WARNING: This story – a fictional one - contains sex between a minor and an adult. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.

 

Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.

 

Anyone wishing to contact me can do so at john.thestoryteller@gmail.com

 

Other stories on Nifty by John Teller/The Storyteller can be found here.

 

All rights reserved. All parts of these documents are © Copyright 2016 John T. S. Teller, and may not be reproduced in any form without the author's consent. Nifty.org has permission to reproduce it on their website.

 

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For T-A and Kek and Pirate Radio, and my thanks for the poem.

 

 

Fellowship of the Schoolboy Ring.

 

By John Teller.

 

Part one.

 

Brice Washington-Thompson speaks here. 

You move the bedroom curtains slightly to look down at the group of five schoolboys waiting for the school bus at the bus stop directly outside the low wall of your front garden. Three of the boys with their backs to you are sitting on your wall, and two are standing in front of them, facing the front of your house. Fortunately (for you) New Boy - the young boy you like, really really like, is one of the boys standing, and you can see his face. But he can't see yours. You've made sure the curtains haven't moved, and you're standing back far enough to know that in the darkness of your bedroom, you're not visible to him. This has happened many times during the past few weeks when you've wanted to look at the boy who has disturbed your emotions.

 

**********

 

It was early September when three became five... the beginning of the new school year when junior pupils (7-11 year olds) are promoted to senior school pupils (11-18 year olds), and two of the boys standing by the front of your house had been promoted from juniors to seniors in September. It's easy to tell them from the `old lags'... they're obvious because of their fresh-faced, newly-turned-out appearance, as well as pristine uniforms that haven't seen first light of a hectic school day. It takes at least a month for them to `wear in'.

 

**********

 

Their uniforms. Mid-blue blazers with a yellow crest on the breast pocket; white shirts; a blue and yellow striped tie; black, long trousers; black shoes (highly polished on the new boys), and various types of in-vogue schoolbags slung over their shoulders. Their ages? The oldest two are about sixteen. You've watched them growing up. Not your type, those two. One is overweight and not very good-looking, and one is, well, just not your type. Another one of the original gang of four is about fourteen. He's a handsome lad with longish, dark hair, and is fanciable. Always has been since he was an eleven year old and first joined the schoolboy gang, but although he's a handsome young man, and he looks as though he has a nice body under that uniform, and you certainly wouldn't say "No" if he came knocking on your door, neither would you put yourself on the firing line to obtain his services. A nice looker. Definitely wanking material. But no-go. That's because, despite the number of times he's seen you, he's not shown the slightest interest in you, and you never go where you're not wanted. That would be wrong. Very wrong!

 

The older boys all know you to speak to. You've been out many times to drive your car out of the small drive in front of your garage and go wherever. And they know the rules. They're allowed to sit on your low wall, but no litter, and definitely no bad language! They're all polite boys anyway, so you've never had any trouble with them. You're the bloke who lives by the bus stop. Well, you reckon that's how they probably refer to you. You've never been anything other than pleasant to them, so you can't think that they would have a nickname for you that would be unfavourable. Most probably they look on you as part of their school day furniture; a piece of furniture you always try to be; the sideboard that's never noticed because it's part of the background of life. Yes, being an anonymous piece of furniture is best when you're a lover of boys, especially when they're on the cusp of puberty and you know their hormones are kicking in, which makes them not only delectable, but also curious enough to want to experiment. But it's been a few years since you had your last boy.

 

*********

 

Your last boy. Eight years ago; when you were twenty one. You'd just finished university and returned to live with your parents in Middle England, in the big city twenty miles away; when you were writing your first novel that won you an award and led to you becoming a proper writer. But that came at a price. Your main contact at your publishers in those days was gay, and you were a really good-looking boy at twenty one, especially to a fifty two year old gay man who liked boys your age. He sussed out in five minutes that you were gay, but you never told him that you were not attracted to gay old men. Oh no. You played the game. It wasn't too unpleasant. He adored your boyish body, and spent most of his time drooling over it. But needs must, and your main contact at your publishers, Gerald Blessington, was the key-of-the-door to success. Anyway, he turned out to be a thoroughly nice chap even though you wouldn't let him fuck your arse. Almost everything else, but Brice Washington-Thompson's arse is not for sale at any price. You're a Top, and that's that! Liar! A little boy cock can be inserted... at a price.

 

And you were the Top and Bottom to your last boy; Sinclair Cavendish, who really was the Bottom. Lovely Sinclair Cavendish. Your parents live in a posh house, in the money area of the big city, and Sinclair and his family moved in next door while you were at University. What a lovely surprise when you returned home after you'd got your degree! The first time you saw him you fell in love with him. Twelve year old Sinclair was perfection. A beautiful looker with short dark hair; slim and very comely, and a definitely goer even at that young age. That's why you went to so much trouble to befriend him. You were young and immature in those days, so that meant that you were far braver (or foolish) than you are now. That's why he took to you, because you were naively braver, and therefore more foolish. Sinclair was a clever boy and he soon realized that you fancied him, especially when he was flirting with you in the indoor swimming pool in the glass conservatory at the back of his parents' house, and you did your part by playing the game of sexual flirtation. You had your own room upstairs at the back of the house, which, fortuitously, overlooked Sinclair's indoor swimming pool.

 

He knew you were looking at him. How could he not see you looking at him? After all, it wasn't difficult for him to see you leaning on your elbows whilst you were looking through the open bedroom window pretending to admire the vegetable garden your dad was proud of. Sometimes dad would be in the garden or pottering about in the greenhouse and you'd have a conversation with him while you were propped up on the windowsill, looking through the bedroom window. You'd look at Sinclair and smile at him. He'd smile back. Then he'd dive into the pool, swim a couple of lengths, get out and shake the water from his superb little body and skimpy swimming trunks before beginning his naughty little game of using his hands to stroke himself in places he knew you wanted your hands to be. One of his favourite caresses was to stand with his back to you with both his hands cuddling his bum cheeks, and he never missed rubbing his fingers up and down his bum crack to tease you. Yes, Sinclair was a little tease, but not entirely so. You didn't know it at the time, but Sinclair had the hots for you as much as you did for him, and eventually, worlds do collide.

 

Worlds collide. Late summer. A barbeque. At Sinclair's house. Lots of people there, but only two as far as you were concerned. Twenty three degrees in the shade, and much hotter in the indoor swimming pool. Quite a few youngsters there. Most in the swimming pool. You were in that twilight world of being an adult, and yet you were not quite a proper adult. Well, not adult as in being one of the oldies. That's why Sinclair came to you and asked if you wanted to join him and the others in the swimming pool. You went all shy and tried to get out of it, but he was insistent and called you a waste of time if you didn't join in with the kid's fun. So you did, and you went back home and put on swimming trunks so you could join in the kid's fun, but you weren't interested in kid's fun, you were only interested in showing off in front of Sinclair with your powerful body and your handsome looks. Yes, Brice Washington-Thompson was indeed a good looking and handsome young man at twenty one. That's why Gerald Blessington (publisher contact) adored your body, and paid particular attention to your lovely dick that was a goodly seven inches long when excited. Had Gerald been into prepubescent boys, then he would have loved the pre-teen Brice Washington-Thompson. You were a super-looker even as a kid with your dark hair and green eyes. In fact, the thought often crossed your mind that if you were born somebody else - somebody older who liked young boys - and had met the pre-teen Brice Washington-Thompson, you would have been camping on his doorstep so you could get to fuck him. But Brice Washington-Thompson was never into older boys or men; he was always having crushes on boys younger than himself. In fact, looking back, Brice Washington-Thompson was always a pederast. And that's why, when worlds collide; late summer; a barbeque... at Sinclair's house, you got to feel him up in his bedroom when everybody else was barbequing. Feeling up reciprocated, of course.

 

You were a writer. Interesting! Especially to Sinclair. "Would you like to see some of my essays?" you were asked by him.

 

How could you refuse, especially because Sinclair kept his essays in his bedroom, in the drawer of his writing desk that just happened to be quite near his lovely, soft, single bed, which is what you both sat on (close together in damp swimming trunks) pretending to be interested in tales of dragons and knights of old. And then you made the statement that there were no damsels in distress in his stories, which elicited a direct look into your eyes from his gorgeous hazel ones, and the comment, "Girls are a pain in the backside."

 

"So, you don't like girls then?" you asked.

 

"No. Do you?"

 

You shook your head. "No, they're a pain in the backside."

 

A tiny, knowing smile from Sinclair. "Then what do you like?"

 

You grinned at him... one of your best, handsome grins. "Boys in indoor swimming pools?"

 

Sinclair laughed... a lovely boy-soprano laugh that warmed the cockles of your heart and stirred something in your swimming trunks at the same time. Then he said, "I've been teasing you."

 

You winked at him. "It worked. You're a very naughty boy. You should stop it before you get into trouble."

 

"What sort of trouble?"

 

You grinned at him, and then pushed him back on the bed and pretended to molest him, paying special attention to his gorgeous little bottom. He pretended to fight you off. You pretended to let him win until he was triumphantly sitting on your chest holding your arms behind your head, the boyish bulge inside his scant swimming trunks very near to your salivating mouth. That's when the pretence stopped and you suggested it would be better if you got back to reading his all-male essays. When he asked you why you should, you said, "Because if we don't, then I might do something you won't like."

 

"And suppose I would like it?"

 

"You don't know what I've got in my mind."

 

"Is is naughty?"

 

You nodded. "Very naughty, but I only do it to beautiful boys who I've fallen for who are sitting almost naked on my chest."

 

"And am I a beautiful boy you've fallen for sitting almost naked on your chest?"

 

"Yes, I'm afraid so. We writers can be very naughty at times."

 

Sinclair grinned. "I like naughty writers, especially one that I think about all the time." Then he giggled. "You're in this bed every night."

 

You chuckled. "That's nice. But I don't know how that's happened. Every night when I go to bed, you're in mine, so how come I've managed to be in both beds at the same time?"

 

"Magic. I write about magic. I've put a spell on you so you think I'm in your bed, but all the time you're in mine."

 

You laughed at his quick wittedness. "So, this bed is where it all happens then?"

 

Sinclair nodded as he stared down into your eyes. "Yes. Shall I show you what happens when we're in bed together?"

 

You stared seriously into his hypnotic eyes, and then studied the features on his beautiful face. He had a long forehead beneath his short, dark hair; pronounced eyebrows; long eyelashes; a cute nose, and lips that could only be described as full and sexy. Because his mouth was slightly apart, between those lips you could see the beginnings of two rows of pearly white teeth that you just knew had been lovingly cared for since he lost his baby teeth, and just the tip of a tongue that was moving from side to side. In anticipation? You hoped so after you'd looked at his lovely, slim neck atop delicate boy shoulders and a chest you were sure was heaving in excitement, especially so when you saw his tiny nipples erect and flushed, and you said, "Are you sure about this?"

 

Sinclair was sure about this, and that's why he released your hands and lowered those sexy lips directly onto yours, and you had the very first kiss of your life with the most beautiful boy you'd ever met up to then. It was wonderful; a never-to-be-forgotten kiss that went on for ages until you both had to draw breath. But it also went on for ages because of what else was happening. During that sensational kiss, you rolled onto your side and hands were everywhere. You got to feel Sinclair up, and he got to feel you up. In fact, you were about to start the feeling up inside bulging swimming trunks when a shout came up the stairs, "Are you up there, Sinclair?"

 

Fun over. You were both off that bed like a shot, and Sinclair shouted, "Yes dad. I'm just showing Brice my essays. He thinks they're great."

 

"Oh... okay. The food is almost ready."

 

"Right dad. I'll put them away and we'll be right there."

 

"Good lad."

 

Thankfully, Mr Cavendish didn't come up the stairs, and when you'd both got over the shock of being disturbed, after waiting a short while to make sure his father had gone back out, Sinclair came into your arms and you kissed again. Then you made hurried plans before joining the others.

 

Hurried plans became proper plans, done by email and texting and mobile phone calls. Eighteen months of emails and texting and mobile phone calls. It was wonderful. Because you were now a proper writer, you could pretty much arrange your own times to work or whatever. Whatever was the special part; the secret part of your life with Sinclair that blossomed into a full love affair, including all the trimmings.

 

The trimmings. The first time was in your small car, parked in some woodland, where you enjoyed mutual masturbation and you even got to suck Sinclair off. The second time you were there, Sinclair reciprocated what had gone before, and he swallowed your spunk like a pro. Secret assignations in bed, either yours or Sinclair's, depending whose parents were out at the time. Naked sex. Anal, oral reciprocated sex. Then proper anal sex. You took Sinclair's small member completely the first time (for a price), but, because you were big and he was small, it took a while before you got to fuck him properly and fill his innards with your hot spunk. Sinclair loved it. In fact, Sinclair loved everything, and that included insisting you drink his piss after the familiarity grew between you. Nothing was out of bounds, including simulated rape. You on Sinclair. That was a real turn-on for him, and he even brought a few lengths of rope into your bedroom the first time you did it. And all that in an environment of shared love. Oh, yes, your love for each other was real and meaningful. You both missed each other enormously when enforced absences happened, mostly because Sinclair was frequently on holiday with his parents. His father was a film producer, and he travelled far and wide. New York during half-term; Los Angeles at Christmas. Etc. All this while Sinclair was growing up.

 

Growing up. The crazy passions occurred first when he was twelve years old, and the last when he was just turned fourteen. During that time, you watched his beautiful young body develop from the soft, delicious curves of pre-pubescence where he could not produce sperm, to that of a young, virile teenager who could a generate a decent amount of thick semen that tasted like nectar to your pederastic taste buds. It was beautiful sharing his journey into manhood; tasting the first clear sticky fluids he generated, and having fun together watching his few pubescent hairs grow into pubic hairs, and then sprout into the small bush of dark hair just above the base of his gorgeous boy dick.

 

His gorgeous boy dick. What a beauty it was. He was quite a small boy when you first met, about five feet tall and you had to bend your head right down when you were standing together, having those special kisses that you both enjoyed. His gorgeous boy dick matched his stature perfectly. As a twelve year old, it was about four inches long, slim, and curved upwards like a banana; almost touching his belly when he was super-erect. (Which was most of the time.) Nail hard is often a description of a boy's erect dick, and it's an apt portrayal. When the blood is in full flow, to pull it down a bit too far can be painful to a boy. But it can also be fun. You and Sinclair had lots of laughs when you used to pull it down and allow it to spring back to its natural position like a tensed spring. But by the time he was fourteen, it had grown to about five and a half inches long, was thicker, and more pliable. He had a beautiful foreskin, long since trained to slip easily off the engorged head even before you met him. The glans was a deep, delicious pink when he was twelve years old, but by the time he was fourteen, it had turned darker; almost crimson. But it never lost its beauty to you. Indeed, you've often thought since that if a boy could have turned you into a proper gay person instead of a pederast, then Sinclair would have been the one to do it. He loved you, and you loved him. Yes, even when you had to part company that love was still very deep and meaningful. But part company you had to do.

 

It came as a shock to you. His family were moving to the United States. You both shed lots of tears; your loving became more urgent, and then it was over. Sinclair was gone, and despite keeping in touch for almost two years, what you had faded into life's emotional casualties. The last time you got to see how he had developed was when he was playing a small part in an American produced film as a gay eighteen year old drug addict. He did it well, and you were proud of him.

 

**********

 

Your only lover is now a very handsome young man, but that's what he is, and you are a pederast. And that's why you're particularly interested in New Boy, one of the two new members of your schoolboy gang who gather by your wall waiting for the school bus. Why this particular one? Well, although New Boy has blond hair, he has many of the beautiful assets - both body-wise and looks-wise - that your Sinclair had all those years ago. He's about the same size as twelve year old Sinclair was, too.

 

*********

 

It takes until mid-October - Monday 15th -  for New Boy to really know you exist. Maybe he knew before, but because you always make a determined effort to only casually say "Good morning" to the schoolboy gang if you happen to get your small car out of the garage rather early, then association is rare. It's the new car that gets their special attention. You've had a goodly up-front payment on the new novel you're writing – a boring must-do romp midst early Victorian, English upper-classes that's well-spiced with buxom young ladies wearing dresses that hide their body shapes until that dreaded (for the male hero) first wedding night disclosure when the real woman of his dreams is exposed as rather fat and ungainly, until, that is, he seeks pastures new with floosies from London whorehouses where the Ladies of the Manor flaunt openly what they have to offer, which is much more to the hero's liking than overweight heiresses – that is more than enough (including part-exchanging your small car) to buy you a three year old Audi Quattro TT in shining black and chrome livery.

 

The TT is a proper boy's car... an eye catcher, and it most certainly catches the eyes of the schoolboy gang the first morning when you (very self-consciously) open the garage doors and zoom it out, Batman Style, onto the drive before getting out and closing the garage doors. All eyes it is from the schoolboy gang, and even better, they actually get off your front wall to admire Black Beauty. And then a comment from the oldest and bravest. "You had a new car, mate?"

 

You smile at him (not missing the admiring looks from New Boy) when you reply, "Yes. I had a good up-front payment on my latest novel, so I've splashed out."

 

Latest novel. Those two words are so meaningful; so revealing of what must always have been a mystery to your schoolboy gang. You've never been familiar enough to venture into revealing your profession, so how could they know that you're a famous writer?

 

(Well, not so famous, as in Terry Pratchet or J. K. Rowling type of famous.) You're sort of top-shelf-in-Tesco's type famous; your Victorian romp type famous; your own small niche type famous that probably gets read more on holidays after being purchased from airport bookstores than in millions of little boys' bedrooms where you wish your novels were read. Instead of buxom Victorian lasses, you would have preferred to have become famous for Nabakov type novels like Lolita, but from a pederastic angle rather than an old-man-meets-slutty-young-wench type of pitch. But, even so, many writers would love to have your type of famous. Most die a lonely death of oblivion simply because they won't sell their bodies to gay, influential people like fifty two years old Gerald Blessington (publisher contact) who enjoys the bodies of twenty one year old gay boys. Everything comes at a price, including famous, and yours was paid for by allowing the nice man, Gerald Blessington, to suck your dick frequently. You may have become even more famous had you allowed him to fuck your arse, but only boy dicks are allowed into the dark, hallowed turf of your innards. Horses for courses, so your fame is more akin to that of goodly steeplechaser than a thoroughbred running in the St. Ledger.    

 

"Didn't know you were a writer, mate," says just not your type Oldest Senior. "What sort of writer? War stories and that?"

 

You smile. "No. I write novels about the Victorian times mostly. You won't have read them."

 

"Wars in Victorian times?"

 

An even wider smile. "No. Mostly about adult goings on that you won't know a lot about." Then you decide to tease him. "Certain things that they won't have taught you in your sex-education lessons."

 

Just not your type Oldest Senior grins. "Gay stuff you mean?"

 

You return his grin. "Noooo... not gay stuff, but maybe I should write a gay novel or two? Do you think they would sell well?"

 

Just not your type Senior Boy laughs. "They would at our school. Half the lads there are gayers."

 

You laugh. "Then I shall write a gay novel about gay boys at your school. Would you like to be in it? You could be the hero."

 

Thankfully, just not your type Senior Boy sees the funny side of your comment, and he giggles when he says, "I won't mind being the gay hero if you pay me enough dosh. Does it pay well?"

 

You give him a friendly shrug of the shoulders. "It might buy you a TT if you're prepared to be really gay."

 

Handsome lad with longish, dark hair, and is fanciable fourteen year old chimes in, "How about you put us all in it?" He grins. "We could all have a TT then."

 

You point at the two new members of your schoolboy gang. "Too young." You then divert your finger to the handsome lad with longish, dark hair and is fanciable fourteen year old who has just spoken. "That goes for you, too. The age of consent is sixteen, so it could only include the oldest of you."  

 

Handsome lad with longish, dark hair, and is fanciable fourteen year old who has just spoken is a clever boy, and with a wide grin on his face, he quips, "Not if we young ones had it off with the lads under sixteen."

 

You laugh. "Clever lad! I wouldn't have thought of that. Anyway, I think we'd better stop this conversation before you lot get me locked up. I'll stick to my Victorian adult novels. That's if you don't mind?"

 

Just not your type Senior Boy asks, "What's your name then?"

 

"Why do you want to know that?" you ask.

 

"So I can have a look at one of your books. I can have a look at what you write about then."

 

Although you've been talking, you've also been observing, and especially you've been observing the reactions of New Boy, and you're almost sure you've detected something familiar from long ago... something that used to happen to you when you were observing Sinclair Cavendish and were slightly uncomfortable with the situation. While you were chatting about gay stuff, New Boy was moving from foot to foot with his head down. He was nervous. Why? He was not comfortable with the conversation. Why? One of two reasons probably. Either the subject you were discussing sickens him, or he is trying to hide something. Could it possibly be that he's gay and is hiding his disposition? It's a nice thought, especially because you fancy him like crazy. But even if he is gay, him fancying an old bloke is most unlikely. But a glimmer of a chance is better than no glimmer at all, and that's why you say to Just not your type Senior Boy after you've looked at your watch. "I have an appointment with the dentist in fifteen minutes. I haven't got time now, but I'll root you out a copy of one of my books and give it to you in the morning. That will save me answering so many of your questions."

 

And then comes an almost unanimous cry from the other boys, "Can we have one too?"

 

The cry is almost unanimous, except for one voice... that of the young boy you like, really really like – New Boy. Food for thought there.

 

**********

 

It's late. You're tired. You've been at it all day. It's been difficult, not because you're having problems writing your new novel, but because of a distraction. He's been in your mind all day. New Boy, that is. You've never been as close to him as you were this morning. Being close gave you the opportunity to study him better; to really appreciate his beauty.

 

His beauty. His hair is fair, almost blond, and he spikes it up. Not masses of spikes, but delicate spikes that tell you that he's fastidious with his appearance.

 

Sinclair used to do that. Not spike his hair up, but take great care with how he looked. Even after you became an item, he still took great care with his appearance. He told you he did it because he always wanted to look good for you.

 

So why does New Boy do it? Is there someone at school he wants to look good for? Most probably that is the reason why. He might have a crush on a girl. It is a co-ed school. On the other hand, he might have a crush on a boy. He doesn't have to be gay to have one of those. Most boys his age experience crushes on other boys. So do most girls. Same gender crushes are normal childhood behaviour.  So that's probably why he does it. But whoever is the recipient of his affections, you hope they know how lucky there are, because New Boy is a stunner. Not only is his hair styled perfectly, he also has gorgeous facial features. You tried to see the colour of his eyes, and you think they're blue. They looked blue from where you were standing, and that estimate would fit in well with his visual Anglo-Saxon inclinations. He's not only fair of hair, but he's also fair of skin, which sits well with his fresh-faced looks. He has freckles on his nose and upper cheeks, and he has something that really turns you on with certain boys: he has lots of deep furrows on his forehead that respond to his state of mind. When something affects him, his brow furrows and he becomes visibly agitated, either with a smile/grin/laugh/growl, depending on his state of mind.  He's also got a nice nose, and ears that are well balanced and sit elegantly against his temples, and they all slot in perfectly with the well-contoured face and a mouth that, although it doesn't possess the same overtly sexy lips that Sinclair had, is full and wide. One thing you have noticed is that his lower lip is slightly fuller than his top lip, which usually denotes a strong sexuality... or a tendency to sulk. Yes, he is indeed a stunner, and that's why you've had a difficult day. Yes, Brice Washington-Thompson, you've got a pretty decent crush on him; you can't get your mind away from the fine young body that you know will be perfect beneath his new uniform, and your lewdest thoughts have been about how beautiful his bottom and erect little dick will be if ever you get your pederast hands on them. Or, even better, your tongue and mouth.

 

**********

 

Almost time for bed. You've sorted out five books for the schoolboy gang. You thought about signing them, and then changed your mind. It would be a little forward of you to do that. No, although you're not going anywhere in the morning, you're going to pretend you are, so giving the books out will be just part of a series of events. Nothing special. The schoolboy gang wanted one, so you just happened to remember that they did. Play it cool. But you haven't played it cool. Not quite. Just one of your seven novels contains a smattering of your true self. Victorian hero was bisexual, and he had a fondness for the occasional boy. Not as young as New Boy, but even so, it was a boy of New Boy's age that you had in mind when you were writing the love scenes. In fact, those scenes became the focal point for praise when critics gave their verdict on your work. They really liked how delicately you'd treated the subject. Little did they know that they were speaking about an expert on such matters, and right now, because that's the novel you're going to give to New Boy, you're hoping he will at least pick up the fact that you know about such things as love between an older man and a young boy, even if in the book the young man is seventeen. In fact, you had a little chuckle when you realized that in the book the age difference was eighteen years. Probably the exact same age difference as that between you and New Boy. But there's also another reason why you're going to give him that one: the blurb on the back cover will tell him almost everything about you, and it has a nice photograph of you that he can fantasize about when he takes you to bed. Hah hah. And pigs might fly.

 

***********

 

Your pillow is soft and warm and sticky after the exertions. At first you took your beautiful, twelve year old Sinclair Cavendish to bed with you, but then he morphed into New Boy. Then it became both of them, and when what Sinclair used to call his Magic Moment arrived, you were buried deep into Sinclair's lovely little bottom in the shape of your soft pillow, whilst kissing the lips of New Boy.

 

Afterwards, because you're still restless, you get up and fetch a large glass of red and a small packet of salted peanuts from the kitchen, and sit back in bed thinking about what is, and about what used to be while you drink your wine and nibble your way through the peanuts.

 

What used to be. Sinclair Cavendish. The boy you loved with an overwhelming passion. What would he say now... now you're sure you're on that crazy journey that love inspires; the journey that makes you do things you wouldn't normally do? He'd probably tell you that you're a waste of time, just as he did when you were at the barbeque and the only way he could get to you was to make you join in the fun with the kids. You've already begun the process. You're going to give Him one of your books in the morning. But you'll have to be brave, Brice Washington-Thompson. Affairs between men and boys don't come on a plate... they have to be fought for; planned for; plotted for, and that sometimes requires taking risks.

 

Taking risks. You have an idea. It's so forward that it's making you nervous now. You need to tell New Boy that you're attracted to him without actually telling him that you're attracted to him. The book you're giving him. You'll give him a draft copy... a first draft. In fact you do have a draft copy. It's in the loft. You need to get it.

 

Here it is. You flip through the pages and see where you can put the photograph. You're going to have to be very brave, Brice Washington-Thompson! You'll have to give away your darkest secret and hope that New Boy does not spill the beans. You're going to reveal your true self in pursuit of more of the same of what was so special to you: the love of a boy and all The Trimmings that come with that special state.

 

But first the photograph of you and twelve year old Sinclair Cavendish, taken when you visited the zoo with his and your parents. By then they'd come to accept you as buddies. You had a link: you wrote novels and he wrote essays. Especially his father liked to think of you as buddies. Artistes, actually. He always wanted his son to follow him into the world of cinematography; as an actor or writer or producer. So you became buddies, and buddies often have their photographs taken together. You've got lots of them, as well as singular ones of the boy you loved with an overwhelming passion. You've even got quite a few exotic ones that only he and you know about, and you giggle at the thought of slipping one of those into the book you're going to give to New Boy. Those would give him the message... unambiguously! But he's not ready for that, and neither are you. You don't want to go to jail. No, better something more subtle... something that New Boy will ponder over. He might be disgusted with the poem, but that's a part of being brave. The photo won't give the game away, but when he reads the poem on the back of it, unless he's as dull as dishwater, he'll know. The poem makes It unambiguous.

  

Your hand is shaking when you write the poem, trying as best you can to make it look like schoolboy writing. There, it's done, and New Boy will read the words...

 

Flow,

Softly, silently

As I tumble through the days,

Wishing,

Hoping for more.

Having,

Letting go.

 

You come softly,

Silently

And flow through my thoughts

Dreams again,

Even now.

Present in my mind.

Held, in my heart.

 

Giving me

You,

As if to flow

Along in you

As you come softly

Silently

Into my arms again.

 

Even

If it is only in my dreams

As I sleep.

Flow,

Endlessly tumbling

Softly

Silently

 

Inside of me.

 

_

 

I love this poem you wrote for me, and I still love you and miss you.

   From your special boy, Sinclair. xxx

 

**********

 

Not the centre pages. That will look wrong and make the book open there. No, stuck with a bit of paper glue to the inside of the back cover is best. And another thing... you don't want the boys to read each other's books yet. Later perhaps, when New Boy has taken the photo out of the book. That's if he doesn't do the dirty on you and blab to all and sundry that their new-found writer friend is a pederast who likes little boys aged twelve years and gets love poems from them. So you'll have to package them in brown paper like all smutty books come, and make an off the cuff comment that you've done it because your books should only be read when they get home. You can wink and mystify the contents by saying, Only to be read in your bedrooms! Don't get me in trouble! That should work. It has to work or your cover will be blown big style.

 

Much ado, and not about nothing. New Boy has to think you've made a mistake and given him a copy you shouldn't have given him. Everybody makes mistakes... sometimes. But this deliberate mistake will either make or break you. Take a chance on love, Brice Washington-Thompson. One thing is for sure, you won't get anywhere farting about like you have been doing!!!!

 

You stick the photo inside the back cover, and then kiss it.

  

Alea iacta est. The die has been cast. Now all you need is courage, and the morning will decide whether you are a man or a mouse, Brice Washington-Thompson. But it could also reveal you for the fool you may be. 

 

To be continued... 

 

You can find my other stories on Nifty here. If you wish to comment on this or any of my other stories, just drop me a line to john.thestoryteller@gmail.com Genuine comments will be appreciated. All flames will be extinguished in the trash bin.