Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2024 10:35:34 +0000
From: kentclarke69 <kentclarke69@proton.me>
Subject: LOVE COMES KNOCKING

LOVE COMES KNOCKING
by Kent Clarke

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LOVE COMES KNOCKING

"Sir, sir, are you asleep? Sir, sir?"

The boy's whisper became more insistent.

I lay there in the dark. I knew the boy was only three feet away from
me. Three feet away, in the twin bed usually occupied by his younger
brother, Leo, but occupied on this balmy Easter night by me, a family
friend.

Only three feet, but that small space was an abyss, a Black Hole into which
I could so readily fall, so willingly fall, and all it needed was a single
word.

"Sir, sir, I know you're not sleeping."

There was the tinkle of laughter in Adam's voice. No surprise. There was
always the tinkle of laughter in Adam's voice. It was there at twelve when
I first met him, eyes finding each other across a crowded school dining
hall, and it was still there on the last night of his 13th year.

"Close your eyes, Adam. Think of good things. You'll slip into sleep before
you know it."

"You know what I'm thinking about, sir. I'm 14 tomorrow. I'm not a junior
anymore."

That was true.

Adam was moving on to a public school for juniors and seniors. Adam had won
a scholarship. You have to be very bright to get a scholarship; Adam was in
the top ten percent. And I would be moving too in September as a sports
teacher - and deputy House Master in a boys' prep school.

A preparatory school (or, shortened: prep school) in the United Kingdom is
a fee-charging private primary school that caters for boys, girls, or mixed
from the ages 7 to 13.

"I can't get to sleep, sir. Too excited, I guess. Don't mind me
talking. You don't have to listen. But I know you're not sleeping, sir."

Adam was in full flow now. Babbling away like the busy brook outside the
window.

"It's not the same, sir. I... I mean, I'll miss you. I'll miss your tennis
lessons." (He paused.) "I'll miss being with you."

I turned to face him. I couldn't resist not facing him.

"I know I could go down to the club on Saturday morning. But it's not the
same. You're not there and I know I'll just fuck it up... Ooops," the boy
giggled. "Sorry about the four-letter one, sir. It just slipped in, but,
fuck it, I mean it."

That giggle.

"Do you remember me standing on your head?"

Yes, I remembered.

Adam would deliberately mis-hit a tennis ball so that it flew into the
upstairs viewing balcony. The area was locked. The only way to retrieve the
ball was to stand on someone's shoulders, then their head, and then
scramble over the wooden railing and onto the balcony.

Adam chose my shoulders, my head.

Did Adam know his baggy shorts and his even more baggy boxers gave an
unrestricted and inevitable view of his privates, his genitals, the
ping-pong-balled scrotum and the sleepy snake that hung over them?

He did.

I know because I made a joke more than once about the view as he wobbled
precariously on my shoulders and on my head. The knowledge encouraged him
rather than detered him, and even at 13, when Adam was becoming a big boy,
every session would have its moment when a mis-hit ball flew up into the
viewing balcony. It became a ritual. And the ritual grew until it included
Adam sliding down to 'safety', the length of his body pressed against mine.

Like many young teenage boys, Adam shied away from talking about sex but
seized opportunities to express the growing urges in tactile ways.

Once when I was taking digital photographs of Adam on a hot sunny day
racing round the tennis court on his bicycle - strictly forbidden - he
threw himself onto court as if shot, and lay there motionless on his
back. His shirt rose way up to his chest, his shorts hung low on his
hips. Adam reached to pull his shirt down, then in a moment pulled it back
up again. He knew what I wanted, and, as long as it was never expressly
mentioned, it was mine for the taking.

For two years I'd coached Adam in tennis. We'd spotted each other across
that crowded dining room, enchanted even though it wasn't evening, and both
of us had burst out laughing.

For me, it was those huge hazel eyes. The thick, unfashionably long
hair. The straight nose. The cheekbones. The flawless skin. The strong but
not heavy build that made most of the other 11 year olds look like refugees
from a junior school. And the supreme self-confidence of the genuinely
attractive.

Were we meant to be? Who knows? But if I hadn't chosen to take a stroll by
the sea that weekend, I wouldn't have come across Adam playing basketball
along the path. I may never have realised we lived so near each other. I'd
never have found out his mother was keen Adam learn to play tennis, nor
that the public tennis courts lay equidistant from our homes.

Two years.

Two years of sunny, mostly, Saturday and Sunday mornings on the tennis
courts. Two years of being a family-friend. Two years of fun and laughter
and barbecues on the beach. Two years of sharing Adam through those magical
years.

Two years of 'baby-sitting' Adam and Leo to give his mum and dad a
break. They were gone this weekend, taking Leo with them. Adam had talked
them into letting him stay home, a birthday present. And then he'd talked
me into sharing the boys' bedroom.

And now here was Adam, on the night before his 14th birthday, tall for his
age, his hair at shoulder length, his body that of a powerful young man,
but still a boy, still that tinkling laughter, describing the chords in his
band's latest composition, and still happy to be with me.

"Shit, I can't sleep. And I think I pulled a muscle. And you're no
help. You're not even listening, are you? Well, are you?"

My words were muffled in a sigh.

"There, I knew it!"

Adam was triumphant.

"I knew you weren't sleeping at all, sir."

"Adam,..."

"Yes, sir."

The eagerness in the boy's voice was comical. I knew he was on his side
now, leaning on an elbow, chin cupped in one hand, gazing across the gap,
anticipating a conversation that might prove endless.

"Adam, stop calling me, sir. And, Adam, shut up."

"I have to call you 'sir'. You said I couldn't call you JD."

"I said you couldn't call me JD when we are in school."

"Okay then... JD."

The silence was for me to fill. I couldn't fill it. I could hardly
breathe. Adam's face was three feet away from mine, and I had an erection
beginning to ache.

"Adam, roll over and go to sleep."

"Can't. Told you I'm too excited. And I'm sure I've pulled a muscle." The
second remark was pronounced like the clincher.

"I suppose I could... you know..."

"Know what?"

Silence.

"Have a wank. That always helps."

No giggle, this was deadly serious. This was a new Adam. He'd jumped one of
the hurdles

"Have a wank then," I said, as unfazed as I could manage. "But keep it
quiet."

"Don't be stupid. It's only us in the house. Leo wanks as well. He still
tries to keep it dead quiet like he wasn't doing it, but I tell him to
hurry the fuck up - I want to go to sleep."

"Well, get on with it," I whispered, my hand reaching inside my pyjama
shorts, wondering if I could be as quiet as Adam.

"It won't be enough," continued Adam, "and I think I've got a pulled
muscle."

"How can you 'think' you've got a pulled muscle? You'd know if you had a
pulled muscle."

I was wide awake and happily exasperated.

"Well, I know I've got a pulled something, and you should help me with it."

"Why the fuck should I help you with it?"

Adam cheerily tut tutted my 'fuck'?

"'Cos you're my tennis coach, and that's what coaches are supposed to
do. They're supposed to tend to the players' needs."

For a moment I thought Adam was taking the piss. Then I realised he was
deadly serious.

I heaved another sigh.

"And just what do you expect me to do?"

"At least check it out."

"Adam..." I made one last effort to avoid the Black Hole.

"...Adam it's midnight."

"Please, please, pretty, please."

Irresistible.

I heard Adam budge over. I saw the moonlight slash across his bed. I edged
out of mine and slid over to his. I sat there looking down at him. Christ,
he was beautiful.

He lay there, head on pillow, his long thick hair splayed beneath him. His
pyjama top was open. The duvet pushed down to his waist, the edge of his
blue boxers revealed. His torso was long, his chest sculpted, his belly
completely flat, his belly button indented, his hips like butterflies, his
nipples...

I adjusted myself to hide my erection, glad of the moon-struck gloom.

"Where is it then?" I asked stupidly.

"It's between my legs, of course," Adam giggled, then added, "no, it my
stomach, I mean."

He reached for my hand and pressed it against his stomach - smooth, firm,
warm. He moved the palm of my hand in circles around his stomach.

Once I had the rhythm, his hand went under his head to cup his other
hand. I sat there facing up the bed, looking into Adam's face and eyes as
my hand circled and caressed his flat belly.

"Mmmmmm, that's nice," the boy sighed. "That's really nice."

I couldn't think of anything to say. There didn't need to be anything to
say.

My hand circled up to his chest. There didn't seem to be any medical
justification for this. I knew I shouldn't do it. I knew I would do it. My
finger tips ran across Adam's right nipple, a hard little currant in the
middle of a pale brown aureole. I slid across to his left nipple, worked it
a little, and then slid down to his stomach again.

"It's a bit lower," he whispered, leaving 'it' unspecified. "Duvet's in the
way.".

Adam reached his right hand to the duvet, raised it, and flicked it to his
knees.

I'd like to say I gasped. That would be an erotic note, but I didn't. I'm
not sure I had the breath to gasp.

Adam had an erection.

That doesn't do justice to it at all.

Adam had a big hard cock, not only outlined against his thin boxer shorts,
but raising his boxer shorts so that fabric was stretched into a tent. The
middle of the boxers were pulled down into a V.

A small bush of dark brown hair.

"Please."

There it was. That one single word that cleansed the doors of perception,
and opened the way to heaven or to hell or to a combination of both of
them.

Adam raised his bottom from the bed, and left the decision to me.

I slid my fingers below the elasticated waist, raised the boxers and slid
them to his knees. His penis, released to the night air, literally bounced
into view. Around my head I could hear the angels sing in chorus: "Free at
last. God almighty, free at last."

Behind me I heard Adam giggle and flutter his lips.

My fingers and thumb closed round the boy's erection, his hard-on, his
stiffy. The shaft was hot. No nonsense about burning my fingers or any of
that nonsense, but it was hot, and it was pulsating.

Then I realised... sweet 14. Adam had slipped into his 14th birthday
without either of us noticing it. How could we have missed that?

Adam was BIG.

At 14, he was around five-ten, big hands, big-boned feet. I don't know if
there's any relationship between overall size and dick size, but Adam had
the right size of dick for his body.

His dick was/is at least 7 inches long, and he was still a growing boy. His
cock was not slim; it was not a little boy's cock; it was a man's cock with
all the sweet innocence you might expect from a boy's cock.

Adam wasn't circumsized, few English boys are, and the foreskin slid back
easily to reveal a clearly-defined little pink mouth with little pink
lips. He was already wet and slippery.

Two blue veins twined up from his balls disappearing onto the shaft an inch
or so from the slightly bulbous head. The urethra was also clearly defined.

Adam's legs were open, and his balls had already risen in his scrotum. I
wondered how long he had lain there playing with himself, gathering the
courage to take me where he wanted us to be.

I held the shaft, gently squeezing, easing, then squeezing again. My free
left hand pressed against Adam's stomach that was taut as a washboard. I
could hear his breathing quicken and deepen.

"You can kiss it if you want to," he whispered.

I loved that. Not 'play with it', 'wank it', 'suck it', but 'kiss it'. That
was so appropriate, so romantic, so...

"Then you can suck it."  (He paused.) You can deep throat me if you like."

... fourteen years old!

I shouldn't have been surprised. This was the age of
pornography. Computers, laptops, smart phones. Next he'd be asking me to
rim him. Was that wishful thinking - on my part?

Yes, sir, no, sir, Three bags full, sir, In for a penny, in for a pound.

I lowered my face, breathed in deeply, and slid my lips over the head,
immediately tasting the boy's juices. I thought I heard Adam sigh behind
me, but it could have been me.

Those who have sucked the erect penis of a 14-year-old boy will know that
words can never do the experience justice. Those who haven't sucked a boy's
penis, but who have wanted to, will never reach that calm ecstasy through
words. There is just something so right about it, especially when the boy
initiates it because then you are assured you are giving as much pleasure
as you are taking, and that's what makes it right.

None of which was in my mind as I sucked Adam to orgasm.

I kept it simple.

I wanted to search between his legs, find his anus, push my slick middle
finger inside him, find his prostate gland, and give him an orgasm he'd
never forget. But I didn't. That was associated with MY desires and not
with his, though I have to admit I wasn't entirely sure what Adam's
'desires' were until he confessed them to me in the morning.

For the moment I concentrated on giving my sweet Adam the first, as far as
I knew, and best, hopefully, blow job he'd had in his young life. I didn't
kid myself that Adam loved me or was 'in love' with me. He wasn't! He was
'in love' with his guitar, his band, their brand of heavy metal, with his
appearance, and with being a teenager. Exactly as it should be.

I was an experiment, a ship in the night, definitely worth boarding for a
little while, but probably not worth staying on till it hit the iceberg.

Adam's body trembled and shook. His buttocks rose from the bed. He pushed
himself deeper into my throat. His knees would have knocked together if
they'd been near each other. His tummy tightened and fluttered
uncontrollably. His hands gripped my hair, pushing my head into his groin
until his pubic hair stuck up my nose.

Three - four - five - six times he forced me down while he bounced up to
meet me. I tasted nothing. His semen by-passed my taste buds completely. He
fired his cum straight down my gullet. Ah, the young are so immediate.

I lay there gasping and spluttering like a landed trout. I realised with
some degree of unnecessary shame that I'd cum, too, and cum forcefully at
that. I risked a glance up at Adam. He lay there with his elbow across his
eyes. I couldn't read what he was feeling. I looked down his body. His cock
had softened but was a floppy snake.

I risked a look at Adam.

He was sitting up in bed, grinning from ear to ear, the duvet still thrown
back, but his penis tucked back inside his boxers.

"Please stay here for the rest of the night," he whispered. "I promise I'll
go to sleep now."

"Mmmmm...," I grunted.

"Kissie goodnight," he giggled.

His lips on mine. His tongue wiggling into my mouth. Mine into his. Sharing
saliva. Try to deep throat with our tongues. Adam asleep within ten
minutes. His new hard-on squashed against mine. Arms round each other. Both
of us asleep.

Have you ever woken but couldn't figure whether you were awake or dreaming?

It took me a few moments to remember where I was and why I was there.

Sleeping beside Adam.

But Adam wasn't there.

I felt movements down there, between my legs, a hump below the single bed
sheet we used on a warm night like this. But the hump was moving.

What was it? Could it be? No, it couldn't.

Yes it was.

Adam was down there, between my legs, and his mouth... his reddish lips
around my cock, my erection... bobbing up and down the shaft.

Reflexively, I began to face-fuck him. Gently. Not too much. Not too
sudden. Yet deeper in his mouth, heading towards his throat.

My fingers were round his head, feeling the thick brown hair as it shifted,
pulling slightly back each time the newly fourteen-year-old gagged, giving
him to recover his breath. Then pushing it in a little deeper until the boy
felt it enter his tight throat. I heard him struggle and eased him back
until he was free of my body.

I flicked the bed sheet onto the floor. I looked down. Adam was grinning up
at me as he wiped his lips.

"I'm not finished yet," he whispered.

I pulled him to me. Shared a morning kiss. Eased him on his back. Eased
myself backwards until I was kneeling, a leg on either side of his face.

"Okay, Adam, I want you to try and relax your throat. I'm going to slowly,
gently push in deeper. Just relax. Let it slide in. If you start to gag,
I'll gently pull back a bit. Okay?"

"Mmmm," he said, his lips around the head of my swollen cock.

The boy pushed forward, pulled back, pushed and pulled, controlling his gag
reflexes until he, and I, could feel the tip of tongue brush the back of
his throat. His rosy lips slipped down the shaft. Once he was comfortable,
he began to bob up down my erection.

"Just a little bit more," I said, mainly because gagging was making it more
difficult for him. We were here for pleasure, not for discomfort of any
kind.

"That's it, sweetheart. That's enough. I'm sliding out. You slide yourself
up here."

Adam was blushing red as I pulled him into me. It tok a couple of minutes
for him to regain his speech.

"Did I do okay?"

"More than okay. Amazing. Where did you learn that?"

"I just saw it on porno videos. It looked very sexy."

"And is it?"

More blushing.

"You bet!"

And this time we both laughed.

And is there anything else you saw that looks 'very sexy'?"

This time there was a long pause.

"Adam, you can tell me anything. You know that, don't you?"

The pause was even longer.

He took a deep breath.

He looked away from me, and muttered something.

"Pardon?"

A shorter pause... then:

"Rimming. I want to try rimming."

"Oh, you'd like me to rim you? Are you sure you know what rimming is?"

The boy snorted at me.

"Of course I do. Me and my mates have watched it lots of time. We dare each
other. But nobody's taken the dare yet. I know you have to clean out your
hole first. Nobody wants any you know..."

I nodded..

"Yes," he added... "but I want to rim you first."

"Okay," I laughed. "But we're having a hot shower first. Then making
breakfast. Then getting our tennis kits. Then heading for the tennis
court... You can wait for your tongue up my bum till the afternoon."

We laughed together, and I'm still amazed how comfortable we were.

"Now get into the shower while I tidy up the bedroom."

"Spoilsport. I've seen you in the tennis showers lots of times. Why can't
we share this one?"

"For a start the shower here is much smaller," I sighed. "For another, if I
see you naked, I'm not sure I'll be able to keep my hands off you."

"Yes, sir!" Adam saluted. "Bum-boy Adam is at your pleasure." He turned his
back on me, Bent over, and pulled his buttocks apart. His little starfish
with its tanned rim seemed to throw a kiss at me.

How had I struck it to so lucky? A newly turned 14-year-old with a great
sense of humour was making his body completely available to me.

Adam didn't stand up or turn round. He waddled to the shower room
downstairs and got down the steps, his cheeks pulled wide apart, his anus
so utterly kissable.

I used the upstairs bathroom for a quick shave, clean bits and pieces, dry
myself, got into my bedroom and pulled on my tennis gear. Then downstairs
to the kitchen.

I didn't bother with the radio. Adam was whistling 'Whistle you work.'  I'd
miss him badly when school started, but we'd always have the tennis to
share.

...and rimming.

"Life is what happens to you when you're busy making..."  Who said that?

"The best laid schemes of mice and..." I remember who wrote that. I've been
brushing up on reading the English programme I'll be teaching at my new
school. I'd be doing English only five hours a week, my main focus will on
PE and running the junior house, but I like making a good job of anything I
undertake.

The tennis session was brilliant. How was I to know it was the last of our
summer?

Adam had mastered his slice shot with both top spin and side spin to
undercut topspin, and make the ball sit lower on the court. You just try to
crouch down and slash through the ball. A little bit old-fashioned but very
few players at any age are ready for it nowadays.

I didn't have to teach him the drop shot; he's a natural. He catches me out
time and again; and I used to play county tennis. You'd think a
thirteen-year-old boy had more on his mind than rimming me!

The rimming never happened - at least not then.

To cut a long story short, a series of telephone calls had Adam on the
train to his family and me on an evening flight to San Remo in Liguria, to
be paid an absurd amount of euros to teach tennis to two kids - who
happened to be the twin sons of Count .......... .

Two ten-year-olds! NO! I had to keep my hands on my own balls.

Ah well, life goes on.

By September 15th, I'd settled in St. B's, a boys' preparatory school, deep
in the heart of --------- . Ninety nine boys, aged 7 to 13, with me as
their deputy, live-in House Master. Plus 101 non-boarders.

It's a warm afternoon in late September. The sun still streaks the lawns
but the heat is ebbing away. A gentle breeze ruffles the lake. You hang out
your second floor window drinking in the scents of autumn.

Voices carry on the breeze to tell you the last bus is pulling out of the
school grounds. Only half a dozen boarders remain and even they've
retreated to the indoor swimming pool. The boarding house is yours and
yours alone.

Not quite.

Finger nails drum at your door. You sigh and call, "Come in."

The door swings open. It's Toby. Still in his cricket whites. They'd played
the last cricket match of the year. You're no cricketer, but you umpired
the match. Tennis is your love; tennis and boys.

"Waiting for mum, sir," says Toby with a confidence showing how comfortable
he is to be here with you. "May I wait here, sir?"

Toby doesn't feel the need to give you further explanation. He has the
self-assurance that good looks brings.

Besides, he knows you like him; after all, Toby is the top pupil in your
English class. Certain for a scholarship. Confident but never arrogant. For
all the certainty that beauty, sporting prowess and academic ability bring,
Toby is rather lonely. Lonely because he has no father; a mother and two
sisters, but no father.

"Make us some lemonade. There's a good lad," you smile. "I need to get out
of these whites."

Toby makes for the refrigerator. He knows where the lemonade us, knows
where the ice is, knows where the glasses are. All the boys do, boarders
and non-boarders. You are known for your open-house; you are strict when
you have to be, but otherwise you are open, easy-going, friendly. After
all, there's no reason for you not to be. You are in paradise and you know
it.

Boys, 7 to 13. Two floors. Average: 6 boys to a dorm. And you are the
Deputy Housemaster. You live in. The Matron lives in. But you're the man of
the house; the boys are in your charge, under your orders.

It is you who gets them up in the morning, watches them shuffle sleepy-eyed
to the showers, watches them as they strip and hang their pyjamas on the
brass hooks, watches them as they stumble like blind baby mice under the
spitting shower heads, gasping until the cold water turns to a warm embrace
that enfolds their naked vulnerable bodies, the water coursing...

"A splash of vodka, sir?"

"Excuse me?"

You're standing in tight white underpants and white socks, your tennis
shirt and shorts carelessly discarded. Toby does not bat his eyelashes; you
are all men and boys together. You reach for track-suit bottoms and a fresh
T-shirt.

"Vodka, sir. In your lemonade, sir? In MY lemonade, sir?" The emphasis on
the 'my' makes Toby's request half comic, half serious. "Mum lets me have a
little touch now and again."

"Do you want to get us both into trouble?"

"But there's nobody here, sir, just me and you. We can do whatever we
want."

"Well, getting you tiddly isn't something I want to do, young man. Lemonade
will do. Now park your arse over there while I get dressed."

"Park your 'lovely' arse," almost slipped out. The quicker you are into
clothes the better.

Toby settles down on the three-seater couch, buttermilk with thin brown
stripes. The boys love it. Four can share it, sprawl across it, fight for
possession, and treat it, and the room, as if it were their own territory.

You settle down on the carpet in front of the boy. You are comfortable, he
is comfortable. Outside all is stillness, even the songbirds are drowsed by
the late afternoon sun.

The conversation is fitful, desultory, haphazard as if being together were
enough, as if man and boy are waiting for something. Toby finishes his
lemonade, lays it aside and picks up your new calculator.

"What's this?"

You lay aside your drink and reply, "It's my new calculator. But it's also
a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a translator. It translates English into
French, German and Spanish. And it has some games you can play."

"Cool," smiles Toby and begins to explore the possibilities.

You are sitting directly in front of him. He is tall for his age, and slim,
the kind of slimness that is elegant. Longish face. Wide-set blue-green
eyes. Eyebrows are brown slashes counterpointed by the rosy pink slash of
his lips. His skin is flawless, creamy porcelain kissed by the sun.

His cricket shirt is open to the third button and you notice how
translucent the skin is; you can see the blue veins in his neck. His long
legs, white flannels, are crossed at the ankles.

You reach forward and idly draw his knees together and apart, together and
apart, together and apart. You watch the creases of the fabric in his
crotch and you wonder about the skin below; how pale, translucent and
fragile it must be. You realise what you're doing and stop.

"Don't stop... that's nice."

You look up. Toby's eyes are fixed on the small screen of the calculator.

"It's nice... I like that... don't stop."

Together, apart, together, apart... you recommence the rhythm.

The white fabric across Toby's crotch has tented. Lazily, with a sigh, you
run your thumbs along the inside of each thigh, moving towards the
tent. Toby widens his legs and keeps them open.

"You have beautiful skin," you hear yourself whisper.

No reply, but the boy shifts along the couch as if making room for you. You
slide from the carpet to the couch. You sit alongside the boy. You lean
your head on his shoulder as if to share the calculator. You drink in his
smells: sweat and milk, that's what you're reminded of, sweat and milk. You
reach across and push the slash of straight brown hair from the boy's eyes.

You reach down and slip open the fourth button on his white shirt, then the
fifth. You tug the shirt gently open on both sides. Toby shifts to make it
easier for you.

You are fascinated by the translucency, the fragility of the boy's
skin. Creamy ivory. His nipples are pink raspberries reminding you this boy
is barely into puberty. You run your fingertips over his nipples; they are
hard little nubs; your fingertips pass over the skin of his chest, his
tummy, the stretch of white skin above the belt of his cricket flannels.

A bead of sweat is hidden in his tummy button. You retrieve it, bring the
moisture to your lips, and lick it away.

You want to explore further, but your erection is uncomfortable. You need
to straighten it. You rise for a moment, and...

And Toby reaches out and traces the length of your erect penis between the
thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. You look down at him. You
blush. You're about to push his hand away when he pushes his face hard
against your erection. He moves his face side to side; his nose fences with
your hard-on.

"Please, sir, please," he mumbles.

Half in fear, half in desire, you place your hand on the top of Toby's
head, run your fingers through his thick straight lustrous brown hair. Toby
has one hand on your buttock, pulling you towards him; the other hand is
measuring your erection in squeezes. You can feel your hips begin
reflexively to push your groin into the boy's face. He is making little
whines, moans and grunts.

It is becoming more and more difficult to think.

Toby's hands and fingers are on either side of your waist, edging down the
track suit bottoms, and again comes the whispered, "Please, sir, please."

The track suit bottoms have built-in underpants. They are coming down,
too. In a few moments you will be naked, exposed, your arousal impossible
to deny.

Toby is kissing your pubic hair.

Running his lips side to side along the hair, all the time sliding down the
bottoms inexorably. The head of your stiff penis bobs up as if for air; you
can feel the hot flesh against the cool of the boy's cheek. Then as more
and more of you is exposed, you can feel the shaft pressed the length of
one side of the boy's cheek.

A sudden jerk and the track suit bottoms are below your knees.

You want to step away. You want to kneel and pull the boy's trousers and
underpants down to his knees. You want him to be equal, to share
equally. You know that this elegant boy will have an elegant penis, that it
will be as hard as a board marker, hot, hard and tasting of boy.

Toby is tasting you. Licking the length of your erection while one set of
long cool fingers gently kneads your scrotum. How can this boy, so young,
know so much?

Now the boy is taking you in, sliding the length of you deep into his
mouth, towards his throat. You are not hugely endowed. You are a
respectable seven and something inches, but your penis is thick and you
worry Toby may injure himself. But the boy settles for half your penis and
begins to bob up and down on the shaft.

You feel his warm saliva running along the shaft. You look down and see the
boy is squeezing the tent in his crotch. You should be doing that for him
but he refuses to allow you to manoeuvre; Toby is in charge; you are there
for the ride; go with it.

You won't be able to go with it for long. The boy's mouth is warm and wet,
his lips tight on your shaft as they slide its length again. You can feel
the pleasure across your entire groin.

Suddenly, almost without warning, your hips begin to buck; they are beyond
your control even if you wanted to exercise control. And the boy below you
is bucking, too. You squirt and spurt uncontrollably. You haven't cum like
this for a long time; your body and brain are making the most of it.

It's all too sensitive. You pull back. Frantically try to control your
senses. You look down. Two lines of semen drip from Toby's lips and
chin. Another two are splatted across his chest. A large gob of semen
obliterates his left nipple. He licks the semen from his lips.

The boy's eyes are glazed. He is smiling.

"Sir, may I change out of my cricket gear? Maybe Matron can wash them. Just
throw them in the clothes basket."

"Good thinking," you say "How long will it be before mum gets here?"

He glances at his watch.

"Great. We've got nearly an hour. Sorry I forgot to tell you she's going to
be late. She told me to tell you. And she told me to ask you if you'd like
to come for dinner, one evening next week. She really likes you. Actually
she fancies you a lot," he completes the news with a giggle.

All the while, this 13-year-old, who's just filled his mouth - and tummy -
with his teacher's cum, is sliding out of his shirt, cricket whites, and
Y-fronts. And he has the cheek to have a hard-on pointing up to his belly.

Withing asking or instruction, Toby stretching himself the length of the
couch, his thick brown hair hanging over the arm, his feet propped up on
the other arm. I'm still surprised he is so comfortable in his own
nakedness.

I run my lips gently across his full lips. He moves them away for a second,
then returns them to mine. No surprise. Boys this age aren't fond of being
kissed, I run the tip of my tongue along his lips, probing, until his
response is to let the tip of his tongue pop out to rub along mine. I
stroke one length of his body from shoulder to hip, to keep his senses
involved, and because his skin is silken.

Man and boy kiss each other. Nothing too deep. No French kissing. No
invasion. No exchange of saliva. That will come in time.

My lips leave his lips and slide under his chin onto his throat. No Adam's
apple yet. But I open my mouth wide and hold his throat, sucking gently,
from there sliding along his shoulder blades.

"Raise your arms," I whisper. "Cross your hands under your
head. Comfortable."

His armpits are like chalices. Not the least sign of hair. My tongue
strokes the insides, lapping, licking, kissing, sucking. No hair, just a
layer of sweat. The boy has been playing cricket all afternoon. I use my
tongue and lips to savour the sweat. This is young boy sweat. Only the
taste of cock can match this. For the first time, Toby whimpers.

My lips and tongue slide down to his chest. Although he is slim, not
skinny, his chest is developing beautifully. As are his nipples. No flat,
they prominent enough for my to slide my lips around. Below, my fingers are
brushing his flat tummy, sliding onto his pubic area and back up to his
button. Instinctively, Toby widens his feet and legs on the arm of the
couch.

My lips are round his belly button now, an innie for the record, they slide
in turn to each side of his butterfly hips. I give the tip of his erection
its first touch and kiss. Like most English boys, Toby isn't
circumcised. The head of his cock, has already forced its way beyond the
foreskin. I rest my lips on the little eye. The head is wet and slippery.

For the first time, 13-year-old Toby groans.

My left arm and hand slide down to the arm of the sofa. I nudge his feet
wider apart. He is open to me wide now. I slide my hand and fingers between
his cheeks. I would love to slide my head down beteen his cheeks, widen his
buttocks even more, kiss and lick them, let my tongue tip towards his anal
opening, run my tongue their length, press the tip against the tiny mouth,
gently press until his first sphincter gives away, and I'm inside the boy.

But I don't.

Touching a boy's anus is maybe the scariest step. Boys have been brought up
to believe their bum holes are dirty, they are taboo. Even when they learn
to finger-fuck themselves in bed at night, even when they start using a
pencil, a candle, the handle of a hairbrush, even when they stick their
fingers in their mouths, they are never entirely comfortable with what
they've done. Even in the age of pornography, watching it is far from doing
it.

I stroke Toby's opening.

I'm sucking his erection. I take his balls into my mouth now and again -
because I can, and I want everything to become acceptable. Adam may be
gone; Toby will be here for a year.

Toby's bum is bouncing up and down on the couch. He may not realise it, but
he's face-fucking me. He even has one hand around the back of my head,
encouraging me to take him deeper and deeper.

Little spurts hit the back of my throat.

Utterly tasteless.

Utterly wonderful.

I let him fall back. I slide out of him. I reach out for my glass and
finish my vodka and lemonade.

Those big eyes open.

I smile.

Toby grins.

"What now?" he whispers. "Are you going to...?"

"This what you're going to do. Take those two bathroom towels. Get to the
showers. Take your clothes with you. Shower properly. Throw the towels in
the clothes' bins. Get dressed. Come back here."

For a moment he looks disappointed.

"Get your bum back here. I'll have a couple of honey drinks ready. Then
I'll teach you more backgammon.

"Get it?"

"Got it?"

"Good."

The rest of the hour worked well. Toby's mum - Ashley - arrived a useful
bit late. Most folk would take her as his older sister, rather than his
mother. She was fun to be with, but when we had a moment without Toby, she
said:

"Thanks for taking an interest in Toby. He thinks the world of you. He
never knew his father. And it's important boys his age have some men around
them they can rely on and learn from."

When Toby came back, Ashley said, "Good news, boyo. Sir will be able to
come for dinner on Wednesday evening..."

"Great!"

"But there's a condition..."

"What?!"

"YOU have to make the dessert."

"Oh, is that all? I like cooking. Leave it to me."

As they pulled out in their Peugeot 208, waving au revoir, I stuck my
fingers in my mouth and sucked on them.

It was fulfilling to know those very fingers had been up Toby's arse hole
only half an hour ago.

I lie back on the couch and think over what's happened. I know I've crossed
the line. All the promises I made to myself have been broken. I thought, I
hoped I could be amongst over a hundred boys and keep my hands from them. I
could love them from a distance - even a distance of three feet when they
were naked in the showers. Who was I kidding? I already had another hard-on
remembering how my lips ran the length of a naked 13-year-old boy's body.

What was it Toby had asked me?

"Are you going to fuck me, sir?"

"I certainly am not!"

"Why not? Don't you like me enough?"

"Of course I do." (pause) "Because you're only thirteen, Toby. I haven't
got a huge dick but I could hurt you. I would have to stretch your anus
open."

"I won't mind."

"You could end up bleeding. There are things like infection. I care about
you too much to take any chances. So, the answer is no, much as I'd love
to."

(pause)

"Well, could I try fucking you?" (pause) "Sorry for my language, sir."

"It's a bit early to be thinking about that."

"Can I think about it?"

I couldn't help bursting out laughing - and Toby joined me."

"It's my turn to ask a question if you don't mind."

"'Course you can, sir. You're the teacher."

"Well, have you had sex before? I don't want any names."

Toby looked thoughtful.

"Yes, sir. Three of us have sex. We all watch porno, you know. But we just
toss each other off. We haven't tried sucking each other off, sir. But
Ben..."

Silence fell with a thud.

Toby went bright red.

"Sorry, Toby. I didn't catch the last thing," I lied. "Anyway, we've run
out of time. Listen. That must be your mum. There's the car on the
gravel. Let's go out and meet her."

Toby stood up, stepped towards me, and hugged me. I hugged him back. He
skipped out of my room and down the stairs.

"Mum! Mum! We're coming!"

I sighed. I'd crossed the line. Was it worth even making another promise to
myself?

Dinner on Tuesday evening was thoroughly enjoyable, though Ash admitted it
was only a 'quickie' since she'd been held at her office until seven. Some
'quickie' - pepperoncini chicken & rice, with a fruity Italian red,
followed by Sex in a Pan!

I'd never heard of it. My contribution was a blush. It's a crazy name for a
dessert, but it's one of the best desserts you'll ever have. It's mostly a
delicious pudding dessert with a crunchy pecan crust, with a Chenin Blanc
bubbly. Toby was allowed a glass, and sat grinning like the Cheshire cat.

We swapped a bit of each other's history. It turned out she had her own
very successful cosmetic line - hence this home in the Oaks and her Peugeot
208, but she was anything but boastful, and insisted on not sending Toby to
a boarding house, either at junior or secondary level.

I babbled on a bit about sports, and was able to say I'd down well at
Wimbledon juniors. I wanted to use my teaching certificate to travel round
the world. Next stop Sydney where I already had a job waiting for me, but
not till the end of my current year at St. B's.

Ash revealed something I didn't know. Toby was a swimmer, and not just any
swimmer. Though he was 13, he swam at and for a well-known swimming
club... and, wait for it, he was already swimming with the Under 15s! I
made a mental note to chat with him later.

We finished the evening with a round of backgammon: Toby played well, Ash
played very well, and... well, it was my game. No mercy!

My taxi arrived on time: 9.30. I was on duty in the House at 7am. Toby had
to be in school at 8am. Ash had to be in her office - whenever it suited
her.

We said our goodnights, and made dinner a regular monthly event, starting
with Toby and I as chef and assistant chef.

I can't claim to be bisexual, but I'm able to do my bit when duty
calls. And if Ashley really does fancy me - oh, for fuck's sake grow up!

Let's take a stroll around the boarding house. It's a three-storey
red-brick Victorian building set in its own park, with its own lake - out
of bounds unless supervised.

To the left of the building is a two storey house. That's for the
Housemaster (the boss) and his wife. Group Captain Prain, ex-RAF, and one
of the best men I've ever seen handling boys. His wife is lovely too even
though she's on the edge of alcoholism. Both in their late 50s, and they
both liked me!

The main building three storeys. The ground floor is divided into areas,
including changing rooms after sports - mind the rugby boot whistling past
your head - a large area for gatherings, and for the nightly one-hour prep
in silence - another area with massive cupboards for laundry, and the
official for visitors.

The second storey is divided into dorms for the 7 to 10 aged pupils. They
have their own common room and showers. A suite on the far right is for
Matron, Mrs Grogg, and a smaller suite on the left for her young assistant,
expected to arrive at the end of September. Mrs Grogg is far from being an
alcoholic but she does like her tipple of gin when she's off duty.

The third storey is divided into dorms for the 11 to 13s, their common
room, and the showers and the baths. They have four to a dorm while the
youngsters downstairs manage to cram in six.

I'm on the third storey with my bed room on the far right, and my own
living room on the left. It looks out over the park and the playing
areas. I also have my own bathroom.

I'm not over-worked. I have every third weekend off when Captain Prain
takes responsibility for the House. During the week, I have one evening off
when non-boarding teachers take turns supervising the House from 4pm to
10pm. They like me - because I'm likeable - and because I usually let them
go at 8pm and take over showers and bedtime. They don't have much interest
in watching naked boys run along the corridors from the showers to the
dorms. Ah, what a martyr I am!

And, of course, the boys adore me. I'm young, I love sports, and I organise
football matches after prep. Football as in soccer. Like most if not all
prep schools, rugby is the name of the game. No official football
permitted, though everyone is happy about me organising matches after
school. I don't play myself, but prep kids are drilled into fair play, so
once I've organised fair sides I buzz off and let them get on with it.

Ah, but there are my Year 6 English classes, and I'm free to pick the
topics and the grammar to cover. It's great to have them all in class, and
I'm impressed Toby treats me casually and politely, just like every other
boy in the class.

It's two weeks later when I have the weekend off. Having nothing in
particular to do, I swap Saturday afternoon with Captain Prain who's taking
almost all of the boys, the boarders, into town for the afternoon. Mrs
Grogg has disappeared too, off to meet her new assistant in the town.

The Indian summer is still with us. I put on shorts and a t-shirt. Lie
back, close your eyes, and remember the touch of Toby's skin on your
lips. Ah, those butterfly kisses.

Rapping at the door. Brief but insistent. The door flies open. In bursts
Ben. As always Ben is in a hurry. As always Ben is on fire.

"Arsenal, sir. On the radio. They're playing! Oh, do let's listen,
sir. Where's the radio, sir?"

"Ben. Calm down. Aren't you in town?"

Stupid question, gets what it deserves.

"No, sir. I'm not in town. I'm here."

You swing yourself reluctantly from the couch. "Sit down. Shut up. I'll get
the radio. It's in my... the other room."

You almost say 'bedroom'. Every boy in the House knows it's your
bedroom. But there's an agreement, an understanding, a conspiracy that no
one shall call it by that name, so your bedroom is 'your other room'.

"No time, sir. They're playing NOW!"

And Ben is out of the sitting room, down the corridor, and through the
other door. You follow. You aren't worried. The cleaners have come and
gone. It's Matron's day off. The place will stand empty until the boys come
crashing through the double doors at five.

You follow Ben into the other room. He is stretched full length on your
bed, face down, head resting on his arms, your small radio on the pillow by
his cheek. You notice he is in his tennis shorts, shirt and socks. He's
already kicked off his trainers; how considerate, how thoughtful.

"Sit down, sir, sit down," urges Ben patting the space he has left for you
at his side. He's frantically twiddling the radio.

If Toby is exotic, Ben is pure English peaches and cream - though he, too,
has been kissed by the summer sun, and his freckles are more pronounced
than ever.

His high forehead is fringed by thick corn-coloured hair with a central
parting that varies from day to day. His skin is blemished by nothing but
freckles. His genuinely blue eyes are wide set and generous. His lips
pinkly inviting.

Ben is a well-built boy, not heavy set, but with the upper shoulders of a
weight lifter and the waspish waist of the first class swimmer he is. He is
also a bundle of pure energy.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!"

"What's shit?"

"Arsenal aren't on. It's Man. United. Who wants to listen to them?  Shit!
Shit! Shit!"

To these adds "Ouch!"

"What's up?"

I've got a crick in my back, sir, low down, sir."

"Then see Matron," you advise.

"Matron's day off, sir. Maybe you can help, sir."

Do you detect a slight giggle, a note of triumph? Hard to say since Ben's
right cheek is pressed into the pillow, his voice muffled. There is a
pause. Then...

"And you helped Toby, sir. After cricket, sir. You helped him lots. Toby's
my best friend. We do everything together."

Despite the heat, a shiver runs through you.

"It's my back, sir. Be a sport, sir."

The door is closed. The House stands empty, listening only to the memories
of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of boys who have graced its Spartan
dorms.

You run your right hand under Ben's tennis shirt. His skin is warm and
moist to the touch. Your fingers trace patterns in the moisture. You knead
and squeeze the flesh across his shoulders, his upper back. Your fingers
run the length of his spine. You try to be business-like but the flesh is
warm, moist, and so alive. You can hear your own gentle breathing and Ben's
occasional sighs.

"It's lower, sir. Lower, sir. Please, sir."

You let your hand slide down to the boy's slim waist. The edge of your hand
comes into contact with the boy's tight, white tennis shorts. The shorts
are filled, stretched by two spheres of living flesh that make you ache
just to look at them.

"I'll help you, sir. Let me help you, sir."

And Ben raises his bottom from the bed, raises his hips, slides his hands
beneath, slips open the buttons, pushes the shorts to his knees, and
collapses into the quilt again. Those spheres of living flesh lie below a
millimetre of pure white cotton that leaves little to the imagination. But
the imagination is enough to make your cock harden and lengthen until it
begins to ache.

You run the fingers of both hands along either side of the elastic band
that keeps the boy's underpants in such a tight and loving embrace. Ben
raises his hips from the bed. There's nothing for it. Slowly you ease the
boy's underpants up and over his buttocks, then tug them down to join his
shorts around his knees.

You begin to knead those beautiful buttocks, marvelling at the warm flesh
in your hands, flesh that becomes even warmer as your fingers part his
buttocks to expose his most secret, his most intimate place.

"That's it," whispers Ben. "Around there. That's the place."

Absorbed, you part his buttocks, your fingers pressed against the inner
flesh of each one. You expose the tiny hole at the centre of his being. You
remember what another man in another time in another place did to you, and
you wonder if it will give the same pleasure to Ben.

You part his buttocks again and again, slightly wider each time; each time
letting the length of your thumbs slide down until they feel the heat at
the centre of the boy's being. At last your thumbs are parting Ben's anus
ever so slightly; you wonder what Ben is thinking, what he is feeling.

You know what you want to do. The small pucker is ravishingly beautiful;
there's no reason why it should be when you consider its function; it
simply is. You adore it. You want to lower your lips and kiss the flesh
around it; you want to smother it with kisses, tiny butterfly kisses. But
not now. You have no idea what Ben is thinking or feeling, and the last
thing you want him to feel is disgust.

Suddenly Ben's giggles and turns himself, throws himself over. His tennis
shirt has ridden up his body. He is exposed. He is fully erect. He isn't
circumsized but the head of his young dick is hard and purple, thrusting
its way out of the hood of flesh that normally conceals it.

"It's your fault. You got me like this. You've got to do something about
it."

You are surprised by the size of Ben's cock. It must be around four inches
long and quite thick. There is a straggle of fine blond hair at the base
and sizeable patch in the pubic area. The boy's balls are already the size
of ping pong balls, the sac itself marked with the lines of late puberty.

The shaft is pale though the head itself is purple with engorgement. Two
blue veins circle the length of the shaft, entwine and fade into the
scrotum. The heat from the boy's penis is palpable, and you imagine you can
feel the faint beating of a pulse beneath your fingertips.

You stroke the boy's cock, bringing the fleshy hood over the head again and
again. The little eye opens on the downstroke, closes on the upstroke. You
can feel him harden and lengthen beneath your touch. You feel how the
muscles in his groin push and contract in time with your stroking. You look
at the boy's face. His head is thrown back on the pillow, matted hair
across his forehead, eyes closed but fluttering beneath the lids, face
flushed, lips slightly open.

You lower your face to the boy's straining shaft, circle the head with your
lips and apply gentle but insistent pressure. Little moans escape the
13-year-old. Your tongue probes at the weeping eye and you taste the boy's
early seminal fluids. Sweet, nothing salty. You suck and work the shaft.

The boy's legs, one straight, one drawn up in a half circle, open wider as
if in invitation. You slip your free hand between his legs, beneath his
sac, along the crack of his buttocks until you find his anus, and with the
flat of your middle finger you rub back and forth across the little lips.

You are surprised by the heat and slickness of the area, and, as the boy
begins to writhe on the bed, your press your fingertip against the opening
and let half your finger slide in.

You begin to fuck the boy with your middle finger as you speed the rhythm
on his cock. You take in the full four inches, feeling the head touch the
back of your throat, feeling your lips against his pubic hair, feeling the
slickness of your own saliva and the pre-cum run down the shaft.

Ben is no longer in control of himself. He is pushing hard off the bed,
raising his hips to push his cock deep into your throat, then lowering
himself to drive your middle finger into him as deeply as possible.

With a sudden convulsive thrust, he raises himself, drives deeply into your
mouth and throat, and holds himself there, as he spurts again and again
inside you. Three, four, five little jerks.

You hold him steady in your mouth for a full minute as he slackens and
softens. You let him slip out. His penis remains semi-tumescent. Gently you
lick the head, squeeze gently and lick again.

You edge up the bed and place your head on the pillow. You are worried. How
will the boy feel now that the drive of desire has been satisfied? How will
he feel about himself, about you?

Ben's eyes flutter open. They are glassy. Then he raises his trademark left
eyebrow and grins. Your faces are inches apart. You want to kiss Ben but
something tells you that Ben is not a kisser, not a romantic like Toby. Ben
wanted sex and came where he thought he could get it.

"Ben," you begin. "You mentioned Toby..." You're not sure how to continue.

"Oh, don't worry, sir. Toby and I toss each other off, but we haven't
sucked each other off. I'd really like to try that."

Unlike Toby, Ben is entirely comfortable telling fibs, but I'm not to know
that at the time.

The boy slides between your legs. Without asking, he undoes your belt and
works your shorts and briefs to your ankles. He pushes your legs wide
open. You're so erect it hurts.

At first Ben is tentative, licking the head of your cock. Then he works
down your foreskin and you can feel his tongue working its around the naked
head and down the shaft. Will he always remember you were his first man?

"Open wide."

I feed the head of my cock into his mouth and move it around the inside of
his lips.

"Get it really wet, Ben."

From above I see his dishevelled hair, his freckled cheeks, his swollen
lips... "Look up at me. Give my balls a gentle squeeze."

The boy looks up.

Saliva is running down your shaft.

I put my hands gently round his head and work him back and forward on my
cock. I could cum in seconds, but not yet.

"C'mon, get up on the bed, lie face down."

The twelve-year-old gets onto the bed. His rounded buttocks are like silk,
smooth with a dangling hairless sac peeking through hairless thighs. You
part the pale half moons to reveal his pinkish pucker; you part them wider
till there's a little moan. You spit on your middle finger and work on
Sam's pink anus, rubbing in circles to weaken and loosen the tiny mouth.

"Unhh ... oh, sir," the boy moans.

"Relax your hole."

His ring relaxes and spasms.

You work your cock over the little valley. You managed to keep from cumming
a few minutes ago. Now you can't. You spurt again and again. It's as if
you're filling up his hole. Ben is pushing up against you.

You lie across his back for a few moments. The warmth of his flesh is
wonderful.

You whisper.

"Right, let's get into my shower. Let's get cleaned up. Then I've got a
treat for you."

No, the treat isn't more sex.

The treat is a run in my little Volkswagen Beetle, and Ben is doing the
driving. Only around the gravel road, created by our Captain-in-Chief, who
believes all the boys should learn the basics of driving when they're in
Year 6.

As we finish our run and step out of the car, Ben gives me a treat.

A huge smackeroonie of a kiss on my lips.

"When can we do this again, sir?"

And I'm not quite sure what he's referring to.

That evening, you wander by the lake as the light fades. You ask yourself
what you think you're doing, once again risking everything. You try to face
the fact that you 'seduced' Toby and Ben, but seduction doesn't seem to fit
the facts. You recall your own seduction, but how could it have been
seduction when you chose to stay, you chose to let it happen?

You didn't say no; you didn't protest; you didn't jump from the car even
when it was stopped, even when he parked below the great oak tree, even
when he laid his hand on your knee, even when he said you were "such a
handsome boy".

You were scared, yes, but you were also thrilled this man, this grown-up
man wanted you as much as you wanted him. It was you who'd gone walking in
the park, on your own, towards the spot where 'the queers all meet up'.

That was well known at school; that was a standing joke; softer boys were
teased about 'going up the park for a bit'. You were never quite sure what
'a bit' was, but whatever it was, you wanted some of it.

So when the car pulled up beside you, and he leaned out, and he asked for
directions, asked if you'd show him the way, you got in, you let him pull
away, you let him park under the great oak tree. Don't say you didn't know.

His eyes undressed you, his hand brushed your thigh, his fingertips
caressed your thigh - "such a handsome boy".

Only an idiot wouldn't guess what he wanted; and you wanted it, too. You'd
wanted it for such a long time, but only now could you put a name to
it. You wanted 'him'.

Oh, you could have messed around with other boys at the school. It was,
after all, an all-boys' school. Older boys, boys your own age, even younger
boys had 'made a pass at you', but they weren't what you wanted.

You wanted him; you wanted a man; you wanted a grown-up man. You didn't
want to be a queer, you didn't want to be a poof, but you did want a man;
you wanted him to hold you, hold you tight, crush you to his chest, drink
in his smell, feel the brush of his unshaven chin against your cheek, feel
his smokey tongue force its way into your mouth, feel his hands...

So when he parked the car, under the old oak tree, the warmth of summer
seeping from the leather, when he ran his fingers across your thigh, your
knee, your crotch, you couldn't help it, you blurted it out, like the boy
you were you blurted it out:

"You can play with it if you want to..."

The words make you smile now.

The words take you back to another 'now'.

The 'now' of Dean.

It's mid-afternoon. It's also mid-winter. Snow mixed with sleet starts to
fall. Dean and you come running in from the sports field. Dean is the goal
keeper in the school soccer team. A different school, an international
school, far removed from the Toby's and Ben's protected world. You're the
team coach. You've been giving Dean some extra practice, taking pot shots
at goal while Dean swan-dived into the sleety mud.

Dean is fourteen, an instinctive goalkeeper, dedicated, committed, brave,
fearless, demented as most goalkeepers are. And, yes, he is
good-looking. Thick dirty blond hair. Hazel eyes. Strong eyebrows. Slightly
oval face. Shortish but beautifully built.

"Come on, Dean, let's get inside."

"Just another ten minutes, sir. Just another..."

"No, I'm freezing my..."

"bollocks"

"off."

Dean and you have become something of a double act since September. You
like each other's company. You find it easy to talk to each other. You have
a shared passion for David Bowie. You've spent several afternoons,
especially boring Sunday afternoons, in your room listening to Bowie at
full blast.

The school is a small international residential community slap-bang in the
middle of nowhere. It is owned and run by two middle-aged spinsters. Rumour
has it they share more than the top flat in the main administrative and
dining room building.

They certainly share bottles of sherry by the half dozen. But they are
good-humoured, relaxed and tolerant. They gave you the senior boys'
dormitory to look after - "Just don't let them get too pissed" and "Make
sure they don't frighten the help."

They toddle off into the dark, arm in arm.

Dean is one year too young for the Senior Block, but he comes and goes as
he pleases. No one seems to mind. The senior boys have hidden their
cannabis and whisky out on the roof. You know where it is. You steer clear
of them on a Saturday night before the disco; they appreciate the gesture
and never comment on your 'guests' or how long they stay.

You head towards the Senior Block.

Here you should part company with Dean, but...

"Sir, can I shower in the Block? They'll have used all the hot water in the
junior dorm. I'll be like this till 8 o'clock. Please, sir, please."

Those hazel eyes - they do it every time.

"Well, if the seniors don't mind, I don't. But ask first. And don't bend
over for the soap."

You almost kick yourself for that remark, but Dean just grins and is off
and running.

By the time you get to the Block, Dean is in the shower. You know because
Bryan, a senior, tells you have way up the stair: "Wilson's in the shower,
sir. Said you'd said okay, if we said okay, and we say okay. Okay?"

"Okay, thanks, Bryan."

You get into your flat, slip off your track suit, and the et ceteras, bang
on some Bowie, and turn on the shower full blast. It's Friday, film
evening, and you're not on duty. Hot needles ping off your skin. You give
your dick a few friendly pulls; it perks up with anticipation, but you give
it a slap and warn it to behave. Soaped, showered, towelled, you pull on a
pair of shorts and a fresh t-shirt. The room is warm, almost hot; they've
fixed the CH. A whisky over crushed ice with just a splash of mineral water
is in order.

The door bursts open.

It's Dean Wilson.

You hear the crack of skin on skin. Highland (Bryan) has slapped the boy's
bare arse. Dean yelps, pulls the towel around himself, and jumps into your
room, shouting "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" (Last Friday's film was 'The
Hunchback of Notre Dame' - Laughton's Quasimodo.)

The door opens again.

Dean's clothes, including his boots, come flying in after him.

The door closes.

Dean Wilson is breath-takingly beautiful. He stands there, half-naked, hair
still damp, beads of water slide down his chest, face flushed by the heat
of the shower, the heat of the chase.

Without the slighest trace of self-consciousness, he begins to towel his
hair, leaving himself naked to your gaze. Broad shoulders, a waist less
than waspish, a convex tummy, strong legs, big feet, and a heavy swinging
penis.

Puberty has come and gone; this is a young adolescent awash with his own
beauty. Dean's entire body is honey-coloured, bar a tiny bikini strip
across his crotch. Dean spends summers with his family; they are based on
the island of Bahrain in the Persian Gulf; even an English winter cannot
rob him of his tan.

Bowie begins to sing 'The Man Who Sold the World'. Dean joins in and begins
to sway his body, his hips in time to the music - "Who knows? Not me. I
never lost control. Your face to place with the man who sold the world."

The music is wonderfully sleazy, wonderfully suggestive, and Dean's body
responds to it. You gulp down some whisky and almost expect him to begin a
dance of the seven veils using his heavy blue bath towel. YOUR heavy blue
bath towel! How the hell did he get his hands on that?

Dean does a goalkeeper's swallow dive and lands on your spare bed. Not
'your' bed, but one of the school's narrow iron beds, antique enough,
original enough, aesthetic enough to keep in your sitting room, draped with
an 'Aztec' throw-over. He lies back, head on the backboard, towel modestly
positioned, and grins up at you.

"Hair's still damp," he announces. "Can't go out like this. I'll catch my
death." You still find it difficult to get used to the American twang most
international students develop. "Maybe I can stay here for tea. You're not
on duty today."

"Like hell you can."

You grab a hot hand towel from a radiator, bounce onto the bed, grab his
head, those thick dirty blond locks, and begin towelling vigorously - just
like your dear old mum used to do.

No protest from Dean.

Your fingers rub against the skin of his shoulders. The smells of soap, hot
water, perspiration and 'pure boy' drift up to me. Your cock begins to
swell, lengthen, stiffen. Traitor! And damn these fuckin' shorts. Your
erection can run but it can't hide.

Your erection is not alone.

You chuck the towel away, ready to hound Dean homewards. You look down. The
blue towel is gone. The boy's penis is lying across his thigh, thickening,
stiffening, supported by a scrotum that looks stuff with a pair of ping
pong balls.

"Continue," he whispers.

You look at his erecting penis, his balls, the thick patch of dirty blond
hair. You look into his eyes. There isn't a trace of shame or fear there,
just a naked, hungry desire that mirrors your own.

"I'm not sure what we do," he falters, "but I want to do it with you." His
hand reaches to grasp your own erection. "And I know you want to do it,
too. Please, please."

There's those damn words again.

"Please please me like I please you," runs through my head, but that
certainly isn't Bowie.

You surrender and pull the boy towards you. He resists. You're not sure
why. Then you realise he is tugging up your T-shirt, tugging down your
shorts.

"Skin to skin," he whispers, and you're flattered by his indrawn breath as
he strips you of your shorts.

You inspect each other minutely. That's the only way to describe the next
fifteen minutes. Instinctively you refrain from too much contact. You both
know you are on the edge of cumming, of exploding, of squirting and
spurting, and you both want to save that for later, to keep the electricity
between you as fully charged as you can for as long as you can.

With your hands, you signal to Dean that you want him to turn over. Halfway
over, he turns his head to look at you and whispers, "Are you going to fuck
me? I've heard it hurts. Does it hurt bad?"

You smile.

"No, I am NOT going to fuck you. I..."

"You can if you want," he says with the solemnity of a child, "but if it
hurts too much, can I....?"

You kiss his forehead in assurance.

"No, sweetheart, I am NOT going to fuck you. I'm going to go on looking at
you. I love looking at you, every single little bit of you."

"Oh, is that all?" Dean sighs. "Go on then. Help yourself. I could do with
a kip."

You turn Dean over. He rests his golden head in the crook of an elbow. You
see for the first time what a powerful young man he is becoming. The sweep
of his back, the breadth of the shoulders, the muscles in his arms, the
power in his legs. And the beauty of his backside, his buttocks, those
globes on which you could rest your entire world.

You're fascinated by a boy's buttocks. You have no idea why. Maybe one day
you can analyse it, work it out, why this fascination for this particular
part of the body. You lean forward and kiss Dean Wilson's bum, both cheeks.

There's a little giggle from above. You can't help blushing. You part his
cheeks. There are a few minor pimples scattered around; they only serve to
make the boy that more vulnerable.

Even beauty such as his is at the mercy of nature. You touch them with the
tip of your tongue. Dean opens his legs wide, letting one hang from the
side of the bed. You marvel at his lack of shame, his openness, his trust.

The eye of his anus is pinkish brown set against the dirty ivory of the
surrounding skin. It is utterly beautiful. Lust vincit omnia. You separate
the cheeks, lower your face into the boy's crack, and fasten your lips, as
much as you can, to the small puckered lips that smile back at you.

Is this the ultimate giving, the ultimate surrender or male to male, this
sheer naked vulnerability that says I trust, and, above all, I trust you? I
can give you this part of me, this most intimate part of me, and know that
you will love it, adore it, as you love, adore and respect all of me.

Mystery of mysteries, all is mystery.

Dean rolls over and pulls you down to him, onto him. Who is master now, and
who is pupil? It really doesn't matter. Lips to lips, chest to chest, belly
to belly, knees to knees, you begin a strange kind of horizontal
dance. Dean is open-mouthed. His tongue forces its way into your
mouth. Nose against nose, mouth against mouth, you can hardly breath. You
seem to breathe through your bellies, each branded by the hot hard erection
of the other.

You can feel Dean's knuckles grind into your back. You hear him whimper. Or
is that you? He begins to buck? Or is that you? He is cumming and cumming
hard. No, that's you. That's him. Both spurting together. You raise your
hips slightly and feel his squirts against your belly; you know you are
squirting against his. You shudder against each other uncontrollably.

Dean's hand is across your mouth. Why? You realise you started to call out:
"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." and that certainly would alarm the hired help.

You collapse onto each other. You feel the squelch between you. You raise
your belly: squelch. You lower it: squelch.

Simultaneously you begin to laugh. Simultaneously you hear the Bowie song:
'Under Pressure' --- "give love one more chance..." leading to a fit of
giggles.

"Sir, sir..."

"Yes?"

"I've got tea in 20 minutes. I'd better be there. I'd better get
dressed. But can I come back later, during the film, I mean? I'll say I'm
helping you choose the disco music for tomorrow. Please, sir, say yes,
sir."

Yes - yes - yes.

"Oooof... Ah..."

"Hey, take it slow. You'll hurt yourself and you'll hurt me too."

Dean grins down at you, flicks the hair from his eyes, and presses your
shoulders down into the bed. He sits still for a moment, straddling your
groin, a knee on either side, then eases himself down a millimetre more. A
millimetre more of your rock-hard shaft penetrates his sphincter muscle,
the head of your cock pops into his anus.

"Ah, ah, that's better," the boy gasps.

You continue you to manipulate the boy's erection moving the foreskin back
and forward across the swollen head. You expected the boy to lose his
erection because of the pain of his arse hole but it remains as hard as
your own. Ah, the libido of the fourteen-year-old.

"I'm fine, but take it slow. You could easily tear my foreskin before you
get deeper in."

Dean laughs.

"Not with the amount of Nivea I put on you and up my bum. I must've used
the whole jar."

And he did. Lathering huge swathes of cream around your erection,
fascinated by its shape, texture and the heat it gave off. "Shit, it's a
big one, sir. Do you really think I can get that inside me? Mind you, I've
done shits as big as this, so it should be okay."

Ah, the delicacy of the fourteen-year-old. "And you did a good job on my
hole before you even started with the cream," he adds, "but don't think I'm
gonna lick you back there, you dirty bugger. Ooops, sorry, sir."

This time you laugh along with Dean who eases himself down another half
inch or so. He leans forward with his elbows on your chest, wiggling his
bottom to keep the movement going. He brushes the tip of your nose with
his.

"Does this make me a homo-sex-shual, sir?" He makes the word 'homosexual'
into a joke. "Play with my balls, sir, please, sir."

"No, actually, I don't think it does."

"Explain."

The movements of the boy's bottom, the friction on your shaft, the heat of
his rectum combine to keep you almost painfully hard.

"Well, because you've never shown any interest in any of other boys at this
school, or from anywhere else for that matter. Usually when you're horny,
and I've learned to spot when you're horny, you talk about girls, about
women. In fact, this whole thing's come as a bit of a surprise to me."

"Then why am I doing this?"

As he asks the question, he grunts, twists his bottom downwards and grunts
again.

"You're doing this because... well, because you can. Because you're 14,
your hormones are going crazy, and because, well, because... I'm
available."

"There's more to it than that." Dean pushes down hard; it's almost an act
of punishment.

"Lots of the boys in the dorm are doing it. They're not actually fucking
each other, but wanking and sucking, there's lots of that.

"In our dorm we've got a competition; it's called 'Last One's a
Wanker'. That means the last one to cum, to shoot his stuff before lights
out is a wanker. And if you take a shit after lights out, you can sometimes
hear a couple of guys in one of the cubicles, and they ain't taking a shit
together."

Dean pushes down again.

"Hey, I'm sitting on you. You're all the way in. I can feel your hair down
there."

"Sit still for a few minutes. Let your rectum get used to it. How does it
feel?"

"It feels like I've got a huge log up my arse. But it's a nice full
feeling. Wonder how far up inside me you are. Must be nearly eight
inches. Work on my cock a bit more, sir."

Dean begins to rise and fall, levering himself up on his knees, then
sinking back down again. He is sweating, beads of perspiration dot his
shoulders, hang from strands of hair. Open-mouthed, he throws his head back
and shakes it from side to side. The friction on your shaft is
wonderful. As Dean rises, you push up and into him.

Higher he rises, and slips down again, higher and down again. You know his
arse-hole is splayed open. You can both hear the cream and other juices
squelch and fart between you. Higher he rises, and falls, again and again,
faster and faster, until he is sliding almost the full length of your
shaft, keeping only the head locked inside his stretched and stretching
anus.

There are no words now; just deep concentration; deep ecstasy. You match
his movements with a faster rhythm on his distended cock; you are jerking
him off ruthlessly now; matching his ecstasy to your own. You're glad the
music is loud, glad the house is empty, the boys off to the disco, or
hiding in the upper attic with their whisky and cannabis.

You force your eyes open. Dean is lost to you now; rising and falling,
forcing you in deeper and deeper. He is going to cum soon; you know because
of the speed he is working your shaft; control is gone; you surrender
yourself to the ecstacy. You should stay silent but you can't; you grunt,
you moan, you mutter obscenities; you mouth Dean's name:
Dean... Dean... Fuck... Dean...

You're spurting now. Deep inside the boy you're spurting. Dean's spurting,
too. His semen fires and arcs its way to land on your nose, your lips, your
chin. "Come together, right now, over me." And that's what you're doing,
both of you, as you hang onto each other, riders of the storm, into a new
world born.

How long has Dean been lying across you, slumped, almost unconscious? For a
moment you are worried. Then his eyes flutter open.

"Fuckin' hell. This is a lot better than the disco. Can we do it again?"

Like a virgin, fucked for the very first time.

And you do it again. But not then, not that night. Half of winter remains,
all of Spring, and half of Summer. And you were right about Dean. Dean
doesn't want to fuck you; Dean wants to be fucked. Dean doesn't want to
suck you; Dean wants to be sucked.

But that doesn't matter; that really doesn't matter at all; because you've
learned - take happiness where you can find it... that's what the young do,
that's what makes them happy.

Preserve your memories; you have their photographs.

I'm sorry for the digression. I guess you're more interested in life at the
House.

It's not all sex. In fact, there's far less sex than you may have
anticipated. Except for me.

Life in boarding schools is busy, busy, busy. Regulated and busy. Bells
ring. Whistles blow. Lining up. Trooping to breakfast. Trooping for
lunch. No, not regimented, just well regulated, and my principle duty is to
keep all the clocks ticking on time.

This said, life is great.

Ash, Toby's mum, and Emily, Ben's mum, are true female conspirators. Not
only do they arrange fortnightly dinners, but they add an hour to the
evening for me to coach the boys for the Common Entrance Examination. Toby
is already a cert. Ben needs coaching in Maths. Teaching pairs is far for
fun than teaching individuals - but we take the sessions seriously.

I check the arrangement with Captain Prain: "Absolutely fine, my boy. What
you do in your free time is your business. And the more boys who win
scholarships, the better our reputation, and the more boys decide St. B. is
the school for them. Keep it up, lad. Keep it up."

Toby and Ben played their role. There was no hint they had a special
relationship with me. Like every other boy in the House, they had the same
access and support from me. In fact, neither of them stood for Head of
House; they left that to Theo, one of the most remarkable pupils I've ever
met.

Theo had the total respect of every boy in the school - by never trying to
gain it. He was Head of Cricket, Head of Rugby,and the only tennis player
who might have given Adam a run for his money. Captain Prain described him
as 'special', though even he couldn't define in what way.

Let's see.

It helped Theo was the tallest boy in the school. It helped he was scarily
handsome - not pretty, not beautiful, simply masculine handsome. He had the
'poshest' voice in the school. I once asked his mother and father where he
got it. They laughed: "We haven't the faintest idea."

His father is a high-ranking diplomat in the Far East. It was already
decided Theo would go to the most famous public school in England.

I mention Theo here because he was involved in the scandal that struck the
House in November. But I'll leave that till we get there.

The third weekend in October and the House had settled in very well. The
Headteacher came by to thank me for the job I was doing and hinted strongly
he'd be more than pleased if I would consider doing another year. I hinted
at nothing either way; it was hard to imagine being in the school without
Adam or Toby.

As time moved on, I became more and more sure whatever the boys were doing
they never once hinted I had any kind of special relationship, though their
mums told me they "adored" me - their word not mine.

It was Toby's mum Ashley who opened the door again, backed by Ben's mum -
and Toby's sisters. Could I please, please look after the boys on a weekend
- Saturday and Sunday - while they trooped off to France? The boys
definitely didn't want to go.

Off to France was simple - 30 minutes down to the tunnel - 31 minutes for
the crossing - and half an hour into their hotel in Calais. Checking out
commercial arrangements with another business who happened to close friends
as well.

I hummed and hawed - with a hard-on all the way through. I arrived at 7.30
on Saturday morning, saw the ladies off with an Au revoir! The boys were
sound asleep, Ben having stayed the night.

I had the boys up, scrubbed, breakfasted, and off to the biggest sports
centre in London. I'd worked there for a few months, was warmly welcomed,
and given carte blanche to use any of the facilities free, gratis and for
nothing.

Tennis first - I ran them round the court without mercy. Then squash -
their turn for revenge but it was a damn close run thing. Then half an hour
in the sauna - not naked, tiny towels, and oodles of sweat. Then an hour in
the pool, showers, dried, up and away.

There was a nasty breeze, so we decided on lunch and a movie - a movie Ben
had brought claiming it was the funniest movie he'd ever seen. The movie
was 'Good Boys' - Ben admitted it was R17 but he said it was a movie with
little kids, and no sex, and the clincher - he'd watched it with his Mum!

We picked up curries on the way home - I admire boys who can enjoy a
vindaloo! - and they tucked into them like they were Weetabix.

We settled down on the five-seat couch, and Toby popped the DVD into the
42-inch TV hanging on the wall. Enter the 'Good Boys'. Within the first 10
minutes, Toby was literally rolling round the carpet, I was in delighted
misbelief, and - it has to be told - Ben was giggling while he played with
his 'boner'. In fact, there was general agreement we should watch the 'Good
Boys' again, but this time catch more of the dialogue.

I suggested a nap for them was in order while I did some marking - a
teacher's holiday - and we'd figure out how we would spend our evening. I
shouldn't have been surprised. They really liked the idea of a nap, but it
didn't take long to figure out a 'nap' wasn't what they had in mind.

"Ouch! Ow! Fuck!"

I had to laugh. That was hardly the noise I'd expect from two boys
snoozing. I was also laughing because there were no attempts to hide what
they were up to - though I couldn't guess who was up whom?

Five minutes. Ten minutes. The door opened. Two thirteen-year-old boys,
naked, hands over their privates, and blushes.

"Sir, can you help us?" said Toby.

"We know how it's done, but we can't get it right," said Ben.

"What are we talking about?"

"Fucking," they said as if they'd practised saying the word together.

"Fucking what?" I said.

"Him."

"Him."

Their hands were off their genitalia. They both had erections, pointing at
their tummy buttons.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes!"

Both hands were forgotten now.

"You've got the huge double bed in the guest room. Can we go in there?"

"Get in," I laughed.

I smacked their bare bottoms as they passed me.

We got in the guest room. The boys dived on the bed. I slipped out what
clothes I had on.

"Wow! Look at sir's stiffy!" said Ben, his eyes widening.

I slid onto the bed and got between the boys, and asked: "Are you sure you
want to try this?"

"We've watched it lots of times," said Toby. "Everyone watches porno all
the time. We've tried, but it hurts."

"That's because you're big boys," I said. "You're both over four inches,
and quite fat for your age. You're bound to feel something like that going
up your arse holes."

"Is that why you won't...?"

"That's not what we're talking about. And I'm not giving you a lecture, but
just think about this."

Both boys were suddenly very attentive.

"Our arse holes can't be slack for obvious reasons. Your anus has got an
external sphincter - that's a muscle on the outside of your rectum. And
your anus has got an internal sphincter on the inside. You've got to get
your dicks past both muscles to get them into the rectum. Are you following
me?"

"Yes," said Ben, impatient as ever, "but can't we just get on with it?"

"You got to loosen the sphincters. That takes a bit time. But it's worth
the fun."

"We know a lot of stuff," said Toby.

"Have you tried deep throating?" I asked.

"Yes," Toby said, "but Ben gets a bit over-excited."

"Okay," I laughed, adding, "everyone get off the bed."

The three of us got off the bed. I stopped for a bit just looking at
them. Two thirteen-year-old boys, naked, unashamed, with erections. I guess
you might not guess how beautiful boys can be unless you're a boy lover.

I instructed Ben to stretch out on his back on the middle of the bed. He
lay there wiggling his toes. I instructed Toby to kneel across his friend's
stomach without putting weight on it.

"Lean forward. Slide back your foreskin. Run the head of you penis across
Ben's lips. Ben, open your lips when you feel like it. Toby, slide the head
of your hard-on into Ben's mouth, but don't push it into his throat. Ben
will push his mouth forwards when he wants more. Don't fucking choke him."

I sat on the edge of the bed inches from Ben's pillow. I slid away Toby's
thick, lustrous brown here and watched the head of his cock move across
Ben's lips again and again. I moved my lips down so Toby's erection slid
back and forwards against my lips.

It only took a few minutes before Ben opened his lips and sucked Toby into
his mouth.

"Don't fuck his mouth and throat," I whispered into Toby's ear. When you
start feeling like you're going to cum, take out your penis immediately and
stay still.

"You can French kiss, swap saliva, see how deep you can get in each other's
mouths, but don't slide your stiffy back until you've calmed down a bit.

"Ignore what I'm doing. Don't forget - ignore what I'm doing."

The boy nodded. I slid off the bed. Kneeled on a pillow at the bottom of
the bed. Then gently eased the cheeks of Toby's buttocks apart.

I began my kissing and licking the inside of the boy's cheeks. Running my
tongue on the incredibly innocence of the boy's flesh. Skin like
satin. Skin like silk. Easing the cheeks further apart until I saw... it
was so tiny, and hardly different from the skin around it. On closer look,
the small pucker of his anus was slightly darker - as if it was a tanned
circle.

I circled towards the aperture until the tip of my tongue was pushing
against his delicate hole. Reflexively, Toby pushed up against my lips. I
alternated licks with the broad surface of my tongue with fluttering flicks
and probes on the little starfish. I cork-screwed the tip of my tongue
until the lips of the boy's anus parted. Moans mingled from above, moans
from Toby mixed with wet splutters from Ben.

Suddenly, Toby surrendered, his anal muscle spasmed and let a third of my
tongue slip inside him. My tongue made circles, harder, deeper, inside the
thirteen-year-old boy. Sweet musk from deeper inside him.

I took my tongue out for a moment and looked up the bed. The boys were
French kissing, taking turns to push their tongues inside each other's
mouths - pushing as deep into their throats as they could. Just what I'd
hoped for.

Time for my middle finger to penetrate Toby. Easy, easy, take it easy. Into
the kuckle. Make circles. Wider and wider. Deeper and deeper. But
gently. Withdraw. Add my index finger. Push back on. Gently.

Mones. Little grunts.

Circle with both fingers. Widen them as if they were a speculum. The musk
is deeper, more intense, intoxicating.

I finger-fuck him.

With my free hand I gently squeeze his balls, but I'm careful not to
over-arouse him - if I can. I suspect the boys had sucked each other off
earlier. Good. They are 13-year-old boys, but even they need a bit of time
to recover.

The walls of Toby's anus are wet and slippery.

"Push out with your muscle, Toby," I say. I hear a gurgled "Yes, sir."

How polite my boys are.

"Practise winking your bum hole."

We work together for another ten minutes, and I managed to get three
clasped fingers inside him. I've long fingers. I feel his internal
sphincter give in. I feel the walls of his rectum. Wet, slippery, and
surely a healthy pink.

The boys are ready.

"Toby. Ben. Do exactly as I say. Get off the bed."

They do.

"Toby, lie on your back on the bed. Swing your legs over your head. One leg
on each side. Make sure you're comfortable."

He does.

"Ben, kneel on the bottom of the bed. I'll do the rest."

He does.

"Lean forward and kiss Toby. Kiss each other."

They do.

I kneel at the bottom of the bed. I work my fingers back into Toby's
anus. Round and round. Stretch. Round stretch. His sphincters are still
loose.

I take out my fingers. Put the fingers of my right hand round Ben's
erection. Slide down his foreskin with my left fingers. Slide the head of
his cock into Toby. We're in luck. The head bullies its way in with only a
little discomfort for Toby.

"Don't start fucking him right away," I say. "Take it easy. Slide your
hard-on inside him. Little by little. Pull his bum toward you at the same
time. Gently, slowly."

Get my face a couple of inches away from Toby's bumhole, Ben's shaft. Watch
the shaft work it way inside. Now he doesn't need me to tell him what to
do. He is gently fucking his best friend. His shaft slides all the way in -
and out - and in... He has the sense not to pull it all the way out.

I press my lips against the boy's rock-hard penis. I hold them there as
four-inches of cock slide in and out.

Toby's moans and groans stimulate Ben even more. He is fucking faster,
harder, deeper. He's 13-years-old. He's not going to be able to keep this
up long.

"I'm squirting," he calls. "Really squirting." He fucks even harder. I
reach up, pull the cheeks of his bum apart, and make love to his anus, his
sweet, gorgeous anus.

Finally, he slides out - half hard - he slides up Toby's body. "Open your
mouth." He slides his cock in. "Clean me off. Clean me off."

I give them a few minutes... then...

"Right, boys, time for that nap. Get under the duvet." They do. Arms round
each other.

I'm going out the door.

"You just wait till I fuck you!"

I close the door quietly behind me - smiling.

Of course there's no way the boys are napping. I can't make out what
they're saying - it's none of my business anyway - but I bet they were
describing their experiences in vivid detail.

Meanwhile... I make a very light salad. I scatter the black beans and the
roughly chopped baby spinach over a very large platter. Arrange the chopped
tomatoes, cucumber, mango, onion and radishes on top and gently toss the
lot together with my hands. Top the salad with the avocados, crumbled feta
and herbs, and serve the dressing on the side.

Boys like flesh, and luckily enough there's half a roast chicken in the
fridge. Chop, chop the little chunkies, warm them, and into the platter
they go. I allow the boys a glass of white wine each - with Coke and such
available.

A quick shower, into my track suit, and "Knock, knock" - "Who's there?"

Sex has given them an appetite and dinner is wolfed down. They make life
easy; they want to watch

"Right, boys, into the shower. Get cleaned up..."

"Specially his bumhole," laughs Ben, "I'll do it for him. It's a bit
puffy."

"How do you know that?"

"I had a look of course."

"Wait till it's my turn..."

I cut the boys short.

"First at the table, gets me up their arse," I joke. But I don't think they
think I'm not serious."

There's a race to the shower, and I feel quite flattered.

Sex has given them an appetite. They wolf the salad down, and make life
easy by asking to see 'Good Boys'.

"That 'cos Toby likes the little one," Ben laughs. "Pervert, pervert," he
jokes and gets a well-deserved punch in the ribs.

At 10 o'clock sharp, I pack them off to bed - "We've got a long day
tomorrow," I tell them, and happily sleepy they troop off to their
beds. I'm much the same. I'm in my bed in half an hour and sound asleep
within minutes. I wake up around 9, and at first I think I'm dreaming.

I'm not dreaming.

Toby is facing me on my left. Ben is facing me on my right. The boys are
stretched full length. The double duvet is at our feet. They are naked. I'm
wearing my briefs. They are sound asleep. I'm not.

It's hard to put in words that can describe two thirteen-year-old naked
boys, both of whom are attractive my any standards. Saying their skin is
satin silk, utterly unblemished, slipping from the sun tan of their chests
into the paleness below.

What else they have in common are their erections, their hard-ons, their
stiffies. Within second I join them.

I edge Toby onto his back. I slide down his body, starting with fairy
kisses on his lips. I din't want to waken him. My lips slide to his chest,
to his nipples, raspberry ripples, kiss, lick, suck till hardness sets
down. Down his chest to his tummy. Tongue, kiss, lips centred on his belly
button. Onto his pubic area - silken blond strands. Fingers raise his
erection to stand. My lips close over the head, my mouth takes him in.

He grunts. His eyes are open. He smiles. I slide off the bed. I signal Toby
to slide off and join me. Ben is a heavy sleeper. We have no difficult in
turning him on his front, head comfortable sideways across a pillow. Then
Toby and I are kneeling on pillows at the bottom of the bed, the last
pillow tucked the bottom of Ben's bellow. I gently move one of his legs to
one side, Toby the other.

Ben's buttocks are open.

I say nothing. I begin to kiss and lick the inside of one cheek, Toby the
other. We take our time. There's no hurry. Closer and closer to the tiny
mouth of his anus. I begin to lick, kiss and probe with the tip of my
tongue. I pause. Turn Toby's head up and kiss him on the mouth. He returns
the kiss. I turn it into French kissing.

I use my thumbs to widen the area of Ben's anus. I pit saliva into the
little mouth. Toby copies me. I press my finger tip against the
aperture. No hard but insistent. I'm surprised to find Ben's anus giving
way. Middle finger slides in.

Only later does Ben let us know he likes to 'fuck' himself with a
carrot. "I shave them till it slips in easy," he says. "I don't want to go
to the doctor with a carrot stuck up my arse hole," he says, quite
seriously.

"Why don't you try a cucumber?" Toby suggests quite seriously.

I slid my finger out. I cross Toby's middle and index fingers. His smaller
fingers have no difficulty sliding in deep. He gently finger fucks his best
friend.

My free fingers slip round Toby's penis - his erection is iron-hard. I
whisper in his ear. He gently withdraws his fingers from Ben. With my thumb
and index finger, I widen Ben's arse-hole and Toby pushes the head of his
cock into the round space.

"Gently, gently, take your time."

The head slides in. Ben grunts. Toby takes his time, then gently pushes
past the external sphincter. The muscle gives way. Slowly, slowly, deeper,
deeper.

One thirteen-year-old boy starts fucking another thirteen-year-old boy.

I slide and slip away. Cross the carpet to the door. Stand up. Quietly open
the door, step out, and close it behind me.

An hour!

It's only later they tell me they've been fuccking each other, rimming each
other, deep throating each other.

I have to knock at the door twice and announce breakfast is nearly ready -
ready - "get the fuck out of there".

The boys are ravenous - food and my surprise.

"The surprise is... (drum roll) ... we're going horse riding."

"Wow!"

"Far out!"

"Ouch my arse!"

Camperdown Farm Stables. I know the folk well. Bridle paths around the farm
- a jaunt through the woodland - and a barbecue for lunch.

If they weren't 13-year-olds, they'd rush and kiss me. But 13-year-old boys
don't kiss - unless its deep throating or rimming. I doubt whether they'd
even classify themselves as gay.

Neither Ben nor Toby mention our sexual adventures through the day, or even
when we get home, the they do pitch in washing everything in sight. When
mums get home, we chatter on about the day, how helpful they've been, "Can
we do this again, please?!"

By the time I get into school,the lights are already out - except for the
Captain in the office. All's been well at the school. It's my 'kingdom'
now.

I sleep the sleep of the just... what?

School got its regular rhythm of Autumn as kids of all ages staggered in
from rounds of rugby. And the challenge thrust on me: producing the
Christmas pantomime. This involved the ten and eleven year olds - the
youngins had their Nativity production.

I chose Aladdin, and mangled it to include Aladdin, Window Twanky - there
was quite scramble for that role, name cut short by them as 'Wankey' -
Wishy and Washy (genders ambiguous) - Abanazar who became Abanana - Abdul,
the Bull Bull Emir - the Sultana - Princess Jasmine (another stampede for
the role) - Jeanie, the Geni of the Lamp - Mervin, an Abominable Snowman,
with a questionable carrot - Fairy Soap (their idea) - Crazy Old Charlie -
and a variety of characters invented to every boy could get the role he
fancied.

I admit I've been pussy-footing around to avoid detailing the scandal that
broke on the first day in November.

When I was summoned to the Headmaster's cottage and Captain Prain was
there, I thought this is it. It was 'it', but it wasn't me. We'll have to
backtrack a minute.

At the end of September, Matron Grogg was awarded an assistant - not only
to help her (she was getting on a bit) but to live in. An assistant who was
sixteen years old and... the most apt word is 'nubile' (dictionary -
'sexually attractive'.

For fuck's sake!

Betsy is 16. Well-built in the sense of being rounded. Tits that must have
triggered more masturbation in a week than in a term. Blond hair - hanging
on her shoulders - naturally open and friendly - and, as it turned out,
with a deep interest in boys, young boys, boys entering puberty, especially
those growing hair down there.

She had her own bedroom on the top floor. And she regularly supervised the
showers in the morning. Why not let her choose the ones she fancied, throw
them into her bedroom, and let them get on with it? Call it practical sex
education.

For the record, I liked Betsy enormously (not that way). She was cheerful,
helpful, and understood boys very well. She also made a fine partner for
Matron Grogg. Okay - they each had a weakness. But what the hell, they were
only human.

What's that got to do with me?

Headmaster: So you see, we're turning to you for some help.

Captain: It seems Theo is the only boy who's been having (pause) sex with
Betsy. At least as far as we know.

Headmaster: We've had talks with him, but he will not confide even with
me. You know how loyal and intelligent Theo is.

Captain: (to me) You may be wondering what it's got to do with you.

Me: (under my breath) You said it.

Headmaster: (to me) You may be surprised - I was - Theo's father wishes you
to have a talk with him. He doesn't want the 'gory' details. He wants Theo
to understand he has not done anything wrong. He wants Theo to be
comfortable in his mind as it were.

Me: But me?  Why me?

Captain: You may underrate the esteem the boys have for you. I have
mentioned several times you're by far the best deputy I've had in many a
year.

Me: Thank you. But if you are expecting me to report back to you? What
trust will Theo have in me?

Headmaster: No! No! All we will need from you is reassurance Theo is calm
in his mind, the book on the incident will be closed, he will not carry it
with him to his public school.  We would hate him to lose that place. No
pupil of ours has ever won a scholarship there, and we would not like to
lose that.

Captain: Play up! Play up and play the game!

Me: And Betsy?

Headmaster: Ah, Betsy... Betsy is gone from us. But don't worry. I have
found her a place at a fine GIRLS' prep school. We're sure she will be
happy there. My younger brother is their Headmaster.

Captain: Come now. Let's get this done and over with. You've enough on your
hands as it is.

They gave me a while to think things through - five minutes.

As Captain Prain and I strolled back to the House:

Captain: Ah, that went very well. Boys are boys, and they are bound to
experiment with each other - at least they won't get each other pregnant.

I was taken aback by the comment, but managed to keep a straight face.

Me: I'm working through some of the essays they have been working on. I'll
call some of them into my office - apparently at random - and have the talk
with Theo. And trust what we share will be between us - apart from what you
really need to know.

Coammnder: I'm not sure that's for the best. I suggest you have your talk
with Theo when all the boys are in bed. I'm on duty tonight. It's Matron's
night off, so you might like to help me with the showers. When I've bedded
all the boys, I'll send Theo to you and then head home. I'll mention to
Matron you're not to be disturbed; she'll probably be flat out on her gin
anway.

--- Could Captain Prain be that naïve? True, he was filled with the milk
of human kindness, but was he as innocent as the seven-year-olds on the
first floor. Ah well, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? ---

There was a gentle rap on the door to my living room/office at 10.15pm. I
took a deep breath: "Come in, Theo." The door opened. Theo stepped in and
closed the door behind him. I gave him one armchair, I took the other. He
was in rather old-fashioned pyjamas: faded blue and white, the bottoms
loosely tied. I put a cup of cream caramel coffee on the side table and sat
down with one of my own.

I'm not going to write down everything we talked about, just the most
relevant points, though the conversation took paths I didn't expect.

Me: You know why I've asked you here, Theo?

Theo: Yes, sir.

Me: I want you to be comfortable. I'm not asking for details. I just want
you to understand what happened. And to understand you're not to blame.

Theo: Who's to blame?

Me: (surprised) Betsy was to blame, of course.

Theo: Why is Betsy to blame?

Me: (cough) Look, Theo. You're an intelligent young man, so I'm not going
to beat about the bush.

Theo: (straight-faced) What bush are you talking about, sir?

Me: (blurting) Betsy seduced you.

Theo: No, she didn't.

Me: What do you mean?

Theo: "If you try to seduce me, I won't try to stop you." That's what I
said to her.

Me: (losing it) What the fuck are you talking about?  Ooops.  Pardon my
French.

Theo: (smiling) I wanted her to seduce me. I wanted it to happen. I went to
her room after lights out. I showed her my scraped knee. I got it at
rugby. I asked her to put cream on it.

Me: and...?

Theo: The scrape was high up on the inside of my thigh. I'd seen her
looking at me in the showers. I wanted to see what would happen.

Me: (fascinated) What happened?

Theo: Not much... until...

Me: (thinking) Is he teasing me?

Theo: "I like having a hard-on." That's what I said to her.

Me: Did you have a hard-on?

Theo: "Do you want to see?"  I didn't wait for an answer. I pushed down my
pyjamas to my knees. I opened my knees. She was kneeling in front of me. We
all knew she had a thing about pubic hair. I've got quite a lot for my age.

Me: And?

Theo: I put my hands round her head and pulled it between my legs. She
started kissing my hair. Weird, I thought, but... I pulled her head down a
bit until her lips were kissing... and then her mouth... a blow job.

Me: (digressing) How the hell do you know all that stuff?

Theo: (shrugging) We all know that stuff. You should see what I've got on
my Whatsapp.

Me: Never mind all that. Let's keep to the important stuff. You don't blame
yourself for what happened. You're not worrying about it? It's in the
past. That's what your father wants to know. And the Headmaster. That we
can all forget it.

Theo: Yes, sir. And I don't want you to worry about anything.

Me: That's great. But think what could have... I mean...

Theo: You mean I could have got her pregnant?

Me: Yes.

Theo: Don't be silly, sir. I only fucked - pardon my French - Betsy three
times. Twice in the vag. and once up the ... Oh, four is you count between
her tits.

Me: Enough, Theo. I don't want all the details, but even once in
the... vag. could have...

Theo: Oh, come on, sir. I'm not stupid. I used condoms - not the same
condom twice. And I didn't lick her - I'm not going to say the word - bits
down there.

Me: (blurting out again) Where the hell did you get condoms?

Theo: From my dad. Just in case.  Sir, can we talk about something else
now? This stuff's boring.

Me: (taking a deep breath) What would you like to talk about?

Theo: The rugby, sir. We've got a terrific team this year. We could win the
southern prep. schools' championship this year.

Me: What's the problem?

Theo: Mr. Hamilton, sir. He's taking the team just now. He's really nice,
but he knows nothing about rugby. He doesn't even like it. I asked him if I
could ask you. He'd be glad if you did.

Me: Let me think about it. I'm not a rugger person but I know the game very
well. Cricket's over. Tennis is indoors. Let me think. But don't say I said
'yes' until I say 'yes'.

Theo: You're a real sport. Oh, and one other thing.

Me: Which is?

Theo: Could you have a word with Toby? I know he doesn't like rugby but he
can run like a whippet. He's the fastest in the school. We can stick him
out on the wing. Get the ball out to him and he's gone with the
wind. Please, sir. I know you're a friend of Ashley. Isn't she great?
Please, sir.

Me: I suppose I can have a word with Toby, but it's entirely up to him.

Theo: That's great, sir. And he'll like playing with Ben - Toby and Ben are
bumboys.

Me: (stupidly asking) Bumboys?

Theo: (laughing) I forgot you're not a prep. boy. In prep. schools,
'bumboys' only means two boys are close friends, that's all. It's nothing
to do with sex. Anyway, it's none of my business. I don't give a monkey's
about who fancies whom.

Me: (irresistibly) And have you got a bumboy?

Theo: (laughing outloud) Not yet? But I haven't given up hope. Maybe I'd
like a bum-man.

Me: Look at the time. It's ten past eleven. I'm on duty at 7 tomorrow
morning. Bed time for both of us.

Theo: (getting up) Thanks, sir. You've really put my mind at ease. I hope
Betsy's doing well wherever she is. Can we have a chat another time? Not
about all this stuff. That's finished.

Me: (opening the door) Thank you for being open and honest, Theo. I'm sure
we can find time for another chat sometime. Nighty night.

Theo: Nighty night, sir. Thank you for having me.

I'm relieved it all went well, and I was able to report to Captain Prain
that Theo had put the 'incident' behind him. Of course, I didn't give him
accurate details and managed to convince him it was a 'prank' that got out
of hand. He could safely convey the news to the Headmaster and to Theo's
father, though there was an unforeseen outcome.

The Captain also asked me if I'd take up the running of the top floor until
the new year. The Headmaster wished to take time and care in recruiting
another assistant for Matron, but this time they'd get an assistant with
less interest in pubescent boys' pubic hair.

I'd get a boost to my pay packet, and that would come in handy for my
adventure to Australia. So 'yes' it was.

I was also happy Toby took the rugby suggestion well, and Ben was
delighted. I took over as manager of the rugby team and made sure Toby
stayed out on the wing, got the pass, and went with the wind. He was pretty
well uncatchable when he got into his stride. He began to pile on the
tries.

What interested me was Toby and Ben never referred to our sex frolics. We'd
had a chat about it and I managed to get them to understand how dangerous
it was - far more for me than for them. What they were doing was their
business, what I was doing was mine.

The last term of the year was well underway,and I did get a pre-Christmas
gift out of the blue.

You'll remember I'd told Theo he could drop in for another chat. He waited
a week and hardly bothered to disguise what he wanted.

Let me remind you Theo was one of the most handsome boys I'd ever seen. Not
cute, not pretty, not beautiful - handsome. Thick, dark brown
hair. Fringed, wide-set eyes. Strong eyebrows. Straight nose. Reddish
lips. Flawless skin. Well built. And beautiful genitals.

Knock knock.

It's ten thirty.

The House is asleep.

"I like being here with you, sir. Just us. Not all them kids. Just us. In
here. On our own. It's cool...  Could you stroke higher please, sir?
Please, just a little higher."

'Cramp' was the excuse.

His underpants were snow white. Old-fashioned jockeys, and a bit too tight
for him. And as we chatted and I stroked, Theo's erection became more and
more obvious.

"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 my fingers run the
length of this boy's erection. This boy who lay there, brown hair splashed
on a large, beige cushion, lying there, touching me with his smile,
inviting me to ecstasy.

This thirteen-year-old boy reached down to his waist, raised his midriff
and jerked his underpants to his ankles. Raised his legs and kicked them
off.

"Cramp, sir. Awful, sir. Right at the top of my legs. Could you, sir,
please, sir."

Medical, it's medical, I lied to myself.

I gently dug my fingers into the tender places where his long legs ran into
the arch of his hips. Press, release, press again. Knead and manipulate.

Theo rolled himself over. Fluffed the cushion. Got his head comfortably
rested on his hands, and turned so he could see my face.

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 cushion. Theo spread his legs so that one of them
dangled over the edge of the couch. I pressed harder, manipulated more
openly, leaned closer into him.

"Kiss my bum, sir."

Had I misheard? Was that Theo'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? Theo's hands came round to pull his buttocks wider apart.

"Your tongue, sir. Please, sir."

His whisper was the whisper from a breaking voice.

I leaned all the way and ran my tongue along the inside walls of his
buttocks. The tip of my tongue licked 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 has always been
calling me.

Theo swirled on the couch, grabbed me and pulled me to him. Tall for his
age. 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
slopped 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.

This thirteen-year-old 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, Theo on top, his legs straddling my head to give him as
much leverage as possible. He sucked my hard cock into his mouth, his
throat, until he felt my hair on his lips.

I tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he grabbed my bum and forced
me as deeply into throat. My hips jerked and heaved in time with his own;
we emptied our balls into each other. I felt the semen sucked out as much
as I was squirting it. I heard him splutter, gag, choked, and pulled back
from me, as he slid from my mouth.

We lay panting.

"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, be careful with your cramp," I whispered.

"What fucking cramp?" he whispered back.

Then he whispered again, "May I go exploring?"

Not quite sure what he meant. Down the couch he scrambled, heaved my legs
until I got the message, and turned myself over. My chance to bury my head
into the cushion.

Then I felt it.

Theo's long fingers pulling me apart, his smooth cheeks against my own, his
finger tips pulling me open, and his tongue probing, inching, penetrating
me. My sphincter sighing and giving up.

"Are you sure...?"

Later, Theo told me he liked me lots, he respected me, he loved having me
as his teacher, his coach, he loved my jokes, my moods, my whims.

He didn't think he was gay, though he'd 'pulled' four or five boys in his
previous school He'd never had sex with a man, didn't really want it, but
wanted it with me. 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...?

I packed him off to his dorm, to his bed. I fell asleep in my own bed -
dreaming of thirteen-year-old Theo.

There's not much point telling you the conversations we had during those
late evenings, or the success we had in the rugby matches, or what he saw
his future to be, so I'll just stick to a few of the highlights.

I fucked Theo on the evening of October 17th in my bedroom. I didn't plan
it. There was just something different about him.

We are lying on the bed - naked. We've been exploring each other's body for
a while.

"I'm ready," he whispers.

"Are you sure? I've told you it can hurt at first."

"We've done some things to get ready. I didn't have to use a carrot."

The second sentence was with a smile. I can't resist a smile back. I can't
resist a kiss - a peck that grows into deep French kissing. I swing his
legs above his head, a leg on either side. I want to watch the face of a
boy who has bewitched me.

My hand reaches down. My fingers begin to work him open. He pushes his bum
against them. It takes time till his sphincter gives way. I can almost hear
it sigh. The musky smells are intoxicating.

I feel his fingers round my wrist. He pulls me away. His hole has become
used to two, three of my fingers, but not a seven-inch man's hard cock. The
tip is easy. The head hurts him. I can hear him. I can feel his fingers
round me, edging me in, millimetre by millimetre.

There's almost a pop, and the head of my uncircumcised cock is inside
him. I can feel the sweat run over his body. I lick his neck and ears. I
put a free hand over his mouth - gently.

His elastic ring is giving away. The shaft of my erection is slipping
inside him. The external sphincter is no longer a barrier. I slide into his
rectum. We rest for a little till I thrust and his internal sphincter gives
way. I begin gentle fucking, wishing I could see my erection inside his
tummy. His second sphincter locks me into his anus.

For the first time he whimpers, but it isn't the whimper of pain, it's
knowing part of a man has gone deeper inside him than fingers have ever
gone.

I speed up my thrusts - deep, almost withdraw, deeper, almost withdraw. His
whimpers are of pleasure. His hands reach for my arse and he is able to
push my buttocks back between his legs, urging me deeper, deeper, deeper. I
can reach forward and almost deep throat him.

I edge his legs down, flat on the bed so that I can penetrate him from
different angles. The head of my cock touches different parts of the wall
of his rectum - the sweet, velvet, moist, pink wall of his insides. He is
mewling now. He rolls to his side to lift a leg over my thigh and encourage
even deeper thrusts.

I can't believe he is manipulating me now. He kneels astride me, falling
and rising, all the way in, almost out, in again - riding me. His head is
thrown back, eyes upward, thick hair bouncing on his shoulders.

I can feel his internal contractions. This 13-year-old boy is going to
cum. Have I been stimulting his prostate gland?

He is cumming... and I am cumming!

Theo is spitting cum up his tummy. I'm squirting mine up his colon. Sperm
up him, sperm across him. I pull his body down into mine as his body
shakes. he falls into me, as if he were part of me, which, for a minute or
two, he is.

"Was I okay?" he whispers.

"I love you," I whisper.

We break the most important rule. We slide under the duvet, cover
ourselves, arms around each other and fall sound asleep.

Fortunately, my internal alarm goes off after an hour or so, and I escort
him back to his bed. I return to my bed, and my last thought is: "If he
wants to, will I let him fuck me?"

Decisions, decisions, and I finally make the decision. I won't invite him
to fuck me unless he asks for it. Why not? I'm not sure why not. I could
play with possible reasons, but while our relationship is so beautifully
balanced, I'm not going to risk it.

I think I know the answer - and it's an answer beyond reason.

I love the boy.

That taboo word.

Love.

Does Theo love me? Nope, he doesn't. Young boys his age are without
empathy. Theo is a young boy, and as JM Barrie wrote: they are "innocent
and heartless". This is the sadness (for me) and the saving grace for both
of us - and Adam, and Toby and Ben.

Anyway, we had so many other things on hand: lessons, prep. work, sports,
hone and away matches, the end of year examination, and the pantomime - it
turned out to be a smasher.

In Theo's case, there was his appointment as my official assistant - not
appointed by me, but by the Captain, and cheered by the House. Yes, we did
have sex again, but it had to find its place in the plethora of activities.

And in the end - things are what happens to you when you're busy making
other plans, sometimes not your own.

The Christmas holidays came. We all went our separate ways. I took off for
Sydney to explore what it would be like working there. I got an extra week
free from St. B's and didn't return until the second week in January to
find a letter waiting for me.


Dear Sir

I hope you had a great Christmas and New Year. We were in the sunshine
too. I've got a great tan and I'm learning their language.

It was a shock when Dad told me I won't be going back to St. B's. He wants
me to experience the world or something like that.

I got the scholarship without even taking the exam. I think Dad wangled it
a bit, but so did your great teaching. I hope we can get together when we
stay in London for two weeks in June. Dad says you can come and stay with
us any time.

Please say Hi to Toby and Ben for me. I miss them a lot. And I miss you
too.

Three Cheers Theo xx

P.S. I'm in a mixed school now, and I've got my first real girl
friend. Amy. You'd like her a lot.

...............................................

Thanks for your kind comments on some of my stories over the years. Some of
you have asked if I've written any others. I have indeed under different
names. Here are those I have been able to locate. The rest are somewhere in
the Nifty archives. Only God knows where and He has yet to divulge their
whereabouts to me.

Only the email addy atop this story is functional.

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/those-blue-remembered-hills

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/loves-of-my-life

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/a-year-to-remember

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/now-and-always

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/and-so-to-bed

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/now-and-then

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/finding-freddie

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/falling-in-love-again

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/of-lust-and-love

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/thanks-for-the-memories

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/these-foolish-things

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/jason-carter/

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/once-upon-a-time

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/beautiful-game

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/loving-boys

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/oscar-my-love/

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/suddenly-that-summer

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/rescue-me

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/sweets-to-the-sweet/

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/you-never-can-tell

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/sandhaven

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/westhaven

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/preserve-your-memories

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/litany-of-love

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/urination/life-with-the-darlings