Kurt

 

 

Life in The Village, through the eyes of a student at the remote school.
(This is a parallel story to "Schoolie", but through different eyes.)
This school holidays chapter does not align, specifically, with any Chapter of "Schoolie".

This is an original work of pure fiction (just an expression of a fantasy)
by Robert A. Armstrong (a pseudonym)

The resemblance of the characters by action, name, location or description to any real person is purely coincidental.

If it is illegal, or offensive, for you to read stories involving interactions of a sexual nature between adults and youths, then what are you doing here?

 

From Chapter 12:

We waste no time in going to our house and `being gentle' with each other. Once. "Gonna miss you guys!" William tells us.

"Me too." Karl replies, still coming to grips with the fact that his holiday fun is now going to be limited to shoeing horses.

Mr Grant arrives, and we say goodbye. I give Mr Grant a hug, and hold on, which he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, I think he enjoys rubbing my back and patting my backside.

William takes his `P' plates from Mr Grant, puts them on the car and he drives away, tooting the horn, with Mr Grant waving from the passenger's window. We cheer them off. I'm going to miss William's helping hand after school, but I'll miss Mr Grant even more – his stares, his name-mouthing game, his rubbing my back, his patting my backside and his playing with my growing willie in the weir.

Then my thoughts turn to Ron. And I experience an uncontrollable, but massively feel-good, event.

Chapter 13 – At Whispering Gums

Friday. We lock up the house and drive out to `Whispering Gums'. My turn in the front seat! When we turn into the avenue of gum trees, I start to tingle with excitement. Not uncontrollable tingling! Just excited anticipation!

It's still early morning. We have a party of welcomers. Mr and Mrs Cameron. And Ron, who greets all of us by name: "Mr Andersen," "Karl", "Champ". I know instantly from that, that it's going to be a good week. He looks from Karl to me and says, "Hey, nice hair-do's, guys."

He looks at Dad who says without too much emotion one way or the other, "It'll grow back."

"He did say that we could have it done any way we wanted," Karl pipes up.

He's right. The barber is our witness! I recall Dad's exact words to him, `any way they prefer'. Too late now!

Mrs Cameron invites us into the house for breakfast. I often wondered whether Dad had breakfast out here when he would leave home so early each day.

We all removes our boots and leave them outside the door, on the verandah.

The breakfast table doubles as a `briefing room' for what's ahead of us.

Today, plus the rest of our week.

Dad has already discussed all of this with Mr Cameron and alerted him to the fact that our friend, William, wouldn't be with us, as previously planned.

This will give Dad and Karl a wonderful opportunity to work together. I'm not jealous! Far from it!

This morning we will all travel in the open-tray utility up to where the cattle are, and cut down a lot of Mulga branches for them that will keep them fed for the best part of a week. We will do the same at the end of our week, to last them another six or so days.

After lunch, we will all go for a ride together. And Mr Cameron will see whether we remember how to saddle our own horse and if we (meaning me) can ride without bouncing up and down too much, this time.

Tonight, Dad, Ron, Karl and I will sleep in the bunk house next to the main house.

Tomorrow, Ron and I will take the Land Rover and head back out, driving north along one of the perimeter fences, checking, repairing and making notes. Then he and I will sleep in the farthest workers' hut from the main house and continue with the fencing on Sunday.

On Sunday we'll do a loop and stay out there again.

Monday, we'll head back towards the main house and we'll all have dinner together again.

Tuesday, we'll pitch in and do `stuff' around the main house. Cutting & stacking wood (Dad and Ron), servicing the bikes (Mr Cameron), bit of painting of the sheds (Karl and me), check the windmills and tanks (Dad). The thought of Karl and me painting the sheds reminds Dad of a book. He says that he must read us The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

Wednesday, Ron and I will be heading south, to repeat the fencing exercise. There is another hut down there where we can spend the night.

Thursday, it will be up to us whether we stay down that way or come back to the main house, depending on whether Ron thinks there is more work still to be finished.

On Friday, it will be everyone back together again. By that time, all of the horses should have new shoes and all of the main fences should be good for another year, at least. And we will head back and cut more Mulga before having lunch and heading home with Dad. A full week!

 

Mr Cameron explains, as Ron has already told us, about the mulga as food for the cattle, and its rapid regeneration. "We need to keep cutting branches because the stock have already eaten everything within their reach."

"How much do you cut down?" Karl asks.

"We usually harvest about six days' provision at a time," Mr Cameron tells my brother. Then he adds, "We take the utility and pull up next to a tree. Then we stand in the tray and use the chain saws to cut off only a couple of branches. Then move on to the next tree. That way, every tree always has growing branches on it."

Karl and I are allowed to ride, standing in the tray and holding on to the roll bar. Mr Cameron doesn't go too fast so that Karl and I don't injure ourselves on the bumps, or fall out. The chain saws, fuel and chain oil are all secured by ropes.

Dad tells Karl and me to get into the cabin of the ute. Ron takes over driving and pulls up beside a tree within reach of some branches. Dad and Mr Cameron start their chain saws and cut one branch each. They leave it where it falls, and, after they turn off the chain saws and whistle to indicate that they are holding on, Ron drives to the next tree. And so. we continue for an hour before taking a break.

It's fascinating to watch.

Over morning tea, which his wife has prepared and sent along with us, Mr Cameron tells us that he is very fortunate to have a large supply of mulga trees, plus some springs which keep the creek flowing.

However, without rain, he is unable to grow fodder to support the number in his previous herd of animals, otherwise all of these precious resources would be used up very quickly.

He has only kept his best breeding stock and sold the rest. He adds, "I owe the bank a lot of money, and they are getting nervous about the drought and my ability to pay off the loan. If it doesn't rain soon, I won't be able to demonstrate how I can repay them and they may force me into selling the property to get their money back.

Then, Mr Cameron utters the first negative words that I've ever heard from him, "Banks don't care about people anymore! Life to them is all about profit. Mongrels!"

That seems to be the signal to pack up the morning tea things and keep working.

We swap back to our original positions and head farther up into a different paddock. Another hour's cutting. We see the animals come from all directions to feed, but mainly from the direction of the creek. It's as though they have their own communication system which says, `Food's here!'

"Good work!" Mr Cameron says. "Let's go and have lunch, and then we'll take the horses for a spin."

I've heard of taking cars for a spin, and horses for a ride, but then, who can argue with a farmer?

I don't know how Mrs Cameron does it! She seems to be continually cooking. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. And, in between somewhere, she prepares things for morning and afternoon teas. I'm sure that she washes and cleans and mends things. This wonderful lady never seems to stop! I've never seen her sit down and read a book!

Sometimes food is served on individual plates. Sometimes there are bowls and platters set in the middle of the table and people can take whatever they want. It's important, as Mum explained once when Ma served up dinner that way, that you only take a little of everything you want, until everybody has taken something. Then, you can reach back for seconds of things. It's all about not only eating what you like but being considerate of other people too.

Lunch today is like that. Chops in gravy. Potatoes in cream. Peas with mint. Carrots with honey. Fresh bread rolls. I really like this because I can have more of what I like and less of what I don't (or none at all).

I look at the plate of small pastries that Mrs Cameron puts on the table for dessert. I've never had any like these before. Dad says that they are one of his favourites – jam tarts. "And they taste better when you have a nice hot cup of tea or coffee to go with them."

He's not wrong. I love the sweetness in the pastry. And while I do have more than one, I allow others to choose before me. I get a smile from Dad and a wink from Ron.

Mr Cameron has been out early and brought five horses into the stable.

When we join him, his horse is already saddled. All of the gear is ready for us, hanging on each of the stalls. He talks us through what we have to do and then says, "OK. Let's see what you remember."

I even manage to sling the saddle across the horse's back by myself (second attempt). Dad and Ron are finished. Dad stands with Karl to see whether he needs any help, and Ron is with me. He prompts me as to what I should do, but I insist on actually doing it all myself.

When we have finished, Mr Cameron inspects each horse, one at a time, to ensure that everything is done properly and tightened so that there will be no accidents.

Dad helps Karl into his saddle by giving him a `leg up'. Ron helps me by putting his hand under my backside. He smiles at me. I give him my `happy face' in return and tell him, "Thank you," which is two words more than my brother said to Dad.

Dad rides over to me and asks, "Everything OK, Son? Do you feel comfortable up there? You have a worried expression on your face."

"Yes, Dad, I'm OK," I tell him. "I just don't want to end up with any sore bits of my body today. That's all."

He laughs and pats what part of my backside is still showing and says, "You'll be fine. Just take it easy."

Ron says, "It's OK, Mr Andersen. I'll stay with him if you and Karl want to go faster with Uncle Jim."

"Thanks, Ron," Dad replies. "And you are allowed to call me `Jan', you know."

"Yes, Mr Andersen. Thank you. Maybe I will when you and I are working together. But I would like to be respectful to call you `Mr Andersen' when there are other adults or your sons around."

"I'm glad that you and Kurt will be working together," Dad says, and, reaching across to Ron's horse, he pats Ron's thigh as an expression of thanks.

We head up one of the trails at a walking pace while the horses get used to us. Or, rather, that I get used to being on a horse again.

Everything goes well until Mr Cameron suggests picking up the pace a little and his horse begins to trot. Karl starts to bump up and down until Dad, riding beside him, reminds him of the `rise and fall' and I see him get it.

I, on the other hand, don't. I feel like salt in a salt shaker. Bump. Bump. Bump. If I go on like this, I won't be able to walk by the end of the day. And my balls will be too sore to touch, let alone to play with!

Ron rides to catch up with Dad, who turns around and looks at me. I see him nod and he shakes Ron's hand. Then Dad and Karl go on with Mr Cameron.

Ron waits for me to catch up and tells me to stop. Stopping is easier than going!

He demonstrates, very slowly, how the action works, using the stirrups to rise `at the right moment'.

While my horse is still not moving, he gets me to practise rising and sitting. He corrects the position of my foot and stirrup so that I can hardly see my toe. Having it back a bit makes it much easier to stand up. He does it with me until I'm doing exactly what he's doing.

"A bit more practice," he says, "until your body is coordinating with your brain."

We do this for a couple of minutes and it starts to feel OK. I do have to remind myself that the horse isn't moving!

"Right!" Ron says, "Let's get the horses walking and then we'll go to a slow trot. Stay alongside me and copy me exactly. Do just what you have been practising, and you'll be fine!"

Walking is easy. No bumps. Then he nudges his horse forward. I do the same. Bump. Bump. Bump. "Do what we practised!" Ron tells me. "Stirrup back a bit!" he calls.

I concentrate and go through the motions again. It's like I'm coming down when the horse is going up. My brain is getting a good shaking.

Suddenly, the horse and I `click' into the same rhythm. Ron rides alongside me and I feel it. Total coordination! With him and with the horse. I wish that Dad was here to see me.

"A little faster," Ron says, and it's like he opens the accelerator on his quad bike just a bit. My horse seems to respond to his horse and they trot along together. My body responds to this new speed easily. Ron and I rise and fall together. I feel amazing! I'm doing it!

"How ya going, Champ?" Ron asks.

"Great! Thanks!" I reply.

We slow to a walk, which relieves the `new' muscles that I was using, which were getting tired.

Then we do it again. Then walk. Then again.

"You're a quick learner, Champ!" Ron tells me.

I like hearing his positive encouragement. My Dad's good with me too. I don't get a lot of that from Karl. He likes encouragement from me but just forgets, I think, to give it back.

"Let's head back," Ron says. "The others will catch up."

We turn the horses and I practise my new skill, with periods of rest in between.

Suddenly, while I'm trotting, I hear horses behind me, and my Dad gallops up beside me. "Well, look at you!" he says. "Good work, sport!"

"Ron taught me," I say, and continue displaying my trotting prowess.

We all stop. Mr Cameron and Karl join us. Then, the five of us together continue back towards the house. Ron joins his uncle; Dad rides between Karl and me.

"You guys want to trot for a bit?" Dad asks, smiling at me, knowing that I'll be OK with it.

"This'll be good to watch," Karl says, and immediately starts to trot.

I do too.

Dad stays between us, but back a bit so that Karl and I are level with each other. The look on Karl's face is priceless! He says nothing. As predicted!

"Great job, guys!" Dad calls.

Ron looks around and gives us, or me, the thumbs-up.

 

We unsaddle the horses and brush them down. When they finish drinking and feeding, Mr Cameron tells us, he will `turn them loose'.

I see Dad put his arm over Ron's shoulder and I hear him say, "Thanks for looking after Kurt. I know that he appreciates it, and I do too."

 

Horse riding gives way to afternoon tea and cards, and cards to dinner, and dinner to dessert.

Despite the fact that I offer to help clean up after demolishing a large slice of apple pie with cream and custard, Mrs Cameron will not hear of it. "You wouldn't be trying to do an old lady out of her job would you, young Kurt?" She jokes, prodding my ribs like Ma used to do. "Thank you very much for offering, but I've got this!"

All of the `men' settle down in front of the amazing log fire. Much bigger that our small one at home. Mr Cameron, Dad and Ron all have a can of beer. Karl and I each have a mug of tea. "A gentleman's drink," Mrs Cameron announces as she hands them to us.

I sense that an ongoing discussion is being avoided about the evils of drinking beer. William would definitely agree with that.

We sit in a semi-circle of comfortable chairs, toasting our feet. Well, maybe not toasting. Warming. At one end is Karl, next to Dad. Then Mr Cameron and Ron, with me at the other end. I think that Karl and I look like two matching book ends.

Mr Cameron talks with Dad about the work, the weather (`the drought' must be the regular, daily topic of conversation), the condition of the cattle, the `regenerative capability' of Mulga, the cost of horseshoes, his gratitude for Karl and me and Ron being here to help out.

Ron joins the conversation occasionally. Karl looks bored. I am mesmerised by the giant fire. A friendly one. At the same time, I can't help thinking about, and picturing, William's house burning.

I stare at the flames and watch them dance around the logs, disappearing and re-appearing as the brownness turns to black. I study the various colours. Shades of red to orange to yellow and white where it is hottest. I follow the swirls of smoke as they disappear up the chimney. I watch a cockroach emerge from the end of one of the most-recently-added logs. I'll bet that he wishes that he had stayed put! He drops into the white heat, pops, then his remains shrivel in a small flame and he joins the rest of the ash.

I close my eyes and just absorb the warmth.

When I open them again, Dad and Mr Cameron are still talking. Karl looks asleep. "Come on, Champ," Ron says to me. "I'll show you the bunk house and you can settle in." I kiss Dad goodnight, shake Mr Cameron's hand and go to the kitchen to thank Mrs Cameron for dinner.

Ron leads, and on the way, I grab my bag from the back of the farm ute that Dad drives.

 

The bunk house is a long building with a door right in the end. We go up a couple of steps, push the wooden door open, with a loud squeaking sound.

Inside, the first thing that I see are some closed doors. "Two showers to the right and three toilets to the left," Ron says.

Then, there is a small `not-a-kitchen' which has a sink, a small refrigerator and a jug on top of the fridge, with a cupboard above. Ron tells me that this area is used mainly for making tea or coffee. All of the meals are prepared in the main house. There is a round table and four wooden chairs pushed back around it.

Then there are the beds. Ten altogether, five on each side of the room. Above the beds are some windows, but not low enough to see through. "Just for light," Ron tells me. "And for ventilation in the hot weather; up high to let the hot air out. Hot air rises, you know."

He sounds like Mr Grant giving us kids a science lesson.

He points out the bed which Dad uses whenever he's here, closest to the toilets and showers. And his own, second from the end on the other side. "Take your pick of the rest," he tells me. "But not next to mine. I don't want your dad to get the wrong idea!" Then he adds, "Which might, however, be the right idea, eh?"

I don't know whether to laugh or frown.

There is something that I need to know, so I ask, "And what is the right idea?"

Ron looks at me, glances towards the door then walks up behind me, feels my backside, presses his body against it then reaches around and cups my cock and balls with one hand. "Is this the right idea?" he asks.

I reach behind me, pushing my hand between our bodies, feeling for his package. It doesn't take much to find it, and I just hold it. "You tell me," I say cheekily.

I feel his penis getting chunky, as he does mine.

"You'd better stop," I tell him. "And you'd better not let my dad see you doing this. He'll kill you. And not my brother, either. He'd really like you to die for nearly drowning him, so he would definitely tell my dad if he saw you. For sure!"

"No worries, Champ," he says, releasing me, and stepping away, giving my backside a parting smack. "I can wait until tomorrow when we're alone. What about you?"

"I guess I'll have to, won't I?" I say, and smirk. I choose a bed two away from my Dad's and sit on it. "I can guess which one Karl will choose," I tell him. "And his won't be anywhere near yours. He doesn't trust you. In fact, I'll bet you that he will pick the one between Dad and me."

"What if you're wrong?" he asks, sitting on his own bed.

"If I'm wrong," I tell him, "then I'll let you jack me off first tomorrow night, before I do you."

He looks at me, stunned. I can see a lot of questions forming on his face, but none of them make it to his smirking mouth.

At that moment, Dad leads a very sleepy Karl into the bunk house and puts his bag onto his favourite bed. He and Karl both survey the scene and Dad asks him, "Which bed do you want, son?"

He drops his bag onto the bed next to Dad's, between Dad's and `mine' (defined by where I am sitting).

I look at Ron and exercise my eyebrows up and down. I'll be wanking him first. He nods. And smirks. And I think to myself that it's probably not the order in which it would have happened if he'd had the choice. Now, I will be in control. Haha.

"What do you guys want to do tonight?" Dad asks. "Do you want a shower instead of your normal bath, or wait until the morning before breakfast?"

"Morning," Karl yawns.

"And do you want me to read another chapter of your book? I've brought it with me?" Dad puts to us.

"I don't think that I am ready for Moby Dick tonight," I tell him, while looking at Ron for any reaction.

For a moment he looks shocked, but then looks away, as though my comment meant nothing to him.

"OK," Dad replies. "It'll keep for another night."

"Did you bring your pyjama top, Kurt?" Dad asks me. You may not need it tonight, but you definitely will tomorrow. The only heating in the workers' hut up there is the fuel stove used for cooking. If you keep the wood up to it, it should be warm enough. But if the fire goes out, you'll freeze. Imagine what it would be like there when winter comes!"

Ron joins the conversation. "It's OK Mr Andersen. My uncle said that there was plenty of wood up there the last time he checked. I'll make sure that it's hot enough for Kurt and me."

I don't know how he can say such a thing with a straight face!

Dad simply replies, "Thanks, Ron. Look after him for me. And, bring him back alive, OK?"

He and Ron share a smile, and I think back to their first exchange on the topic of his delegated power over almost-teenage life and death last holidays.

At that point, Karl's eyes show that there is still life in his body. I see him look sideways, squinting, at Ron and a murderous expression forms on his face. `Assassin,' I can almost hear him thinking, `I wouldn't trust him if I were you!'

Without giving any thoughts to modesty because someone other than his family is present, Karl, with his back to Ron, strips off completely then pulls on his pyjamas. I look at Ron, who is looking at Karl's body. `Don't even think about him!' I say to myself. `You're mine for the week.'

I begin to copy Karl, except I don't have my back to Ron. His eyes widen. Then he looks away in case Dad sees him.

Dad `gets ready for bed' too.

Ron is left sitting on his bed. What's he gonna do?

"I'd better use the toilet first," he says. "I don't want to wake anyone up in the middle of the night."

While he is in there, Dad tucks us in, tells us he loves us and kisses us good-night.

When Ron emerges from the toilet, he has stripped down to his underpants. The last time that I saw him take off his clothes he wasn't wearing underpants, so I wondered what he would have on, if anything, this time. No pyjamas. I watch all of his bulges pass me. Those outside of his clothing, and those in it. He climbs into bed that way.

Then, "Sorry," he says, "I forgot. I'll get the lights."

He gets back out of bed, parades his stuff past me again, and flicks the switch near the door. Blackness.

I feel him grasp my foot as he passes. "Good night, everyone," he says. We all say good night. Then, silence.

My mouth may not be working, but my mind is. Because I didn't `get off' this afternoon, I'm hoping that I don't wake up wet in the morning. I will try to not think about tomorrow night with Ron. That should help me to stay dry.

I'm expecting Ron to do something during the night, like crawl over to my bed and play with my body in the dark. He doesn't.

 

Saturday morning. I'm the first one awake. I lift my head to look at the other three. It must be early. They're all sound asleep. I need to pee. Do I use the toilet and flush it, which will probably wake them up? Or do I have a shower and pee while I'm in there, like at home? Either way, I'm sure they won't stay asleep when they hear water running.

Shower!

I open the door and I see only one room, four taps, two shower heads, with no wall in between. So, if two people decide to have a shower at the same time, they will both be naked and able to see each other. Then, I suppose it's like Karl and me both in the shower at the same time at home. Bodies touching, too. No problem!

There are four towels folded on a wooden bench. My pyjamas join them. Dry!

The water pressure isn't as good as at home, but the water is hot and the soap is very soapy. It has lots of bubbles and feels really smooth. With the slipperiness of it, Junior starts to expand. Not much though. Just a bit thicker and hanging a bit longer.

I hear the door handle, and a million thoughts instantly gush through my head. I don't care if it's Karl. I hope it's not Ron. Even though I would like to see him naked and soaping himself up, Junior would definitely become uncontrollable and then what would happen if Dad or Karl came in and saw it? And me. With Ron!

I'm wrong on both counts. It's Dad. Phew! "Morning son," he says. "How's the water?"

"Great!" I reply and ignore Junior's growing size.

Dad takes his pyjamas off, and what I see is like one of William's almost-full erections. I look at it and Dad catches the direction of my eyes. He looks at himself then says to me, "Morning wood! It's natural. I suppose you boys will get used to it one day. Penises seem to have a mind of their own first thing in the morning."

With that, he adjusts `his' taps, steps under the shower next to me and begins to lather himself up. He looks at Junior, fatter and longer than when he came in. "You too?" he asks.

"Sometimes," I answer. Who would ever have thought that Dad and I would be having a `normal' conversation about our erections?

"Growing up," he says, smiling at me.

Then he shocks me. He lathers up his hands and begins to wash my back, and my backside. "Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub," he says.

I automatically continue, "And who do you think they were?"

Together we complete the verse and laugh. Then I say, "Hey! We need a third."

Ron walks in. "The butcher!" I laugh. How very appropriate!

Dad laughs, knowing Karl's ongoing put-down of Ron. We ignore the baker and the candlestick maker.

He looks at our two naked and soaped bodies. Dumbfounded. "We used to sing that when the boys were little," Dad explains.

No comment is made about our now-diminishing erections.

"I think I'm done," I say, for both of their benefits. I rinse off, step out, leaving my shower running and grab one of the towels.

I can tell that Ron now faces a dilemma. The water is inviting him to strip off and step under. The chunkiness in his underpants is probably screaming, `Not yet!'

I start drying my body. Dad keeps washing himself. Ron stands there. Yes or No?

There is only one choice. He takes his undies off. His near-erection emerges. I look at it. Dad looks at it, and says, "See! I told you so. It's normal for us guys in the morning."

Ron breathes a sigh of relief. So do I. Dad continues as though nothing has happened.

I take a lot of time to dry myself properly. Including behind my ears, between my toes and between my legs. All the while I'm watching Ron who is watching me.

Dad steps out and turns off his shower.

I go back to my bed and dress in my jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt. A moment later Dad emerges, penis swinging as he walks. Then he gets dressed too.

He shakes Karl. "Wake up, sleepy head," Dad encourages. He picks up his watch, looks at it, then puts it on his wrist. "Hurry up and shower. Mrs Cameron will have breakfast ready in ten minutes."

Karl, doing another animal impersonation, stretches and yawns, then looks around as if to rekindle his memory of where he is. He sits up. "Where's Ron?" he asks.

"In the shower. Hurry up. Get your arse in and out." Dad tells him. "Mrs Cameron doesn't like to be kept waiting."

I'm not keen for my brother to be in there alone with Ron. And I can bet that Karl isn't either! We both have our completely different reasons!

Karl heads to the toilet.

"Hurry up in there!" Dad shouts after him.

A moment later, Ron emerges, apologising for taking so long. And Karl dashes from one door to the other. We hear the shower turn on.

"I meant Karl," Dad says to Ron, "not you. Sorry."

"All good, Mr Andersen," Ron tells him. "It's hard to get out of a nice warm shower!"

While he's getting dressed, I sit on my bed, facing him, to put on my socks and boots. He knows I'm watching, but his eyes are on Dad. When he sees Dad head towards the shower to hurry Karl along, Ron takes his cock in hand and wobbles it at me. I grasp my own crotch back at him.

Should he even be doing this? And, should I be encouraging him? I've never felt this excited about anything before. Ever.

We four make it to the breakfast table in the main house and enjoy an amazing breakfast of Mrs Cameron's own muesli and yoghurt, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage and a tomato. A cup of tea finishes it off.

Mr Cameron talks to Ron about the work to be done and tells him that everything he will need is already in the back of the Land Rover.

Mrs Cameron talks to Ron too, and instructs him in the food that she has prepared for the next couple of days. "And we will take stock next Tuesday of everything that you'll need for the following couple of days."

"Thank you, Aunty Daph," Ron says. It's obvious that he does have a polite side! But it's a totally different personality that emerges when there are no adults around.

I wonder how many sides he has? Karl would see a murderous side. I see the sexy side. Does that make him a triangle? And, if all his sides were equal, he would be an `equilateral triangle'! (Mr Grant would be proud of me.)

Dad hugs me and tells me to do everything that Ron says. I look at Ron and he smirks. Again, Dad tells him to deal with me any way he likes but re-states the need for me to come back alive. We all laugh. All except Karl.

Karl and I hug and pat each other on the back. "I hope you have fun with Dad and the horses," I tell him.

"Don't take any shit from Ron," Karl whispers to me. "If he wants to drown or hurt you, kick him hard in the balls!"

I climb up into the Land Rover. When Ron starts it, it has a totally different sound to Mr O'Brien's, which only groans and coughs. This one purrs.

We head off. I lean out of the window and wave.

So, what am I gonna call you, eh?" Ron asks me. "Will it be `Champ' or `Cheeky' or `Fun Guy'? How about `Sexy Little Dude' or perhaps just plain `Kurt'?"

"Whatever you like!" I tell him. "But, be careful what you say in front of Dad or Karl. I don't mind `Champ'."

"`Champ' it is then," he says.

"And while we're out here, I could call you `Moby'," I tell him.

"What?" he asks. "Where did that come from?"

"You know," I say. "Moby Dick. Big Dick. That's you. Mr Big Dick."

He laughs. "Is that all you think of me? A big dick?"

"Not all," I tell him, "but my memories and thoughts of you always seem to get back to that." I laugh. He laughs.

"Actually," Ron tells me, displaying his big-city education, "I studied literature in senior high school, and `Moby' came about because this giant white whale, according to the author, used to be seen around the island of Mocha in the Pacific Ocean near Chile, South America. So, `Mocha' became `Moby'. `Dick' was just a common name like `Bob' or `Jack'. Even today we sometimes use `Dick' in place of `Richard'."

I put my hand on the front of his tight jeans and feel around. "Yup. Definitely Moby!"

"Cheeky!" he says and returns the favour. Then: "Hey. You've grown since I saw you last," he says. "It feels bigger, but I could already tell that from when I saw you get undressed last night and again in the shower this morning."

"And, just so you know, I've learnt how to wank too. But I reckon that you might have already guessed that!" I tell him. "When you first asked me, I didn't even know what it was back then."

"Then, we could have a bit of fun!" he says, putting his second hand back on the steering wheel."

"And I get to do you first tonight!" I remind him.

"How many ways do you know how to do it?" he asks.

I'm stunned. "What does that mean?"

He responds, "OK, then. We are definitely gonna have a lot of fun!"

 

We pass the swimming hole. "Remember this place?" he asks.

"All the time!" I answer. "Did you think about it while you were in Sydney?"

"All the time!" he replies.

"Now who's being the parrot?" I remind him of what he said to me months ago.

"And you were definitely not a chicken!" he tells me, again putting his hand on the front of my jeans.

"And I'm definitely not a chicken now!" I reply. "Happy to learn whatever you want to teach me."

He takes my hand and places it on the front of his jeans.

"OMG. Moby Dick!" I exclaim.

We both laugh.

We drive up through the Mulga where we were yesterday. And a lot farther.

"We're going to start there," he says pointing at a spot way up ahead, "and follow the fence lines. Basically, around very large areas and we'll end up back where we started, before following another line. Can you drive?"

"Never tried!" I tell him.

"You're about to learn," he says. "First lesson for the week."

`OMG,' I think. `Me, driving!'

He stops the Land Rover, pushes his seat back a bit and says, "Slide over and sit on my lap." I don't need to be asked twice to do that!

"It seems a bit lumpy," I tell him, smiling and wiggling my backside.

"Cheeky!" he replies. "I'll bet I'm not the only one! But, concentrate. Take the wheel and steer – follow the wheel tracks and we'll get to where I want to start checking fences."

He adjusts the seat so that I can reach the pedals. "Accelerator to go. Brake to stop," he tells me. "You steer and use the pedals to speed up or slow down. But not too fast, and don't hit either of them quickly. Just press gently, like this..." and he puts his two hands around me in my lap and envelops everything, gently. "I was right!" he says. "You're lumpy too."

We both laugh. "OK," he says, removing his hands. "Serious now. This is important. We don't want any accidents. Accelerate slowly. "

I press down on the accelerator. The engine roars and we lurch forward. I take my foot off the accelerator and plant it on the brake. Sudden stop! Fortunately, he's holding me firmly so that I don't hit my head. With the sudden stop the engine has conked out.

"Be gentle," he says, without getting mad at me. "Feel where the pedal is and press down very slowly." He re-starts the car.

I do it. Very slowly.

"Good," he says. "Now a bit more."

We build up to a reasonable speed. For me. Still slow though.

He tells me, "Just practise going a bit faster, then a bit slower. Do it gently."

I immediately think of `doing it gently' with William and Karl. `Concentrate!' I tell myself.

I ease on and off the pedals and get the hang of it.

"OK. Slow right down to a stop."

I do.

He gets out from underneath me and sits me behind the wheel by myself, while he moves to the passenger's seat.

"You're in control," he says. "Drive towards that tree up ahead there and stop next to it. I don't want you to run into it. If you kill yourself, your brother will obviously blame me!"

Laughing eases the tension that was building in my body.

I drive.

And I stop alongside the tree. It's near where four fences meet.

"Great job, Champ," he says, and ruffles my hair.

He pulls the on handbrake between us and tells me to get out. The engine is still running, but we're not moving. "It's OK. It won't go anywhere while the brake is on and you're not pushing the accelerator. This model is designed to idle without the motor stopping." He doesn't use the word `automatic' but I know what that means!

He tells me that we're going into the next paddock, and I'm going to drive along the fence line at the same speed that he's walking. He will check the fencing and when he wants me to stop, he'll whistle.

There is a closed double gate and a gap in the fence, where he shows me a whole lot of steel rails, laid parallel to each other in the ground. (`Parallel'. Thanks again, Mr Grant, I murmur to myself.)

I display my existing knowledge of these things called `cattle grids' but ask him why animals don't cross them. "They just don't," he says. "Maybe because it's not secure enough for their footing."

"I'll drive across this one, but you can take the next one," he tells me. "All you have to do is steer and accelerate gently. It will be bumpy, but just keep going. "Jump back in and you can feel what it's like."

I know what it feels like, because we crossed so many of them coming in from the road. However, my naughty mind thinks of something else, to `feel what it's like', but I force myself to concentrate again.

On the other side he tells me, "OK. Now you are the driver. Slide over and I'll adjust the seat for you." He does, taking time to get it `perfect' and it's much more comfortable. "Just match my walking speed, and don't run me over!"

He starts along the fence, and I drive alongside him. He checks every post and the tightness of the wires. Every now and again he speeds up and then slows down. I match his speed and I feel really comfortable. Hey! I'm driving!

He whistles. I ease off the accelerator and push down on the brake. "Pull the handbrake up like you saw me do," he says.

I get out. He grabs me and pulls me to him from behind. I think that he wants to play with my lumpy `gear' again, but he just hugs me tightly and says, "Nice going, Champ. We make a good team."

He grabs the tool to drive the loose star picket back into the ground, then the tool to tighten the wires. "Remember this thing?" he asks. I nod. "I'll do two, then you can do the next one."

He's no slave driver. He walks and I ride. He does the hard work and I do the easy stuff.

After about an hour the fence line that we are following meets another line at right angles, `perpendicular'. (Who knew that maths could actually be useful?)

"Coffee break," he says, and he gets me to turn off the engine. "Coffee, tea or a can of orange?"

"What? No beer?" I ask, jokingly.

"Not while you're driving," He replies. "But I did bring some if you want one tonight."

"Nah. No thanks," I tell him. "I was only pulling your leg... after last time."

He smirks. "Well, you'll have to wait until tonight to do that! Work before pleasure!" We laugh. He ruffles my hair again.

"OK, I'll have orange, thank you," I tell him.

Then he says, "Mrs Cameron has made a whole lot of peanut cookies and chocolate chip cookies for us. Do you want them with your orange, or would you prefer tea?"

"OK. Tea then. Thanks."

Using the thermos full of hot water, he makes a mug for me and one for himself. We sit on a log, share some of the cookies, drink our tea and chat.

I discover that he's pretty smart. Did well at school. Won a scholarship to university and is currently performing top of most of his classes. He lives on campus, plays piano, sings in a choir, swims twice per day and hangs out in the gym when he's not in class or doing something else.

"So, that's why you have such a great body," I tell him. I mean it.

"You're not too bad yourself, you know," he says. "And handsome. And playful. And you have a very positive aura."

"What's an aura?" I ask, stopping drinking. "I've never even heard that word before."

"It's the Greek word for `breeze'," he says. Sometimes I can see and feel the energy around a person. Yours is bright and positive, almost like a light. Your brother's is darker and more negative. I could tell you two apart anywhere! Even though you both might swap socks and cover up your eyebrows. That's why I like you."

"Karl and I have the same bodies. So, how come you like playing with my backside, and with my penis and balls and I don't see you trying to do it to him too?" I ask. I'm surprised at my own question but feel comfortable asking it. I have wondered about this, many times, since we first met.

"When I play with your body, your aura gets brighter. So, I know that you enjoy it. So do I. We're a good match, as well as a good work team."

"Weirdest thing I've ever heard," I tell him and ask, "How come I can't see anything around you, except a weird expression on your face when you look at me?"

"Not everyone has that ability." He explains. "I think that I'm just one of the lucky ones. I only mix with people who are positive. I think that it helps to keep me positive, too."

I wonder about Karl's aura. What Ron has said would support the fact that Karl likes to take advantage of me. I don't know what William's would be. I reckon it would change a lot, depending on who he's with.

Darker with his mother.

Brighter with Mr Grant. I've watched them. There's something about the two of them that seems to `brighten' when they're together!

And I imagine that Mr Grant must have a very positive aura, especially when he is `checking me out' and playing our `name game' or patting my backside. Is that why I'm attracted to him, like Ron said?

So, who is the real answer to my Birthday wish? At the moment, #2 looks like Mr Grant but feels like Ron. Maybe I'll work it out one day.

When Ron asks about me, I realise that I don't know myself very well. I find it difficult to tell him anything that he doesn't already know.

I do say that I'm good at Scrabble, I like playing pirates and Robin Hood and soccer and swimming and enjoy `mucking around' with my brother and one of our friends (but without any details).

I immediately wonder whether I should have mentioned that at all.

I don't say anything about liking Mr Grant.

I tell him that I can cook and he says that I just volunteered for a job tonight. Maybe breakfast tomorrow too.

"OK. Back to work," he announces, and packs everything up, stowing it again in the Land Rover.

I love driving. Following fence lines, we work hard and share the load for the next two hours and I discover that we have ended up back at the first cattle grid. I `park' the Land Rover and Ron collects a whole lot of stuff, gives me some to carry and we walk carefully across the grid. Ron spreads a rug under the tree.

Lunch is more relaxed than morning tea. Fresh sandwiches, couple of muffins and a mug of tea. When he's finished, Ron stretches out on his back, and suggests that I do the same.

I tell him that "I need to pee first. I haven't been all morning, and I'm busting."

"Actually," he says, "me too!" and jumps up.

I walk across to the tree, unzip and let fly. Ron joins me. We stand together, hosing the tree trunk. Watching each other's penis? Obviously.

Touching? No.

Smiling at each other? Yes.

I finish first, zip up and lie on the rug, hands behind my head, looking at the flecks of cloud in a bright blue sky. Ron lies beside me. We are silent for a while, then he asks, "What do you think of me, Kurt? Honestly."

This really catches me by surprise. What do I say? Do I tell him how great his body is, again? Do I comment on his muscles? His too-hard-to-grab-and-squeeze backside? His Moby Dick? His preference for me over my brother? His letting me drive? His teaching me fencing stuff?

"I like you," I say simply. "For lots of reasons." Then I add, "I don't know if it's all right for a 13-year old school boy to like an 18-year old university student, especially when you make my aura get brighter." I smile at what I'm really hinting to him. "But I do."

"Thank you," he says, but adds, "Do you hate me for wanting to do that kind of stuff with you?"

I take a deep breath. "It was a bit weird when you first did it," I tell him, "but, no, I don't hate you for doing it. In fact, I like it, and I like you. Thank you for letting me do stuff with you too."

I don't know where this conversation is going, or why he is asking.

I think, `He's only a year older than William, and I love having fun with William and Karl. And, I want to do stuff with Mr Grant who is a lot older than Ron. Why would I hate him?'

"Can I give you a hug?" he asks.

He's never asked me before about doing anything, so why now? I really don't know what's going on.

"Sure," I reply. "Just don't squeeze my balls too hard. Or I'll get even tonight." I laugh, expecting him to do the same, or to squeeze my balls anyway.

I'm equally surprised when he simply turns on his side, faces me, slides one arm underneath me and pulls me close to him, then on top of him when he rolls onto his back. Then he just holds on and hugs me. It feels really nice, like when my Mum used to hold me. And when Dad hugs me and tells me I'm handsome or smart or something.

No squeezing my balls, or even grabbing my cock.

"Thank you. I like you too. Now let's get moving, eh?" he says, letting me go and standing up to gather things.

I have no idea what all that was about, but I help to put everything into the Land Rover and jump up into the driver's seat again, ready to do more.

He tells me, "We'll go through that other gate and start there, going down that way, then around and we should meet up with this first fence again at its other end."

I picture it. Three sides, but no need to do the fourth side. We've already done it.

Two hours of work without too many repairs and we get there.

"Let's keep going, eh?" he says. "What do you think? Do you need to rest? You've been working as hard as I have. Do you want to stop for a mug of tea and more cookies?"

"No, not yet. I'm fine," I tell him.

Another gate and we continue heading north, farther away from the farm house.

I think that it's been almost another two hours, and I am feeling tired. "Can we take a break soon, Ron?" I ask him.

"Sure," he says. "In fact, let's just finish this line of fencing and then head straight up to the workers' hut. You've done an incredible amount for the first day. Are you sore anywhere?"

"Only around my shoulders," I say. "But the rest is OK. A bit tired though. And I would really like a can of orange."

We finish the fence to the corner. Ron puts the tools in the back and then says that he'll drive. I move to the passenger's seat and Ron heads out across the middle of the paddock and I soon see the hut. He pulls up near the door and says, "This is home for the next two nights. I'll show you inside and then we can bring in whatever needs to come in."

It's not as big as the bunk house near the main building. Ron tells me that it's mainly for guys working out this way so that they don't have to waste time travelling back to the bunk house if there is more work to be done up this way the next day.

The most obvious difference inside is that this place is mainly one big room, with a single door in one corner.

There is a shower in there, Ron tells me when I ask. "The toilet's outside," he says. "It doesn't flush."

I know what he means. It's like ours at home. In other words, it probably stinks.

On one wall, almost in the middle, is a bit of a kitchen area. And I see the fuel stove. One of its two doors is open and there is wood inside, ready to be lit.

Beside it, on the floor, is a stack of wood, and a bucket of kindling.

Ron tells me, "One of the rules for using the hut is that, before you leave, you have to set up a fire ready for the next person to light."

On the other side of the stove is a sink and then a long cupboard with four doors. The top of the cupboard is like our kitchen bench, where any food can be prepared.

Directly in front of the stove is an old lounge with 3 cushions. Off to one side is a small wooden table and four chairs. There are four single beds down the opposite wall to the `kitchen', table and shower. They look a bit bigger than my bed at home. Ron explains that some of the workers that his uncle used to employ were big men who needed a big bed. I get it.

"We'll light the stove now," Ron tells me, "so that when the temperature drops, the place will already be warm. And we can use the stove-top to cook." He corrects himself, smiling, "...YOU can use the stove-top to cook."

There are some cigarette lighters near the stove. He uses one to get the fire going, then closes the door so that the smoke goes up the pipe instead of filling the room.

"When it's well and truly burning," he says, "we can open the door and watch the flames. Or sit in on the lounge in front of it. Or stand with our backs to it. Whatever. Let's go and get the stuff out of the Land Rover."

We bring in our bags with our clothes and other things. Then, a second trip is for the food.

There is no electricity here, so Mrs Cameron has packed everything that needs to be kept cool into a large Esky. Ron and I take one handle each. Then there is a box with everything else. Cans, jars and packets. The Esky is put on the floor. The box on the cupboard top.

Ron retrieves a can of orange for me and a beer for himself. "You sure that you don't want one of these?" he asks.

"Thanks, but no thanks," I tell him, and pop the top of my can.

He pops his can and says, "Cheers, Champ!"

"Cheers, Moby" I say, and we clink cans. He laughs and so do I.

I think about what I have just said. After our time together today and getting to know him a bit better, I actually reckon that I might just call him `Ron'. He has suddenly become more to me than just a big dick.

We sit on the lounge and I can already feel a bit of heat from the stove. "Would you like a quick shower before dinner, or afterwards?" he asks me. Then he adds, People don't usually take long showers here. It saves water, and it's usually not hot. Warm though, because the pipes from the tank are laid on the roof, backwards and forwards to heat a large amount of water. Murder in winter, though!

The longer you stay in the shower, the colder the water will get. The water in the tank is pumped up from an underground bore. It's not really good to drink, but OK for showering and washing up. I've brought a couple of jerry cans of fresh water that we can use for cooking." He corrects himself, "That YOU can use for cooking." We both chuckle.

"Karl and I usually shower or have a bath before dinner," I say. "But I don't care, really. What about you?"

He pauses, as if considering the best option, and says, "Why don't we have dinner first, clean up, then have a quick shower together first, before we..." He doesn't finish, but puts his hand on the front of my jeans instead."

I begin to have an uncontrollable, but predictable, moment.

"Your aura is suddenly brighter," he says. He's really telling me that he can feel my dick getting hard and that he knows that I like it. He's right!

He surprises me by removing his hand and saying, "Not yet." Even though I was loving having his `Moby' hand feel my `Moby Junior' erection, I agree with him. Let's do it later.

 

(to be continued)

 

The parallel version to this story, is told through the eyes of Tom Grant, the `Schoolie'.
Find it at
https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/schoolie

If you'd like a full picture of their lives and thoughts, you should read both concurrently.

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rob.zz@hotmail.com

I try to reply to everyone.

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