders across the continents; his father is CEO of a major Turkish-Canadian company; Dean has lived in four of the five continents. Our conversation strays to what the boy in the Junior House do, and Dean takes us on to what they do at bedtime - how horny they are, who jerks off in bed, who is shy and goes to the toilets, which boys their housemaster fancies most. "Sometimes I get so horny, I wouldn't care..." Dean leaves the sentence unfinished. His eyes drop to the bulge in his jeans. He tells me about the manager of the London hotel where he stops overnight before flying home to Istanbul. "The guy's a homo," laughs Dean, "but I don't give a shit about that. He's always giving me treats. I'm not stupid. I know he's trying to seduce me. What the fuck. I just wish he'd get on with it." The boy squeezes his legs together - "You know how it is." "Look," I say, "don't do anything stupid. You don't really know anything about the man." "I know," Dean smiles, and pushes his hips towards me. I gulp, yes, I actually gulp. I lean forward and let my fingers run across the tight denim of his jeans. The palm of my hand slides towards his crotch, my fingers define the shape of his erection. Pull my hand away. "Continue." It is not a request, it is an imperative. And a strange choice of word. Not "Go on," or "Please," but "Continue." Moments later I am kneeling between the boy's legs, his denims are wide open, his boxers pushed down his knees. I am holding his thick cock which bends slightly to the left. His cock is around six inches in length, very thick, set in a bush of thick, silky, dirty brown and golden hair. His balls are big and press the column of his cock up towards me. His foreskin is loose and slides back over the slick, wet head. The smell is intoxicating... sweat, urine, pre-cum. I slide my lips down the shaft. Tighten then. Begin sliding my lips up and down, taking almost all of the boy into my mouth, my throat, till my lips brush his pubic hair. I hold there for a few moments, raise my lips, then thrust them to his base again. I feel his hands grip my shoulders - and tighten till it hurts. The boy lasts all of thirty seconds. Then his legs are shuddering, shaking, as his arse lifts from the chair. Two - three - four thick spurts hit the back of my throat. I gulp him down. He pushes my mouth away from his cock. I look up. His head is thrown back, eyes closed. Gently I lick away the last of the cum before it drips on his jeans. He looks down at me. He is laughing: "Wow! Fucking wow! "Did you like that?" I ask. He grins at the stupidity of my question. "Look at that." He shows me his hands. They are still clenched in tight fists. He is breathing heavily. "I never thought..." he begins. "Shit, this isn't comfortable," he continues. Dean stands, hobbles backwards and lets himself fall onto my narrow bed. His legs are raised for me to yank his denims off. I push his shirt up past his nipples. He is a well-built boy with skin like old ivory, hot to my lips as they brush over his body, chest, nipples, stomach, thighs. He pushes himself towards me, eager for what... "Do you want to...? Dean doesn't wait to hear the question; he knows what it is. "I can come three or four times in a row," he laughs. I bend over him again. I lower my head. Then on impulse I roll him over onto his front. He lays his head comfortably on the pillow. I slide down his body and prise open his buttocks. I breathe in a rich, pungent smell. Dean hasn't showered yet. I use my thumbs to prise his cheeks wider. Creamy skin gives way to the light brown circle round his anus. The skin is wet, slippery, sweaty. I use my thumbs to to dig deeper. I see the deep pink within. I lower my lips, fasten them round the hole and begin to suck. Dean grunts and jumps. He turns his head to me. He is frowning. "I've never been fucked," he whispers. "I don't want to fuck you," I say. "Then what're you doing? I haven't even had a shower." I can see how embarrassed the boy is. I lean forward and kiss him on the forehead and whisper, "Dean, every little bit of you is beautiful to me... and I mean every bit." He looks confused. I turn him over. He settles on his back, his head nestling on the pillow, eyes closed. I push his shirt up to his neck and make love to his body. He has prominent nipples; I nurse on them for a while. My lips slip down to his genitals; my mouth engulfs his cock. He is as hard as the first time and comes within thirty seconds. He groans and stretches. Opens his eyes. "Give me ten minutes and I can cum again," he tells me. I laugh and say, "Get your clothes on, you dirty little fucker... I can hear the boys coming back." "Fuck them," laughs Dean, and then with a grin adds: "No, sir. Fuck me - next time." Later we talking things over. Throughout our year together, Dean and I are always able to talk things over together. "I've never done anything like that before," he says. "I just wanted to do it with you. Fucking horny, I guess. I'm not a homo. At least I don't think I'm a homo. I don't want to do stuff with any of the boys in the dorm, or with any of them..." He nods in the direction of the Senior Boys beyond the door. "Or with any of the other teachers. Just with you. I don't know why it's this way... it just is." For the young that's the way it is. Things just are or they aren't. And Dean says something I've never forgotten: "Sir, can I say something? I'll say it anyway. Don't go on fucking guilt trip. I mean, don't try to get rid of me just cos you feel guilty about what we're. I don't. So it's great if you don't. In fact, it will be fucking boring if you do." (pause) "And, sir, can we be friends? Shit, I know we can't be friends out there, around the school, I mean, but here, when it's just us. Please, sir, can we, sir?" Dean doesn't wait for an answer; he knows what it is. He lies back on the narrow bed and pushes his underpants to his knees again. "I can come three or four times in a row," he laughs. I bend over him again. I lower my head. Then on impulse I roll him over onto his front. He lays his head comfortably on the pillow. I slide down his body and prise open his buttocks. I breathe in a rich, pungent smell. Dean hasn't showered yet. I use my thumbs to prise his cheeks wider. Creamy skin gives way to the light brown circle round his anus. The skin is wet, slippery, sweaty. I use my thumbs to to dig deeper. I see the deep pink within. I lower my lips, fasten them round the hole and begin to suck. Dean grunts and jumps. He turns. He looks at me. He is frowning. "I've never been fucked," he whispers. "I don't want to fuck you," I say. "Then what're you doing? I haven't even had a shower." I can see how embarrassed the boy is. I lean forward and kiss him on the forehead and whisper, "Dean, every little bit of you is beautiful to me... and I mean every bit." He looks confused. I turn him over. He settles on his back, his head nestling on the pillow, eyes closed. I push his shirt up to his neck and make love to his body. He has prominent nipples; I nurse on them for a while. My lips slip down to his genitals; my mouth engulfs his cock. He is as hard as the first time and comes within thirty seconds. He groans and stretches. Opens his eyes. "Give me ten minutes and I can cum again," he tells me. I laugh and say, "Get your clothes on, you dirty little fucker... I can hear the boys coming back." "Fuck them," laughs Dean, and then with a grin adds: "No, sir. Fuck me - next time." And there is a next time, lots of next times till the last time comes and I finally fuck him. Our last time together. The last Friday of the school year. Next day we'll all be on our way until September. But I won't be back in September. Again I've found it too claustrophobic. And too dangerous, both for me and for Dean. The bubble's going to burst sometime. The senior boys in the House cannot not know. It doesn't seem to be a problem for them, and, if anything, they accept and welcome Dean even more readily - he's that kind of kid. But what's going on in the Junior House can't go on. It's going to end in an explosion of shame and blame, and I don't want to be there when it happens. If what Dean tells me is true - and of course it is - there's kids being fucked over there in the Junior House, and when I say 'kids' I mean kids. I won't be unhappy when the explosion comes; I just don't want to be there when it does. The final Friday. Our last time together. The House is empty. The Farewell Disco is underway; the beat booming across the small wood that separates us from the Manor House. It will go on late, very late. 'My' boys will come back drunk, stoned, ready to collapse into bed, if they can make it that far. I'll be there to tuck them in. But I'm not on duty and, to be honest, I'm not sure if I can spend an evening so close to Dean, and yet unable to reach out and touch him. My bedroom door swings open. Dean stands on the threshold. He steps into the room, swaying a bit. He has walked out of the disco, and his way through the wood, and here he is. I get ready to make him a very large mug of coffee. He lets himself fall uninvited onto the bed; it's a long time since Dean needed an invitation. "How do you want me?" he asks. "You can fuck me if you want." Moments later Dean is lying on his front scanning a porno mag I brought him from Amsterdam. It's a fucking hetero mag! It's what he wanted; it's what he got. I'm lying between his legs, my face jammed between his buttocks, my middle finger sawing its way past his anus into his rectum. His hole is wonderfully sweaty, greasy. The alcohol has relaxed him, so soon my digit finger and it's neighbour are fucking him with only the occasional moan from the boy. Only when I add my middle finger to them does Dean protest: "Take it easy, sir. Never done this before." I remove my fingers and place my lips over his arse hole, kissing, sucking, then pushing, probing, penetrating with my stiffened tongue. I can't believe it when half of tongue slips past his sphincters and I rest a minute, as much for myself as for the boy. Why am I so hungry to get as deep inside this boy as I can? What's this fascination with his anus, his rectum, his deep inside? Freudians have their theories, but at that moment theory is the last thing on my mind. Dean has a large, well-muscled bottom, not fat but solid in its presence. I push my tongue in harder, deeper until I imagine I'm licking the inner flesh of his rectum... but a tongue can only do so much. I roll from the bed, rip off my jeans and briefs, mount the bed, knees either side of Dean's buttocks, spread them, and press the swollen head of my cock against his hole. Getting that first entry isn't easy, and I can hear from his moans it isn't easy for Dean either, but bravely he pushes his bum back in an unspoken word that says: "Continue". My thumbs hold him open as much as they can. I lean forward and apply forward and slightly upward pressure. Suddenly I'm in! Or at least the head is, and I rest again letting Dean get used to my invading flesh. The urgency in both of us increases. I lay my chest down onto his back, inch forward, the shaft of my cock entering him millimetre by millimetre... until... my legs are locked round the boy's buttocks, my pubic hair is pressed flat against him, and my cock is buried deep inside him. I rest, think of the innver vision, of the boy's red flesh wrapped round my erection, the head o my cock brushing against the walls of his rectum. From far away I hear, "Fuck... fuck... fuck..." but is a cry of desire and pain as I begin to speed my thrusting in and out of the boy. He is thrusting back. He doesn't want to lose me, I don't want to lose him, will we ever be this close again. I'm sure I took longer than thirty seconds but not much longer. I felt I was blacking out. My hips out of control as I frantically pumped cum inside him. I hadn't masturbated that week, and now every last squirt was shooting inside the boy beneath me. From not so far away, I heard moaning, groaning, grunting, garbled sound that might have been words - were they from me, or the boy, or both of us: "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" I lay there for a few minutes. Dean seemed comfortable beneath me. Then I slid myself out. Rolled over alongside him. He turned over to lie alongiside me. I risked a look at those wonderful hazel eyes - wet, glazed, distant - but the grin said all is well, and more than well. Then a frown darkened the boy's face. For a moment panic. "Sorry, sir, I think came....." And he did. All over the sheets below. But who gave a fuck? It was the end of the school year. And I imagine the laundry who did the school's sheets were familiar with fabric crusted with semen. I laughed and hugged the boy... and he kissed me. He held me tight and he kissed me full on the mouth. And when I opened my mouth he stuck in his tongue. And we french-kissed like beginners for the next few minutes. The first and last time. The first kiss. The last kiss. The never-to-be-forgotten fuck and kiss. The last time I saw Dean was Saturday afternoon. In a public park that served the small town that served our school. Hewas lying there surrounded by boys and girls his own age. He was smoking a joint, passing it round. Just another teenager lying in a park on a warm afternoon in June, sharing a joint and his life with other teenagers, just the way it should be. I saluted them with a smile, a wave and went on my way. I was an adult; they were kids; there was no place for me amongst them. All was as it should be. Our paths had crossed, met, and then separated as we continued our separate journeys. I still have the Year Book. There's Dean with his classmates, smiling out at a world in which he was entirely comfortable. Dean, my Canadian explorer and adventurer, who knew how to give as much as he took. He is with me - always. Spin the bottle and it's Luigi. And what I'm doing with Luigi is skinny-dipping with Luigi on a blistering summer afternoon is skinny-dipping in the outdoor pool when everyone has gone off in the coach shopping, and I've been left behind while the rest of the Italian group has gone off in the coach shopping - and here I am with crazy, beautiful Luigi. And there he is, with me, swimming naked, in the back-garden pool, frolicking like a baby dolphin, climbing on my shoulders, then diving headfirst into the water's sparkling embrace. And I'm embarrassed to feel my cock rising hot and hard as he wriggles underwater between my legs. Luigi, with his shoulder-length corn-coloured hair, green eyes, perfect teeth, and smile that has escaped from a TV commercial. Luigi, whose English is so fractured it is difficult to determine when he's switched from Italian into the language he's come to England to learn. Damn it! Don't tell me I'm a pedophile. Just let me enjoy Luigi for what he is - a beautiful, crazy Italian boy having a great time with me in the pool. And out of the pool he climbs, butt white in the tanning sun, to sprint into the house. Proibito! He hasn't even tried to find his towel. Just out of the pool across the lawn and into the house. The carpet! I'll get my ass kicked, or my wrist slapped by the boss when the coach get backs. I'm 19. I should be able to control a 10-year-old Italian kid. I climb from the pool, grab a towel, give myself a perfunctory rubdown, and stride into the house after him. "Luigi! Luigi!" Where the fuck is he? Up the stairs. Check the boys' dorms. The toilets. The broom cupboards. No Luigi. My room. There he is, stretched across my double bed, legs hanging over the edge, splayed out on the green bed spread, lying on his back, holding above his face a copy of 'The Beano' and laughing at the Bash Street Kids. God, but he is beautiful. Skin-kissed by the Italian sun. Shoulders broad for his age though he is close to being skinny. Cream-coloured chest topped by the cherries of his nipples. His stomach so flat there could only be five inches in depth. The dimples of his thighs carved by Donatello. Long legs, big feet, long toes. His genitals curled up like... Not quite. Luigi has an erection. A hard on. His stiff dick rises like ivory asparagus about the tiny sac lying between the join of his legs. Long legs that bend at the knee as his toes brush back and forth across the carpet. Reading 'The Beano' with an erection, or at least looking at the pictures. He laughed and his hard penis, around three inches in length, wobbling in time with his laughter. I sit beside him, slop off my towel and slip it under his wet hair. I lean over and kiss his belly button. Tiny kisses. Flutters of tiny kisses. The boy smells of chlorine and sweat. I run my lips across his tummy, up his chest, into his armpits as smooth as a chalice, and down to the forbidden lands again. Pressure on the back of my head. Luigi is pushing my head downwards. This is crazy. This is impossible. This boy is ten years old. He's from one the richest families in northern Italy. I know we have developed a close, a special relationship over the past two weeks, but what signals have I given off that have led to this? My mouth slides over his stiff penis, lower still to take in his small sac and balls. I hold them there till I feel saliva fill my mouth and I begin to gag. I release his balls and concentrate of making love with my lips to his erection. My hand edges his legs open till I can slip it between the cheeks of his arse. Deeper still till my middle finger is sliding over his tiny anus. I finger it with the tip of my finger but apply no pressure. My free hand reaches up Luigi's chest, strokes his lips, his mouth opens and let a finger slip in. The boy sucks on my finger as I slobber on his erection and gently stroke his anal opening. Suddenly Luigi's head jerks to the side to release my finger. I hear his high, unbroken voice. My Italian is poor but I recognise the words: "Bagno! Bagno! Doccia! Doccia!" Luigi wants to have a shower, and he wants to have it with me! He springs from the bed, grabs my hand and hauls me in the direction of the bathroom. We both have erections! This is insane... but it's exhilarating. I've never showered with a pre-teen boy before. But what the Hell. It's summer and there's a first time for everything. So into my bathroom we go. I turn on the shower, keeping in lukewarm. Luigi stands there, arms raised high above his head, face raised, the water bouncing from him in tiny fountains. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I take handful of shampoo and lather his hair, run my soap fingers down his body, reach his buttocks, slip to my knees, spread his cheeks and my soapy fingertips against his anus. The old obsession, addiction, has me again. I could spend forever on my knees, but, though Luigi is wriggling and giggling, he has other ideas. The boy turns to me. His penis is flops against his sac. He grabs it, and while I'm still on my knees, points it at me and starts pissing! Pissing right at me! On me! Now let's get something straight: I have no interest in piss, either my own or anybody else's. But I'm not taking this from a ten-year-old. And the lukewarm water has done it. My bladder is full, my cock not so hard I can't piss. I raise it like a small firehose, aim it at the boy and let him have it. And there we are: man and boy pissing at each other. Laughing, giggling, having fun. It can't last. Not only the piss, but the situation. Noises in the drive. Coach crunching over gravel. Voices squabbling. The Italians are back. I grab Luigi. Pick him up. Half carry him to the boys' dorm and stick him in THEIR showers. I return to my own, turn on the hot full blast, until the witness of my lust subsides, and, prayerfully, the smell of man-boy piss is gone. I dry myself, sort of, drag on jeans and T-shirt, and hop downstairs to greet the weary shoppers. Two minutes later Luigi comes bounding down the stairs, three at a time. Frayed blue jeans, Mickey Mouse braces, no shirt, no socks, no shoes. That was close, so close, too close. But close to what? Catastrophe or ecstasy? Depression or delight? Self-knowledge or self-denial? That summer I did not find out. I surrendered to the joy of being with Luigi as his friend, his teacher, but never his lover. No shadows, no complications, just one of the Italian boys, the crazy, beautiful Italian boys. And I was 19, and still, in many ways, the crazy boy I'd been not so long before. I was 12. I was late out of school. I'd been kept in back in detention by some sadistic bastard who'd driven away in the falling darkness while I ran along the lane in the pelting rain towards the bus station. The bus had gone. Half an hour to wait. Rain bouncing like hailstones from the tin roof of the shelter. Only the station toilets sent out a beacon of light in the gathering gloom. I made my way into its shiny tiled comfort. I only half needed a piss, and the slight pressure in my bowels could wait till I got home. At least it would pass a couple of minutes. There were two urinals with a tiny partition between them. I stood at one fishing my penis out of my thin grey flannel trousers. It was half hard and pleasantly warm. The door behind me swung open, then closed. A man took the urinal next to mine. I kept my head down. I tried to focus on the wet tiles, but my eyes betrayed me and slid to the left. Wow! He was big, and he was making little effort to hide it. I jerked my eyes away, they slid back, the piss was squirting from him in an almost continuous flow. It was beautiful. Shit - was I sick or what? Between my own fingers I felt my own dick thicken, harden and stretch to a fullness through which I could never hope to piss. The man half turned to me. He edged me backwards, I hardly resisted, edged me backwards into the single cubicle. The back of my knees bounced against the toilet seat. Reflexively I sat down, then risked glancing up. The man was about thirty years old. Dark-haired,strong eyebrows, straight nose, cheekbones, good-looking. Good-looking! Yes, he was! And wearing what looked like expensive clothes. "I won't do anything you don't want me to do," he whispered. His voice was low, dark and warm. His penis, his cock, his dick. Shit - it was huge. Hard and huge. It looked tanned though the head sticking out from the foreskin looked a mixture of brown and purple. And, like him, it was beautiful. Don't do anything you don't want to do. That meant to anything you want to do. And I knew what I wanted to do. I raised my hand and fitted my fingers round his shaft. Shit! My fingers hardly touched. It was hard and soft at the same, warm, satiny, slippery. Pointing it right at my face. At my mouth. I flicked my tongue out and licked the head. Shit! Was I crazy or something? I knew people did that. I knew prostitutes, fallen angels as my mum called them, did that to men for money. I even knew that gay men had their own way of having sex. I knew that some men liked to do things to boys. But here I was, sitting on a toilet seat, in the bus station toilets, in my full school uniform, licking a man's erection. I'd done it before - to Alan, my best friend - the same age as me. But this was a man, a full-grown man, and that's who I wanted to do it to. Even if I didn't know it then, I know it now. I was a boy and I wanted a man. "Do what you want," came the whisper above me. Go on. So I did. I let the head of his cock slide into my mouth till the tipped touched the roof of my mouth. Then I adjusted my mouth until his cock was sliding in and out like a huge stick of Brighton rock you've just started and you think you'll never finish. My lips slid up and down theshaft, a bit of an exaggeration since I could only take in about half of the hot hard shaft. Sometimes I let it slide out and pressed its length along my cheek. The pressure felt wonderful, but, to tell you the truth, it was the smell I loved. You can't describe the smell to anyone who hasn't experienced it. You might as well describe a rose to a blind man. It was the smell of a man, of a man in heat, of a man who had the hots for me. It was me who was exciting him, me who was arousing him, me who had taken possession of him. And I wanted him as much as he wanted me. I slid my spare hand under his balls. They hung heavy and low. I wanted to feel their weight, feel their texture, feel the dark hairs brush against my hand. My fingers slide past his balls to his crack, and he shuffled his feet wider. The man moaned! He fucking well moaned! And he moaned for me! I'd been scared. Maybe he didn't want me to touch him there. Maybe I was being too forward, or even dirty, in seeking out his most private place. I put the tips of two fingers against his hole, not that easy to find as they wriggled through the dense hair, but I found it! The entrance to King Solomon's mines and I had found it. The opening was hot, sweat-slick, and hot. Do whatever you want? Go for it! I brought my fingers back, raised them to my mouth, let his dick slide out for a few moments, slid my fingers in my mouth and sucked them. Bliss! Okay, I'm crazy. Twelve years old. A grammar school boy from a good family. And I'm sitting on a toilet seat in the bus station sucking two fingers that I'd just removed from a grown man's arse. Crazy! I'm not even going to try and describe the thrill, the terror, the ecstasy of holding a grown man's hard cock in my mouth, letting it slide in and out as he held my head. I heard his moans high above me. I felt his cock push deeper and deeper into me, until I gagged. He withdrew. I insisted. He invaded my throat again and again. His cock seemed to swell, even thicker, suddenly it exploding, spurt after spurt, deep into the back of my throat. Too much, too much, and still I wanted more. So much that my mouth couldn't hold it all, and it came squeezing out of the sides, through my swollen lips, until I was coughing, choking, still trying to lick and swallow every last drop. It was the man who had to push me away from him. He stood me up. Turned me round. Gently pushed my head towards the urinal. His hands reached round me and undid my belt, my zip, lowered my school trousers, my underpants. For a moment I panicked. I'd never been fucked. I didn't want fucked. Not here. Not now. His hand came round my mouth. His voice whispered in my ear: "Don't worry, don't worry. I'm not going to fuck you. Don't worry. You'll like it." Don't ask me why, but I trusted him. I felt my white school shirt being flipped over my back. I blushed all over. He was looking at my bare arse. He dropped to his knees. "He must be staring my arse straight in the face!" I felt his fingers open my cheeks. Then he was kissing my base bum, all over, even the inaide of my buttocks. Then something wet and warm was tickling my hole. Jesus Christ! He was licking and tickling my hole with the tip of his tongue. Now he was kissing it! His lips were fastened to my hole. He was pulling the hole open, gently, with his finger tips, He was sucking at my - What do you call it? - my anus. The man was sucking my anus and my legs were shaking. Then the tip of his tongue was inside me, and I panicked again. I needed a shit. I'm not stupid. I know where shit comes from. There was a hard shit up my arse. If he pushed his tongue any further, he was bound to feel it. His tongue would tuch my turd. I tried to tell him but the words stuck in my throat, and, to be strictly honest, I wanted it. God knows why, but I wanted it to happen. But too embarrassing, way too embarrasing. I tried to pull my arse away from him. "It's okay. Just let it happen. Just let go." I couldn't. I just couldn't. Maybe I managed to say something. I don't know. But suddenly he was standing up, turning me round, pulling up my trousers and underpants. Doing the zip. Tucking my shirt in, just like my mother used to do - still did. Then he was driving me home. A BMW! And he was driving me home. Driving me home and telling me what a wonderful, silly little fucker I was. Having sex with a stranger. Swallowing what he called his cum. Getting in a car with a bloody stranger. Didn't I have any more sense than that? Fucking hell, it was like getting told off at school. But the man was smiling at the same time, stroking my hair, tracing my cheek with his fingers, showing me where his 'cum' had splattered onto my school shirt. Thank god for that; at least I'd be able to dump it into the laundry basket as soon as I got home. Stick it under the tap first. Soak it. Tell mum it got soaked in the rain. Silly little fucker. Yes, that was me. But not that silly. I gave the man a false name. Leo. I gave him a false telephone number. I told him to let me off on a street two away from my own road. I went hopping and jumping and skipping home in the rain, half worried I'd end up pregnant, and half worried that I was stupid enough to believe a boy could get pregnant. But I was elated, yes! I wanted something, and I had got it. I had made a man love me, not only love me, but take a desperate risk to show his love. well, at least his desire. The cubicle door in the toilet didn't even lock, was half off its hinges, and I'd sucked off a grown-man when, at any moment, anyone could have walked in! I'd let him lick my arse, my hole, my anus. Let him lick my turd, well nearly. The night I couldn't wait to bed. I lay there playing with myself, bring myself to the edge then back off again and again. I couldn't keep the images out of my head, especially the man kneeling behind me, my shirt tails over my naked back, his lips kissing all over my bum, kissing my hole, sucking my anus. I imagined a turd up my jacksie making its way down until he could touch it with the tip of his tongue. It was disgusting. Fascinating. Repulsive, Thrilling. What if it had come all the way down? Would he have wrapped his lips around it? Let it slide into his mouth like a big brown cock. The more I thought about it, the more I couldn't leave the idea alone. I got out of bed. The house was quiet and dark. I sat on the toilet. I'd been so excited by what had happened I'd forgotten to take a shit when I came home. Now I let the turd make it way down the chute. I didn't try to hurry it along; it was unbelievably exciting to make it last. Finally gravity did the job and it plopped itno the water with a splash. I stood up, wiped my arse and looked in the pan. There it was. A really biggie. Just floating innocently. I pulled the lever. The water thundered into the bowl snatching my turd in a whirpool and swirling it away to the sea, or wherever turds go. I felt a little sad; it was like losing a friend. I nipped back to bed, stuck the middle finger of my left hand up my arse as far as it would go while wanking furiously with my right hand. I exploded, saw stars, and shit a rope of cum straight up my belly. I'd never come like that before. I pulled my pyjama bottoms up to soak up the cum the best they could. I made a mental note to bury them in the laundry load in the morning. I rolled over on my left side and fell sound asleep. I slept the sleep of the happily dead. I have got lots of photos of me from that year, school photos, summer photos, Christmas photos. God, I'm just a baby! Twelve years old and looking about ten. Not a hair round my dick, but checking most mornings, praying for them to show up, and praying for a man to come along who wanted me as much as the man in the bus toilets. I had to wait more than a year for the right man to come along - but it was worth it. Crazy, crazy - beautiful and crazy! I was 13. It was Christmas. The house for once was empty except for me and Dan who was one of those people you call 'cousin' though you're not quite sure if he really is a relative. The house empty. Everyone had gone to visit grandmother - mum's mum - and I'd invented a headache to stay behind praying Dan would stay to keep me company. Dan was gay, you see. 'Gay' isn't a word we used in those days but I don't like the word 'homosexual' - there's no fun in it. Of course nobody mentioned Dan was gay; it was just one of those things you heard about. But I hoped he was because I knew I was. Dan was 17. Handsome, movie star handsome. And he was fun. We were playing 'Truth or Dare' combined with 'Spin the Bottle'. Every time Dan lost, he let me have a couple of sips of cherry brandy. The stuff made me light-headed and a lot more daring. Dan put on some music. Do I remember what it was? Will I ever forget? It was 'Unchained Melody', one of my mum's favourites, and I dared Dan to dance with me. Let the music play in your head. One moment we were sitting on the carpet, next we were dancing a slow dance, body to body, skin to skin, my head resting somewhere underneath Dan's chin. It didn't take long. As usual our house was over-heated. Outside snow was falling, drifting down through the street light. We both had on T-shirts and shorts. One hand stroked my hair - I wore it shoulder-length at the time - the pressed my buttocks as he swayed against me in time to the music. His lips were on mine, our mouths opened, his tongue tasted cherry brandy. Then we were on the carpet, naked except for our socks. I was on top of him, taking him into my mouth as he took me into his. Dan had thick black hair down there, not on his chest, but down there, black and silky. It tickled my nose. I felt like sneezing but knew that would be cheeky. I felt him grow harder as the head of his cock moved through the foreskin and tiuched the back of my throat. I inhaled smells of soap and sweat, of unamed sex smells as his cock eased back and forth in my mouth. I tightened my lips, then relaxed them, I sucked fast, then slow. Alan and I had had lots of practice. I felt Dan's tongue run from my scrotum backwards towards my most private place. I gulped, almost bit him, prayed for more. I felt the hot tip of his tongue press against my bum hole, my anus, probe and push its way in. I think I sighed out loud even with my mouth bulging. U2 were rocking in time to our motions: I need your love, I need your lu-u-v, I need your lu-u-u-uv... Every nerve in my tectum seemed to rush towards his tongue as it pushed, probed and wormed its way into me. Too much, it was too much to bear. I pushed him away, swung myself round to lie beside him, keeping my lips round his hard-on, and sucked, my head moving up and down, taking in as much as I could without choking. Suddenly I felt it, a rush, a squirt, a spurt inside my mouth and throat, again and again. I kept my lips tightly round his shaft and swallowed as best I could... "hunger for your touch a long and lonely time..." I held on as he pulsed himself into me. I opened my eyes and felt more than saw his stiff cock slowly draw back into itself, leaving a big silvery drop hanging where the foreskin had folded itself up like a flower as evening fell. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth: I both tasted and smelled the after-taste of toasted salted almonds. Dan pulled up and held me against, running his tongue over my eyebrows and closed eyelids. I couldn't open my eyes; I was ashamed, but I wasn't sure of what I was ashamed. Certainly not of the sex; I loved that. But maybe ashamed that I wasn't enough for him, that I was only a boy, only 13, with a boy's cock - small compared to his - and no muscles, and only a patch of hair, a baby, still a baby. I felt his breath on my ear, heard his whisper: "Tell me what you want. Just tell me what you want." And I whispered back and told him what I wanted. He rolled over on his front. Folded his arms and laid his head on them. I could hardly breathe. I slipped down between his legs. Urged him to open them. Knelt between them Placed a palm on each muscular cheek and pushed them apart. There it was. Not hairy as I'd expected. But the starfish at the middle was much bigger than mine, the skin browner. I leaned forward, stuck out my tongue and ran it along the serrated lips. At last I was doing it. Up and down, round and round ran the tip of my tongue. I prised the little lips apart. I wanted to see inside. It sounds crazy but I wanted to be inside. The smells that rose up made me feel faint. I couldn't get enough of them. I leaned in and began to suck at the little mouth, trying to fasten my lips against his. I wish I could say I got my tongue inside but I couldn't and I didn't. For a moment I wished Dan would take a shit, a huge shit, so that his hole would open wide and I..... I crawled back up his body. I whispered to him. Sex things, dirty things. I whispered: "Put it inside me. You can put it inside me. If you want. I want it inside me." I was almost crying. He held me tightly while he pushed a finger against my anus, trying to slip it into my rectum; my body betrayed me, resisted, contracted. Dan raised his fingers to my mouth. I sucked his digit and middle fingers together. He pressed again, and down there I opened, slowly, until he could slide in two fingers, then three. I'd been fucking myself with a home-made dildo for months, a home-made dildo smeared with facecream, but this was the real thing, and I wanted it, no matter how much it hurt. I bit my lip to stop from crying out. Dan moved them around, opening me, to widen me. Pain, dull then sharp sliced through me. "Tell me if it hurts too much," he whispered. I said nothing. Stretched out on my back. Lifted and swung my legs over his shoulders, closed my eyes and tried to relax. "God speed your love to me..." I felt his stiff cock against my hole. He began to push and withdraw gently. I felt the sphincters give way, felt the head bludgeon its way in. Excruciating pain, and I wanted more. I was unable to speak; I was impaled and felt his cock slide into me deeper and deeper. He asked if I was all right, and I pushed my arse harder against him, sliding more of him into me. Nothing mattered except what was happening everywhere and nowhere in my body. "I'll be coming home, wait for me." Dan stopped. I opened my eyes and frowned. "Do it," I hissed. I clasped my legs round his back and humped him best I could. From behind closed eyelids I saw stars spatter my eyelids, the universe exploding in a million pinpoints of light. I thought I could feel him thicken and pulse inside me. His hair tickled the inside of my buttocks. He was cumming, cumming, cumming. No! That was me! I was spurting hard against his belly, and for a moment I felt ashamed again. What would Dan think? A little boy who couldn't even hold in his own... And Dan was cumming, too. And I thought of the million trillion zillion little spermy-Dans swimming in my bowels. I fainted. I know I fainted because Dan told me later. Because for a few moments he was sick with worry. Then, he says, I stirred, opened my eyes, wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him to me. Cherry brandy kisses, kisses sweeter than wine. "Oh, my love, my darling, I hunger for your touch." We showered together, in the hot and splashy water. Dan checked my anus to see if there was any damage. Just a little. He put some cream inside my with his middle finger, and I started to hump it. Dirty little bugger, he laughed. Then we dressed in woollies and anoraks, went outside and build the hugest snowman you could ever imagine. I know it was a Snow-man, not a Snow-woman, because it had Snow-balls! Dan died that Spring. In Sri Lanka. An accident, they told me. He was doing a GAP year before university. He wrote me every week. I've still got everyletter. And every time I hear Unchained Melody I cry - "lonely rivers flow to the sea." That Christmas I gave Dan so much more than my virginity, and Dan gave me more than he'll ever know: the courage to be myself. Another Christmas - another 13-year-old boy - an older me. How can I convey the immediacy of Michael? Michael is 13. Michael is cute. That's not a word I use often but there's no other word that fits the bill. Michael is cute, close to being girl-pretty, but there's enough of the boy in Michael to keep that epithet at bay Michael has thick dark hair. Sometimes it's shaggy. Then his mum hacks it a bit but there's not much she can do to stop it being the kind of hair you want to run your fingers through, and flick away the hair that hangs over the boy's left eye. Is that how it started? Me walking Michael to school some mornings, and flicking the hair from his eyes as we walked up the narrow dirt path alongside the cemetery. The dirt path, fenced on one side, thick bushes on the other. And Michael hanging around at the entrance to the path so we could walk the half mile or so together. On cold mornings his ivory skin glows with a red flush. His lips are bee-stung. He has thick eyelashes, those double eyelashes some say are wasted on a boy. His features are regular,teeth straight and true, though they could use regular brushing. His shirt is usually grubby, his school uniform shabby, his shoes wrong for the winter weather. Michael walks with me to school though he isn't in any of my classes. He enjoys my company; he seems to have little around the school. Michael is the archetypal loner. Michael's family are poor and weird. The day that Michael was born, so he tells me, his father announced he wanted to be a woman and be the mother of the family. He put on a dress, a wig, and a few years later had 'the operation', as Michael puts it. He left the family when Michael was eight, and access to the family is now barred. Michael has a step-dad who seems to be a rotten shit. Example: a few days before Christmas he came into the boy's bedroom and announced: "Know what you're getting for Christmas - nuthin. Well, not nuthin, cos you're gonna get a surprise but you won't like it." It's easy to see that Michael is upset and shaken. He claims his step-dad doesn't abuse him, says Michael, but he's just rotten to him. The boy doesn't want to tell anyone else about his home life, just me, and he swears me to secrecy. It is clear he wants to be with someone, and the someone he wants to be with is me. It all rattles around in my head; Michael is a lovely boy, I am attracted to him, but, as they say, there be dragons in that land. A few days before the Christmas break we are walking home. Michael has ambushed me at the top of the path. It's no big deal, everyone knows this is the way I stroll to and from school. We reach the centre of town. "Lots of people know that. I'm the only teacher who lives in the centre of the town. And you live in Albert Street, which is... just over there." (We live about half a mile away from each other.) "My house is empty till 7," says Michael. "They've gone Christmas shopping. I can't watch TV even." I know the family has to hide the TV when the TV licence detector van is in the area. They have no licence. Sometimes they even have no TV when the step-dad pawns it, says Michael. "And the house is cold." Michael pauses, then adds: "There's penguins in my bedroom." He says this absolutely straight-faced. His dry humour is one of several things about the boy I find attractive. Michael's eyes are huge in the Christmas lights. His skin glows, his breath rises in misty vapours. "I'd like to see your house," he adds. "I promise I won't tell. I know how to keep secrets." I do not investigate what it is that Michael won't tell. I sigh and say come on then. We cut through the alley and within four minutes we are home. The central heating is already on, the house is very warm, the Christmas tree, the lights, the decorations, the size of the house seem magical to the boy. I heat Christmas punch for us both, and sort out some shortbread. Michael snuggles down on the huge sofa running the length of an entire wall. He sips the punch, nibbles the shortbread, and sighs: "I wish you could be my step-dad," he says, more to himself than to me. "I'm still a bit young for that," I smile. "Well, you could be my older brother. You could look after me." I break the promise I made to myself. I get up, sit beside him, put my arm round him. He snuggles into me. Our bodies touch, our faces centimetres apart, his eyes are shining, I feel myself begin to stiffen. I excuse myself and head for the bathroom behind the utility room. "Back in a mo'," I hear myself whisper. I am standing in front of the toilet, holding myself, watching the piss splash down into the bowl. There is a shuffle of feet and Michael is standing behind me. "Can't wait," he whispers. He unzip and fishes himself out with a struggle. I hear him tinkle into the bowl. I try not to look but I am only human. Like me, Michael appears to be semi-tumescent, his penis is surprisingly long and thick, he has pulled back the foreskin. The skin is a brownish ivory, the head a purply cream, the shaft is true and straight. Like the rest of him, Michael's penis is beautiful. "You've got a big one," he says. "Pardon." "You've got a big one," he repeats, "much bigger than mine. Look." I'm taken aback. Michael sounds so confident, so sure of himself, and there is a smile in his voice. "I bet I could hardly get my fingers round yours." I'm stunned, even more so when his fingers close around the shaft of my cock. They feel so warm, they feel so right. As the last trickle dies away, he shakes it for me. He is finished, too, but he makes no attempt to slide his back into his trousers. "Can I? Please, please?" he asks, and before I can work things out, Michael is seated on the toilet, holding my stiffening prick only inches from his face, from those red lips. "Please, please?" He opens my belt and gently eases my trousers to my knees, then draws down my underpants, making sure my cock is released from the opening. I am so hard now that it aches. Michael pushes up my shirt so it is round my waist. He leans into me and presses his face against my erection. I am absolutely stunned, absolutely horny. Michael is masturbating me now, openly masturbating me. "My daddy likes this," he says. "My real dad. He used to like it, I mean. I mean. I liked it. I'm good at it." He leans forward and slides his free hand between my legs, between and under till his fingers are deep in my crack. "I'll stop if you want," he whispers. "Just tell me what to do. I'll stop if you want, but I don't want to. Really I don't." I push the boy away. I stand up. He looks scared. Terrified. I put my arm around him, tell him it's okay, but not here, not in the bathroom. A time-shift of maybe ten minutes. Michael and I are lying on my double bed. The bed lamps are dim, the music low. We are both naked. He is cuddled deep in my arms. I can see my hardened semen glisten on his chin, his neck and his chest. I can feel his hot hard penis press against my stomach. I never intended any of this, but here we are. I am immensely happy and immensely terrified. But Michael, well, if boys could purr, Michael would be purring. There is movement and he is scrambles up my body. He kneels astride my chest. He smiles down at me. My hands are around his buttocks. I gently urge him further up and forward - his pubic hair is black and thick. His erection touches my lips. I flick out my tongue and tease the head of his cock. He is very aroused - his foreskin is rolled back. His boy smells are intoxicating. I pull him further forward and hear him sigh as he sinks his penis into my hot hungry mouth. His balls hang against my chin He begins to fuck my mouth. He is face-fucking me. The expression is crude but that's what he is doing. He reaches behind, scrabbles to find my hand, slips in between the cheeks of his arse, grabs my middle finger and let's me know where he wants it. His hole is hot, slippery, sweaty, and I find it easy to slide in one, two fingers. I'm finger-fucking Michael while he face=fucks me. I wonder if he did this with his father when he was eight. How small and slim was he then? If his father was 'a woman' what else did they do together? Did he/she get Michael to fuck him/her? How far did the operation go? If the boy fucked him/her, in which orifice did he do it? Did his father fuck him? It is all wonderfully weird. I am working it out when I hear Michael meow like a stricken kitten; his body arches; and he is cumming into my mouth with sstrong spurts. His semen is hot and there's a lot of it. I gulp to get it all down. The boy collapses across me as I ease him down my body. I cuddle him and pull him under the duvet even though the room is warm. It is shelter we are seeking, not warmth. Shelter from public opinion, from outraged adults who would flay me alive, and Michael, too, if they knew. He whispers in my ears, tells me things he shouldn't but needs to. Tells me things I don't want to know... because... because... "You can even shit on me, if you want to," he whispers. "Shhhh," I say to him, and hold him tight. I think I was in mid-sentence when I realised he'd fallen asleep in my arms. I woke him at 6.30. Time for tea. Time to talk. Then time to walk him home. "Michael, I want to be a friend of the family. That will keep me your friend, too, but if it happens that way, no more sex. At least not till you are 16, and not while we're in the same school." Michael argued fiercely and eloquently, but I refused to budge. He gave in and that's the way it worked out. I got to know his mother and step-dad: she was weak but she loved her son; he was weak, and essentially frightened by authority. For him I represented authority, and so did one of my best friends who worked for local Social Services. Between us, we did what we could for Michael and his mother. I know Michael had sex with other teenagers - boys and girls - he told me about some of them, possibly to reassure himself as well as me. By the time he was 17, I was abroad again, but I know he was serving an apprenticeship as a carpenter. He carved for me a small cat from living hardwood. I often type with my right hand and play with the cat with my left. It brings me comfort. I've had the cat for 20 years and there's something I only noticed last week. On the base Michael has carved two tiny letters: MS His intiials. If I were a romantic, I'd say the same initials are carved on my heart. When I finished writing this section, I popped downstairs, grabbed half a bottle of chilled wine, stuck a video cassette in the player and stretched out on the couch. And there he was on the screen - Ben (Benjamin) so fresh, so alive, so utterly beautiful it's hard to believe he actually existed in the flesh. Another 13-year-old. Are 13-year-old boys the flame that attracts this moth? Benjamin - Ben - His hair is light brown, streaked with gold. Thick hair that managed to fringe his left eye at all times. Almond eyes, gold and hazel. Wide set eyes. Elegant nose. Mischievous dimples. A wide mouth that smiled at every opportunity. A happy boy from a happy family. No traumas there. Benjamin, Ben - you deserve to be 13 forever. A happy boy from a happy family, and yet as sexually voracious boy as I've ever encountered. Ben was waiting for me the day he joined our school. He knew of me since I'd taught his sister, and she went home rabitting on about this terrific teacher, with the ridiculous sense of humour, who actually liked kids and got outstanding exam results for them. I learned later that Ben insisted he be in my Tutor Group, and there he sat for five years, directly in front of me, every morning, every afternoon, with a smile that said: "I know, and I love it!" Ben didn't take me to bed until his 14th birthday. I resisted him that long. I had a golden rule: nobody from school, and definitely nobody from my own Tutor Group. Girls swarmed round Ben from the age of 10 and he loved it. He came from a well-balanced family. His sister was beautiful; she knew it, and she loved to be surrounded by boys. And Ben had girlfriends all the way through from 11 to 14 and beyond. I have never been sure if bisexuality exists; but in Ben an insatiable desire to experiment with both sexes seemed to be what satisfied him most. I don't want to make Ben sound promiscuous; he wasn't; he was fiercely loyal to the girl of the month. Whether or not Ben and I would ever have got it on had it not been for Activities Week, I will never know. But away from school we went, me in charge of 46 kids, on the hottest week of a hot June that turned out hotter than I could ever have expected. Ben fell out of a chestnut tree on the second day. That was not much of a surprise. An intensely physical boy, Ben had several absences from school following falls from walls, bicycles, motor bikes, trees, buildings, and pretty much anything above six feet. Although well co-ordinated, Ben took risks. If any act could be complicated until it was risky that's the course he took, so it was little surprise when Ben was carried back to the House at 10 in the morning to be dumped unceremoniously on my bed. He was not badly injured, little more than a twisted knee, but the rest of the day was going to be on a bed, or by the river, or in the swimming pool, or at least somewhere with the weight off his leg. And that first place happened to be my bedroom with its commanding view out over the grounds and up and down the boys' corridor. Benjamin lay there grinning. Smiling broadly is better though he winced when I turned his knee. "It needs cream," he announced, pushing his track-suit bottom to his ankles, no mean feat when he could hardly sit up in bed. I obtained the most inoffensive cream I could find and applied it to the hollows around his left knee. Benjamin chattered on, but when I tried to take my fingers away, he whispered, "Stroke it, please. It feels so nice." I don't often blush but I guess my face was afire. Ben had this ability to make every conversation personal and intimate within a few moments. Even in a crowded classroom, you'd find yourself without warning in the middle of an intimate chat as if you were the only person in the world Ben could confide in. It was not so much what he said as the way he said it. "I like being here with you, sir. Just us. Not all them kids. Just us. In here. On our own. It's cool..." he giggled. "It's cool and so cool. Just being here. Could you stroke higher please, sir. Please, just a little higher." His underpants were snow white, gleaming white. Old-fashioned jockeys, but a bit too tight for him. And as we chatted and I stroked, Ben got a hard-on. I watched it happen. He knew I was watching, and he let it happen. "Just me and you, sir. Nobody coming. Nobody to disturb us. We can say what we like. Do what we like." His hard cock was outlined beneath the thin white cotton; then it arched and tented the cotton. How easy it would be to let me fingers run the length of this boy's erection. This boy who lay there, golden hair splashed on a ducki-blue pillow case, lying there, touching me with his smile, inviting me to ecstasy. Suddenly he turned over. Embarrassed, I thought. Did I have time to sigh in relief? I don't think so... for Benjamin reached round, raised his tummy and jerked his underpants to his knees. "Cramp, sir. Awful, sir. Right at the top of my legs. Could you, sir, please, sir." Medical, it's medical, I told myself. I laid the tube of cream aside and gently dug my fingers into the tender places where his long legs ran into the arch of his buttocks. Press, release, press again. Knead and manipulate. "That's good, sir, harder, sir. And a bit higher." I have always been anal. I don't know why. One of life's mysteries, one of life's little tricks. Almost unconsciously, my fingers parted his cheeks, enough, just enough to see the pink wink of his pucker, so sweet, so vulnerable. A sigh rose from the pillow. Benjamin spread his legs so that one of them dangled over the edge of the bed. It was hot in the room, in there, in that little furnace. The smell of cream and sweat and pure boy. I pressed harder, manipulated more openly, leaned closer into him. "Kiss my bum, sir." Had I misheard? Was that Benjamin's voice or a tiny inner one of my own? "Please, sir, kiss my bum." I leaned forward and ran my tongue from the hollow of the boy's back into the crack between his cheeks. How far to Babylon? Can I get there and back by night again? Benjamin's hands came round to pull his buttocks wide apart. "Please, sir." His whisper was hoarse, a whisper from a voice on the edge of breaking. I leaned all the way and ran my tongue along the inside walls of his buttocks. The tip touched his anus, pinky brown and sweetly puckered. A magnet. It drew my tongue to its very centre. I stroked it with my tongue, pushed and probed, lost in a universe that had always been calling me name. Ben swirled on the bed, grabbed me and pulled me to him. Tall for his age, he was slim but strong. He pulled me onto him and kissed me full on the lips, his tongue pushed at my lips frantically, I surrendered, opened, and let him invade me. I fenced back the invader, attack, retreat, attack again. His saliva poured into me in retaliation for mine. The flood gates opened. He kissed my mouth, my lips, my face. His hands pulled and tugged at my T-shirt while I jerked his up and away from his shoulders. Chest to chest, belly to belly, we were glued to together by the heat of the room, our bodies and our own sweat. I was caught in a maelstrom of desire. Ben jerked at my track-suit bottoms, my briefs, and pushed them down my legs. He flopped around like a landed fish until we lay head to feet, faces jammed between each other's legs, sucking the life out of each other. Me on the bottom, Ben on top, his legs straddling my head to give him as much leverage as possible. Frantically, he drove his cock into my throat until I felt the silk of his pubic hair against my lips. He jerked the base of my cock and suck halfway up and down the shaft. I tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he grabbed my bum and forced me as deeply into him as he could cope with. My hips jerked and heaved in time with his own; we emptied our balls into each other simultaneously. I felt the semen was being sucked out of as much as I was squirting it. We flip flopped around the bed; it bounced a couple of inches across the room; we held on for dear life until the earthquake pitched, passed, the turbulence passed, and peace fell over the kingdom. Benjamin struggled up the bed and wrapped my arms around him. He grinned directly at me, hair matted across his forehead. "Wow, fucking wow! Shit! That was the greatest!" I almost told him to mind his language, but then laughed myself and pulled him to me. "Hey, careful about your knee," I whispered. "What fucking knee?" he whispered back. We lay for a short time, then he whispered again, "May I go exploring now?" Not quite sure what he meant, I nodded assent. Down the bed he scrambled, heaved at legs until I got the message, and turned myself over. The chance to bury my head into a pillow and dream too much to pass on. Then I felt it. Bens's long fingers pulling me apart, his smooth cheeks against my own, his finger tips pulling me gently open, and his tongue probing, inching, penetrating me. My sphincter sighed and gave up. I turned and looked quizzically down the bed: "Are you sure...?" The boy looked with - I hesitate to use the term - a shit-eating grin on his face. Then our intrepid explorer dived headfirst into the Dark Continent again. Later, that night actually, after lights out, Benjamin crept into my bed and told me with a grin he didn't love me. But he liked me lots, he respected me, he loved having me as his Form Teacher, he loved my jokes, my moods, my dictatorial whims. He didn't think he was gay though he'd "pulled" four or five of the boys, and nine or ten of the girls, in his Year at school. He'd never had sex with a man, didn't really want it, but wanted it with me. Wanted me to be his teacher. Had wanted it since he'd joined my class. But he'd been 11, only a baby, hardly worth my time. Didn't know about my sexuality, wasn't interested in it, wouldn't pester me, but he did want to be with me, for now, for this time. And would he let me...? Images of Ben dance in my head. We are up the river, having gone at least a mile in our canoe beyond the others. We are lying in a field, the grasses are high, I am on my back. Ben is trying to lower himself onto me, trying to fit my cock inside him as he squats across my hips. We are both laughing between the grimaces because neither of us brought Vaseline, cream, or any lubricant other than our spit, and we've already kissed all that away. We gave up and canoed our way back down the river, blinded by the sunlight bouncing from the water and by our unsatisfied lust. Finally he gives up and lets himself fall in the sun-bleached grass. "Well, you can't say I didn't try," he grins, then frowns. "What's up?" I ask. "A huge shit, and it's right up my arse," he laughs. "I gotta do one, right here, right now." There must have been something in my look. "Wanna watch me?" he says. "I don't mind. It's only shit. And you've been half way up my hole already." I nod. "How should I do it?" he asks. I find my voice. "Could you squat over me? I mean with my face under your arse..... but don't you dare on shit on me." "So you want to watch close up," Ben laughs. "In glorious technicolour?" I nod. "Well, get over here." I crawl over, then lie on my back. He squats over me, a foot on either side of my head, holding himself up by his knees. My eyes are no more than three inches from his anus. I hear him strain: "Christ, this is a big one." Then his anus opens like the aperture on my camera. There's a dark brown dot at the centre and as I watch intently it grows, blooms and emerges, a living cigar. The smell surrounds me but it's curiously inoffensive. The boy's turd emerges and descends millimetre by millimetre. For a moment I'm tempted to touch it with the tip of my tongue, then realise it's something I don't want to do. Being part of the boy's most intimate, personal function is enough. "Bombs away. You'd better get out of there," grunts Ben. I roll away and from the side watch as a long brown turd descends almost vertically. Still on his haunches, Ben hops away and we both watch his steaming column of shit. It stays upright for a few moments and then topples exhaustedly onto the grass. "Do you want to clean my arse?" grins Ben, sticking out his tongue and wiggling it at me. I grab a handful of the nearest doken leaves and throw them at him. "Clean your own shit," I laugh, and Ben joins while wiping himself ceremoniously. He gives the shitty leaves a sniff, then throws them into the bushes. Then it's back to the river and the canoe. We get back to the House earlier than the others. That week we are sharing a shower. Ben is pissing on me, holding his foreskin tight and squirting over my stomach and legs with the not-so-little hose of his cock. He's read about Golden Showers; he wants to try one, wants to try everything. Five minutes later I'm sitting on the toilet trying to take shit while Ben sucks me off. It's his idea. It's damned near impossible; try it and see. It's Benjamin idea. I am very dubious but he talks me into it. That same night we are in my bed again, in the 69 position, trying to make each other come, but only by tongue-fucking each other up the bum. I can't come that way but Ben explodes with a series of yelps that could wake the dorms if the boys weren't stunned by the activities of the day and the heat. Am I ashamed of all this? I tried hard to be ashamed but I couldn't make it. After all, it seemed to be something Ben needed, and if not with me, with whom? Because I would not put anything past the boy. I know what it's like to be standing in a bus station toilet on a wet and windy miserable afternoon being sucked off by a strange man, hoping, praying he will not bite my dick off, or force me to suck him, if I don't choose to, or murder me and hide my mutilated body, etc. etc. The coach pulls back into school grounds. I'd already arranged to give Ben a lift home. As I drive, he chats. Mostly it's thank you; it's so warm, so sincere, I begin to wonder if we've been through the same experiences. And he tells me before I tell him: it's over. The people in our Tutor Group wouldn't understand the closeness between us; they would misinterpret it as favouritism, and I never indulge in favouritism, especially with my favourites. We reach Benjamin's home, we see his mother at the door. She waves to us. I pull the car in, he leans across me and gives me a big open kiss full on the mouth. I'm literally gob-smacked. Then he jumps out of the car and dives into his mother's arms. As I haul his hold-all from the back seat, I hear Ben shouting: "Told you I'd do it, mum. Told you!" His mother comes towards me, smiles, says: "Ignore him, he's an idiot, but he has won a fiver from me." Then she grabs me and kisses me, full on the mouth. "There, I got my fiver back!" Five years, five long years that passed by all too quickly. And during that time, sex was probably the least essential element in my relationship with Benjamin. That's the way it should be. Those who give themselves the name of Boy Lovers should have this in common: loving all of the boy is so much more satisfying than a silly, self-defeating exclusive focus on genital (and anal) areas. Oh, don't get me wrong; that side of being male is wonderful, but taken in the context of a whole relationship, it is only part of the whole, the rays of sun that light up an already breath-taking landscape. It is the same for Man Lovers, those boys, who like myself, wanted a man in their lives, a whole man. For if you look at those boys you will find they have something in common: they are missing a significant male figure in their lives. Absent fathers, inadequate fathers, insignificant fathers won't do. Boys are hungry for role models, and the only role models who really matter are the men in their lives because finally that is what they have to be - men. Don't get me wrong. Many of the sweetest, strongest, most tolerant, independent boys I've met are those from single parent families where it is mum who has raised them; it is mum who has passed on to them so many of their caring qualities, their ability to listen, their ability to feel, their ability to share emotions; it is mum who has allowed them to develop their female side. But in the end boys have to function in the world as men, and if they have no men as guides, mentors, role models, they will go out and try in whatever ways they can to find them. Ben is married. Ben and Sue have twins, one boy, one girl; he never does anything by halves. He still pops in from time to time; he is great company, but the past is the past, and never casts its shadow between us, only its sunlight. The twin are lovely, but I would say that, wouldn't I? After all, I'm their Godfather. You can skate on thin ice so many times but in the end you're going to go through it. You can skate on thin ice for a long long time, but the longer you skate the more the chances increase you're going to go through it. I was weary of skating on thin ice. And after Ben I didn't want to go through the whole process again. The glory and tragedy of being a Boy Lover is that boys grow up, the very things that attract you to them are the things they lose so quickly, and you're back on the treadmill again, or, more accurately, your the hamster in the hamster cage running round in circles, getting nowhere, gdetting older, and losing the very things that attracted the boys too. It was time for me to get out of the hamster cage, or at least try. It was insane to think I could stroll through the corridors of a boarding house watching boys sprinting past me, pubescently glorious; naked boys crowding into the shared showers; boys on warms nights stretched out almost naked on their beds, boys coming to my room for this or that or the next thing, with the lock to the door only a flick away. So I left, smiling wryly but gratefully for all the years of pleasure, fun and fulfillment they'd given me. And I took up an appointment at a university by the sea, specialising in, of all things, educational psychology. At least I would still be amongst the young, but out of temptation's way. And I was... for all of three months. His name was - and still is - Stephen. Stephen was 17 going on 18, and had that ridiculous bloom of youth that Sixth Formers have when they embark on the adventure of university life, and all the new freedoms it offers. And Stephen was beautiful. Tall(ish), slim, thick black shoulder-length hair, perfect skin that no blade had yet touched, big eyes, made huge by his glasses, wide shoulders, narrow waist, rounded buttocks drawn tight by denim, sensitive, music lover, but with a fierce intelligent and a mind of his own. October 27th. Stephen's birthday. A late seminar. Six students, all 17 or 18. They'd gone on ahead to the pub. Stephen and I were to follow. He wanted to ask me about... oh, I can't remember. We were comfortably ensconced before an open fire. Stephen sighed and told me this was the kind of life he wanted, a life like mine. I was laughing and saying he knew very little about my life. Stephen frowned and gave me his disturbingly intense gaze. My heart skipped several beats. "Oh, no, fuck, not again," Falling in love again, never wanted to What am I to do, I can't help it Love always been my game, play it how I may I was made that way, I can't help it Boys cluster to me like moths round a flame And if their wings get burned, I know I'm not to blame Falling in love again, never wanted to What am I to do, I can't help it Marlene Dietrich or Nina Simone? I can't remember which goddess was singing it. Maybe nobody was. Maybe it's a false memory. That doesn't matter. I was singing it, silently, and that's what matters. I began to wonder what Stephen would be like naked, on the carpet, beneath me, me looking into the depths of those almost-black eyes, waving for help, waving goodbye as I drowned yet again. What would it be like to press my naked body against his, our pubic hair mingling, our cocks batting for space between our bellies? "Come on," I said, standing up abruptly. "Let's not keep the others waiting. It's your birthday we're celebrating." Stephen stood up, slowly, and sighed again, "But I'm so comfortable here." I slapped his ass and drove him towards the door. "Come on you're a big boy now." He turned to me with a smile close to a grin: "Yes, I am. I'm a big boy now, and I can do what the big boys do." Exeunt both of us - laughing. Two hours later we staggered out of my local hostelry into a battering gale of the kind only found by the Northern Sea. Not drunk but happily inebriated, though I was concerned Stephen had drunk a couple of vodkas more than any non-experienced drinker should. What the Hell. It was the boy's 18th birthday, and, as Stephen had said: "I'm a big boy now, and I can do what the big boys do." Rain blew wildly into our faces, cobblestones were slippy under out feet. There was no way I was going to let Stephen stagger the half a mile to his Hall of Residence when my cottage was barely five minutes away. I had a comfortable spare mattress, pillow, and huge tartan blanket. He'd been comfortable on that for the night. We linked arms and toddled home. Embers still glowed in the hearth. I chucked on two logs, yanked the mattress out, placed it a few feet from the fire, fluffed out the pillow, spread the blanket, and watched Stephen stretch out his long legs. I sat in the armchair, waiting for him to drift off. "I won'try to stop you if you try to seduce me." There's no point pretending I didn't hear him. I did. And I understood what he was saying. I looked down. The firelight played off his glasses. I felt a lump in my throat. I swallowed it. I sat on the edge of the mattress. I took off his glasses. That intense gaze from those big eyes. "Sure?" "I'm a big boy now," he smiled. I leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed me back. I opened my mouth. He opened his. I pressed my tongue into his mouth. He pressed back and entered mine. My hand reached down. I outlined his erection with my fingers - he really was a big boy - and unzipped him. I suppose I could go into erotic detail but I won't. Our first love-making is far too personal for that. I made love to Stephen's body and brought him to orgasm in my mouth. But the boy was exhausted, he was close to drunk and he needed sleep more than he needed sex. I'd hardly covered him with a crisp linen sheet and the tartan blanket than he was sound asleep as only teenage boys can be. I went off to my bed, already beginning to worry if there would be regret and recriminations in the morning. "Oh good, you're awake at last." I opened my bleary eyes and focused. Those big eyes were gazing down at me. Closer and closer they came. Then I felt Stephen's lips on mine, our mouths opening, the exhange of alcohol-sweetened saliva. I grabbed a moment to yawn: "You're up early." "So are you," came the smile. His fingers were round my hard-on, so stiff I realised it was aching. "Fuck me," the boy said. I got up on one elbow and faced him. He did the same. We faced each other. "Wait a minute, Stephen," I said. "Have you had sex before?" "Before what?" "Don't try to be funny," I said, but I was smiling. "Not really," he said, "but when I was at school a man gave me a lift home in his ark. He put his hand on my knee and started to slide it up. I panicked. I told him we were at my house. He stopped. I got out of the car. When it was gone I walked the rest of the way home." (a pause) "And I fingered my cousin's cunt in the wardrobe and she played with my willy. But we were only eight, so I suppose that doesn't count." "No, it doesn't," I agreed. "Stop talking," he frowned. "Fuck me." "Are you sure?" "Stop fucking talking and just fucking fuck me!" "You know it can hurt - at first," "I'm not stupid," he said, adding, "just do what you have to do so it doesn't hurt too much." I threw back the blanket and the sheet. We were both naked. The boy was ravishing. I put my hands on his waist and indicated he should turn over and lie on his tummy. He did, and adjusted the pillow to make himself comfortable. I slid down between his legs, lifted one at a time and spread them apart. I slid my had between his cheeks, found his anus, and began to stroke it with a finger tip. I was horny as fuck. I got my face between his buttocks and began to lick his anus. "Wow, that's really personal," came his voice. "But it feels really nice. Keep doing that." I obliged. "Christ, I think your tongue is half way up my arse. Wiggle it a bit." I release my tongue for a moment. "Shut the fuck up," I said. "I don't need a running commentary from you." "Sorry," came the reply. "But it feels great. See if you can get your whole tongue inside me." I fucked Stephen. Then he fucked me. Then I fucked him again. Then it was lunchtime. We still fuck every Sunday morning before breakfast. Stephen got a 1st Class Honours degree. We now share the cottage. He's doing his PhD. Wee've been friends, companions and lovers for six years. Nobody minds. Nobody cares. They care about us and our friends share our lives. There's far more to the relationship than sex, though the sex is great. Stephen loves my tongue up his arse; sometimes he reads a book while I'm down there exploring. I fuck him more than he fucks me; we've got the balance just right. We love a lot - and we laugh even more. And young boys? Well, I can look, can't I? Occasionally Stephen catches me looking and sighs: "Grow up, can't you?" "I'll grow up when Peter Pan does," I laigh back. But I've resisted temptation these past six years, and even when my tongue or cock is up Stephen's bum it's him I'm thinking about. Who knows? One of these days maybe I will grow up. But not just yet.