Date: Sun, 02 Jan 2005 08:44:52 -0500 From: Jon Kent Subject: STILL LIFE WATER COLOURS DISCLAIMER If reading erotic material is illegal where you live, read no further. If you are under-age for this type of erotic material, read no further. If you are determined to read more anyway, remember that in real life you've always got a choice. Never put yourself in dangerous or risky situations. Remember you always have the right to say 'No thank you'. INTRODUCTION The theme of this piece is 'First Time' sexual encounters, especially those involving young people. Sooner or later, these encounters are bound to happen. Only hypocrites will deny that reality. Consider this. At what age does the young male realise that he wants to experience sex? In the modern developed world that realisation seems to be emerging at a younger and younger age. Puberty itself seems to be occuring at younger and younger ages. At the same time, youngsters are bombarded with sexual imagery, sexual invitations, sexual temptation. And some of these young people are going to become sexually engaged with older people. This is simply a description of what happens. At what age does the youngster become an 'older' person himself? Does he go to sleep an 'innocent' the night before his birthday, and wake up a 16-year-old predator? Sex between an adult and a 'minor' is illegal. Each society determines its own age of consent. Members of a society should accept the consequences of their own actions. But we should be aware that such relationships will happen. This is not so suggest we should condone them. It is to suggest that we should try to understand them. To what extent are the stories here fictional? For the record, they are entirely fiction; they never happened; for in a sense ALL stories are fictional. Even the purest autiobiography is fictional in the sense that events, people, incidents, situations are selected, remembered, reconstructed, reimagined. Nothing ever is as it was. Read and remember your first time. JON KENT STILL LIFE WATER COLOURS It's a warm afternoon in June. The sun still streaks the lawns but the fierce heat has ebbed away. A gentle breeze ruffles the lake. You hang out your second floor window drinking in the scents of summer. Voices carry on the breeze to tell you that last bus is pulling out of the school grounds. Only the 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 is Toby. Still in his cricket whites. You'd forgotten the Under-13 cricket practice was on. You're no cricketer. 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 beauty 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. Ninety-nine boys. Ages, 8 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 gin, 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 lovely eyelashes; you are all men and boys together. You reach for track-suit bottoms and a fresh T-shirt. "Gin, sir. In your lemonade, sir? In MY lemonade, sir?" The emphasis on the 'my' makes Toby's request half comic, half serious. "Neither," you reply. "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 drunk isn't something I want to do, young man. Lemonade will do. Now park your arse over there while I get dressed." It almost slipped out. "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 homes, their own rooms. You settle down on the carpet in front of the boy. You are comfortable, he is comfortable. Outside all is stillness, even the singbirds drowsed by the late afternoon sun. The conversation is fitful, desultory, haphazard as if being together were enough. 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." "Cool," smiles Toby and begins to explore the possibilities. You are sitting directly in front of him. He is tall for his age, maybe 5'6" or 5'7", and slim, the kind of slimness that is elegant. Toby 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 skin is translucent. His cricket shirt is open to the third button and you notice how translucent the skin is; you can almost see the blue veins beat in his neck. His long legs, white flanelled, 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, or are you only hoping that it has? 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. There is 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 tiny pink starfish 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. You hear a whispered, "Please, sir, please." Half in terror, 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 tiny squeezes. You can feel your hips begin reflexively to push your groin into the boy's face. He is making tiny whines, moans and grunts. It is becoming more and more difficult to think. Then 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 face. 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 boardmarker, hot, hard and tasting of heaven. 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 7 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 happily up and down on the shaft. You feel his warm saliva running along its length. 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. The boy's eyes are glazed. He's licking the semen from his lips. With his fingers, he rubs the semen on his chest into his skin. You look down. The tent is gone, but there are stains across his groin. Wet stains from within the fabric rather from without. Toby is grinning. "Shit," he half-whispers. "I didn't know it could be as good at that." He looks at you. You look down at yourself. Your dripping semi-tumescent cock is hanging over your track suit bottoms. Damn, you wanted to wear them for tennis later. Toby stands up. "Sir, sir, could you do me a favour? I'd better take my cricket stuff off here. Change here, I mean. Can you throw it in the school laundry, please? Mum's not dumb. She'll know what this stuff is." He points to the stains on his shirt, his trousers. "Sir, sir, are you listening, sir?" The boy is stripping already. "You, too, sir, you, too." You pull yourself together. "Yes, you're right. When's your mother picking you up?" "Five thirty. About half an hour. Hey, maybe we should take a shower, sir. Together, sir." By now, you're both naked. You were right. The boy's penis and balls are beautiful. He is beautiful. Every square inch of his body and soul is beautiful. You join his laughter. "A shower, yes. Together, no. We don't want people to think we're a couple of perverts." "I'm too young to be a pervert," he laughs. You smack his bare ass as you head for the showers. In the showers, separate showers, you can't resist asking: "Toby, have you ever done anything like this before?" "Oh, no, sir. I've seen stuff in magazines, and Ben had a porno movie, but I've never actually done stuff. Well, not with another person, I mean." You can't resist asking the obvious: "But why me, Toby, why me?" A prolonged silence. You begin to doubt if the boy can put it into words, but he tries. "I'm not sure. But I knew it would be okay with you. I mean, if you wanted to, it would be great. But if you didn't want to, you wouldn't go all 'tut tut teachery' on me. You don't think I'm... weird or queer or anything like that, sir, do you?" You step from your showers to his. You take the boy in your arms. He looks up into your eyes. You recognise the question. You pull him into you and lower your lips to his. He kisses you hungrily, almost desperately, open-mouthed, seeking to devour and be devoured. The following day is genuinely hot At lunchtime you seek the shade of your sitting room and stretch out on the buttermilk couch with its thin brown stripes. You close your eyes and play back what took place with Toby. You saw the boy this morning; he smiled shyly as he passed; you nodded and returned the smile. But this is not exceptional; you smile at everyone, and most everyone smiles at you. You hum happily to yourself and stroll on to your next class. You 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. "Wimbledon, sir. On the radio. HE's playing! Oh, do let's listen, sir. Where's the radio, sir?" "Ben. Calm down." 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 a silent agreement, an understanding, a conspiracy that no one shall call it by that name, so your bedroom is 'your other room'. "No time, sir. HE's playing NOW!" And Ben is out of the sitting room, across 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, drinking in the odour of lavendar polish, until ninety-nine boys come crashing through the double doors at 3.30. 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. You remember the U-13s have a match this afternoon, a match against St. .....'s. You remember that you are umpiring two of the doubles matches. How could you have forgotten? Must be the heat, or Toby, or both. "Sit down, sir, sit down," urges Ben patting the space he has left for you at his side. 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. You pull your attention away from the sheer physicality of the boy and comment, "That's not Wimbledon. That's Radio 1." "Yes, sir, I know, sir. Wimbledon's not on till 1 o'clock, but I got bored, and anyway I've got a bit of a crick in my back, sir, low down, sir." "Then see Matron," you advise. "Matron's day off, sir. Thought you could 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 yesterday, sir. After cricket, sir. You helped him lots." Despite the heat, a cold shiver runs through you. Toby and Ben are best friends. Their mothers share the school run. They live in the same part of town, neighbouring streets if memory serves you well. "It's my back, sir. Be a sport, sir." Radio 1 is playing Queen. "Another one bites the dust..." You can't remember the name of the song; you don't think much of Queen, but Ben is humming along happily. "Be a sport, sir. Just a little massage. I'm playing in the first match this afternoon." Behind you 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 need 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. You could sit here like this, doing this, forever. "It's lower, sir. Lower, sir. Please, sir." You let your hand slide down to the boy's slim waist. You can almost span his waist with one hand. 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. Your 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 now 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 is uncircumsized but the head of his young dick is hard and purple, thrusting its way out of the hood of flesh that normally conceals it. "Shit, sir. I can't play tennis like this, can I?" A smile lights up his face. "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 4 inches long and at least 2 inches round. There is a straggle of fine blond hair at the base and sizeable patch in the pubic area. The boy's balls are the size of walnuts, 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 suprised 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. Five, six, seven little jerks. Then he falls back onto the bed, his face buried in the pillow as if ashamed at his own uncontrollable pleasure. 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. It wouldn't do to have his tennis whites stained during the match. 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. "Thanks, sir. I think I'll play really well this afternoon... now that I'm... now that I feel so... relaxed." 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've never done anything, together, I mean, but you can bet we are going to, now." The boy's grin widens. That afternoon Ben wins both his singles. Toby arrives in time to see him close out his second match. After tea, the two friends stroll off together. You are slightly rueful, slightly lonely, but happy for them, and you feel that whatever happens, things aren't going to be the same. 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 that 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 carressed 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. Dean, you shatteringly honest little muthafucka, where are you now. Married with a mortgage and four, no, five kids, and as happily honest as you were back then. 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, not an instinctive goalkeeper, but 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. You will always think of this as the 'Year of the Diamond Dogs' and of Dean as your 'Jean Genie'. The school is a small international residential community slap-bang in the middle of nowhere. It is owned and run by two middle-aged bachelors. 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 to 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 JD (Junior Dorm). I'll be like this till 8 o'clock. Please, sir, please." Those Bette Davis 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 'Bachelors' are big on the classics; they are also cheap to rent.) The door open 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 splendour. 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 handtowel 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. "You can play with it if you want," 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 unutterly 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. You've read about rimming, of course. You've seen it in porno pics, and on grainy cinema screens in Soho. But nothing has prepared you for this, for the sheer erotic thrill than runs through you, that makes your penis ache, and your tongue stiffen like a second erection. Why? Why? Why? 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, stradding 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 surpise 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 JD 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." "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 hidden 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. You take out a photo album. Turn the pages. There is Karim. His thick brown hair spread against the pillow. Smiling up at you. He's been in bed for three weeks. Broken leg. Skiing. On your skiis. He'd never been skiiing before; he'd never seen real snow before. You bring his meals from the school kitchen. You help him do the toilet in the portable potty. His initial embarrassment doesn't last long. You bathe him while he is reading. Thick penis, circumcised. Big balls. Thick brown pubic pair. He grows long and hard at your touch. You kiss the beautiful skin between his belly button and the hair. "Mmmmm..." You lean forward and take him in your mouth. "Mmmmm..." He doesn't last long. His balls rise in his tightening scrotum. He spurts into the back of your throat. "Hey, listen to this," he says. He reads a particularly horrific passage from his book; it seems to be about cunts and crucifixes. You wipe your lips and wonder if a 14-year-old boy should be reading 'The Exorcist'. Here's Nicky in his Playboy T-shirt. Nicky with a smile as permanent as his Lebanese tan. Nicky stretched out on your narrow bed. You turn and see the T-shirt is gone and that the top of his tiny shorts are open. You take him round the world and he asks, "What else can we do?" And later Nicky finally takes a set from you. There he is in the photograph, racquet held high above his head in triumph; there he is dancing back in triumph across the sports field. And later that night, your last night together, you open the door of his room and find him snuggled down in an armchair with a very pretty girl. Her blouse is open. His flies are open. Nicky grins up at you; you smile back and gently close the door behind you. This is Matteo. Of the huge brown eyes. Matteo, whose classic Italian looks turn the heads of people in the street. Matteo who says, "I learn the more English with you than tutti lessons in the classes." Matteo who is exuberantly experimental. Who wants to try it this way, and that way; who tells you he's been able to suck his own dick since he was 11 years old. And shows you that he can still do it. Ah, the Italians. There's little Luigi. He's only 9. In the streets people can't help smiling at Luigi, golden hair, blue eyes, baggy jeans always slipping down his bum. You draw the line at Luigi and kick him out of your bedroom. That night Luigi goes missing. You find him in Matteo's bed, under the summer sheet, at the bottom of Matteo's bed, between Matteo's legs. You can't understand the Italian but you can understand the giggling. You turn the pages of the photograph album, and you realise what they have in common. No, it's not their beauty though all of them are beautiful: cute, handsome, pretty. All of them are individuals. All of them have strong personalities. All of them have minds of their own. But that's not it. What they have in common breathes from the page: they are ALL happy. They are all secure in their own happiness. They will all go on and be happy whether they knew you or not, but, with a little luck, they may just be that bit happier for having known you. Is this a justification? No. You can't justify why you stepped into that car for your first time. You can give a hundred reasons why you shouldn't have stepped into the car. You were only 12, but you knew the dangers, the risks, the sheer stupidity of what you were doing. But what was the real choice? To lie in bed night after night knowing what you wanted, knowing where you could get it, but doing nothing. You took a chance and you were lucky. You'd advise any boy not to do something so utterly stupid, but that's easy for you to say - now. There are hands on your shoulders, they squeeze the tense muscles at the back of your neck, they knead the tension in your upper back. A kiss on the back of your neck. You don't have to turn round; you know those hands, you know that kiss so well. "Close that fucking computer. Come to bed. Let's celebrate. Let's make love." It's January 1st, 2005. It's almost 9 a.m. It's Robert. Robert is 21. You've known Robert for 8 years. You've been together for 5 years. Robert will graduate this year and go on to become 'something in the City'. Robert intends to get rich; you know Robert; you know he will; Robert gets what he wants. And a long time ago Robert made it clear he wanted you. So you close down the computer and wonder if you'll send this story, these stories, on to Nifty. You want to share them. Like Nifty, you want to show that there are many ways of loving and being loved. Perhaps one day you'll put them all together. Perhaps one day you'll even write a book and get it published. Unlikely, but you can dream. But Robert is calling, and Robert is reality.