Date: Mon, 28 Sep 2020 03:59:09 +0000 From: kleiner.gespenst Subject: Tales From Phantom Hill | Part 1 =============================================================== In an eerie part of New England, boys find wonder. If you think Nifty is a magical place - the sort of weird place that defies the laws of nature by its very existence, I hope you'll join me and donate to: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html =============================================================== Long before the strange events involving Gabriel Dornay, The Phantom Hill School for Boys had a storied history of odd, inexplicable incidents. Even prior to its founding 150 years earlier, the heavily wooded hill was rumored to be a place of eerie affairs and evil deeds. European settlers were surprised that the Paugussett People avoided the rise, with its commanding view of the Naugatuck River Valley. But the frequent misfortune following any ventures on the hill lead to it being used chiefly as a cemetery, and for public executions. By the early 19th century, in a region swelling with farmers and small villages, the dark history of the First Church of the Disciples, the disappearances of several children, and the hanging of Elder Kent for witchcraft had been long forgotten. Mason Daniels thought nothing of the charred church foundations on the southern slope land he purchased to found the school. It was only later, after boys reported strange sights, and windy nights seemed to carry tortured screams, that Daniels uncovered a mixture of legends and facts he took pains to cover up. Even in the skeptical 1990s, there weren't any ready explanations for the lights in the woods, the echoes of very young children playing in empty fields, much less the puzzling incidents at the old library. None of of the 1000 students had taken shortcut to town through the old burial ground for years, after rumor spread of a man seen dangling from the Hanging Tree. Peter Lewis heard some of the tales, and didn't take any of them seriously when he started his first year at Phantom Hill. Serving boys from 6th to 12th grades, the elite academy was notoriously picky, with a low acceptance rate, and a large percentage of the student body attending on academic scholarships. Peter was not one of those boys, and in fact, had barely squeaked through the rigorous review process. If not for his family's 4-generation legacy, and the large Lewis endowment funding many of the scholarships, it was unlikely he'd have gotten in. Though bright and curious, the affable 14-year old started stumbling in 8th grade. It wasn't drugs or alcohol, or a toxic home environment that lead a straight-A student to wallow in C-grade mediocrity. It had been puberty, which hit him like a freight train. Though his father, a career diplomat, had wanted to break from family tradition and have Peter attend public school, the boy's obsession with the girls in his middle school, and his chronic masturbation lead his parents to place their son at Phantom Hill. Little did they know that an all-boys school would be no challenge to Peter's libido; he was almost as interested in the same sex as girls. After Felix, the family chauffeur helped the boy move into his single-person dorm room, the man handed him a heavy paper sack, and gave him a wink. "Our secret, Peter?" The older man said, then left the boy to settle in. Peter chuckled, unsurprised by a stack of Penthouse and Playboy magazines. Though in his 60s, Felix and he were good friends, and the man knew growing boys had bottomless appetites. Peter's first few weeks were typically awkward for a new kid's injection into an established social order. He struggled to focus on the demanding curriculum, but in study halls he tended to study other boys, rather than his book work. And though he spent quality time at night with the Ladies of Publishing, he increasingly daydreamed about the Boys of Boarding School. Some were very cute, others growing into handsome young men, and even the unattractive pulled his gaze toward their loins. Basically, he was a hormonal mess, and his continuously abraded penis should have taken out a restraining order against his hands. Though it was an open secret that boys at the school messed around, to be caught meant ridicule. Worse, in 1993, to be branded as gay, rather than just desperate, meant social annihilation for all but the most bravely rebellious loners. Moreover, few, if any boys even admitted to masturbation, despite the prevalence of porn all over school. In that environment, Peter's attention to studies were subsumed by his ever-changing, hesitant plans to find his way into another boy's pants. There were a few students in the lower grades that really drew his interest. Pubescent androgyny was a powerful force on his imagination, and Wren Peterson was an especially cute 8th grader he desperately wanted to meet. With a mop of dark hair cut just below his ears, blue eyes, and enchantingly pixie-like features, the popular kid played lacrosse and worked on the school paper. And there was something ineffable about the younger boy that hinted at possibilities. One late afternoon, Peter finally crossed paths with Wren in the 8th-grade showers before dinner. As fate would have it, the showers on his dormitory floor were packed, and he had to use one on a lower floor. Taking a spot in the empty open row, Peter was scrubbing quickly when Wren appeared. Peter tried to play it casual, but watched intently as the boy whipped off his robe, revealing a sleek and wiry body, with contrastingly plump little buttocks. "Hey," the younger boy said with a smile, taking the shower next to Peter's. Normally, in open shower rooms, guys always space themselves a nozzle apart, and yet the elfin kid had none of the usual social trepidation. And as the pair scrubbed and nattering about school and their backgrounds, Peter was sure Wren's eyes painted him with the same searchlights he dragged across the younger boy. Thankfully, another kid slinked in, losing his towel only when he was on the other side of Peter, at the last spot before the wall. Little Galen Acreman, a very timid 12-year-old, kept his back to the other boys. A boney, though girlishly attractive blond, Galen was also a new student, and Peter would have loved to chat with the kid, maybe even get a brief glimpse of his youthful loins, but the 7th grader kept himself turned quietly away, and didn't join in the conversation. Six inches shorter than Peter, Wren kept glancing up at the older boy with a mischievous smirk, especially while soaping his loins. Between the soggy semaphore on one side, and the waterfall pouring down skinny buttocks on the other, Peter had to throttle his shower to frigidly cold for the last few moments. Then he left to towel off. Slamming his door shut, Peter's imagination exploded with the memory of water pouring down Wren's slightly feathered, two-inch pubescence, and the possibilities Galen had been hiding. Those images grew in his fevered mind to visions of all three boys rolling around on the shower room floor, and in seconds, his young penis roared, spraying Peter's milky load all over his chest and face. Unfortunately, his imagination was constrained by his very limited experience, and letters to Penthouse Forum. The last time he'd touched another boy was in 7th grade, when a friend had taught him how to masturbate their pre-pubescent poles. They'd done it to each other during several sleep-overs that year, with a consistently uninspired and mechanical technique. And then their friendship faded away. It was sometime in the second frustrating month of the school year that Gabriel Dornay appeared. A winsome Belgian 14-year-old, the new student instantly and mysteriously blended into Phantom Hill life as if he'd always attended the school. Everyone seemed to know him, though nobody could remember sharing a class with Gabriel. Everywhere he appeared, the elegantly attired boy drew eager gazes and sour envy. Striking and willowy, with an olive complexion, his contrasting hair was a very light, natural blond. Unlike fashion-forward boys in the early 1990s, who cut their hair short and spiked it with gel, Gabriel's fell to his shoulders with a silky grace. Though rumored to be very entertaining, Peter had rarely heard Gabriel speak in groups, as the boy seemed to be an active listener, drawing conversation with little effort to an ear framed by a graceful jaw. By chance or fate, Peter began finding himself alone with Gabriel, walking to the dorms, or chatting under the reddening trees on crisp, Autumnal afternoons. And maybe it was Peter's wishful thinking, but it seemed like Gabriel was flirting with him. Whenever he spent time with Gabriel, Peter grew energized and focused for hours after. Able to pay attention and plow through math or Spanish, he was spending fewer bathroom breaks rubbing one out. But at night, visions of Gabriel replaced Miss November, and he knew he'd have to make some kind of move. Ironically, it was Gabriel who moved first. The boy seemed to have vanished for a week, and Peter was starting to fall into old habits. After dinner one evening, when he should have been reading history, he was deeply concentrating on Misty Morning's cup size, and there was a knock on his door. Kicking his feet up onto the desk, and rearranging his erection for concealment behind his trouser's fly, he called out for the visitor to enter. Gabriel appeared, filling the room with his usual captivating warmth, and closed the door. "Where you been, man?" Peter smiled, happy to see his new friend. "I've been around," the other boy replied, sitting on the edge of the desk. Peter was enchanted by the Gabriel's vague accent and graceful manner. "I think you missed me," Gabriel said, staring deeply into Peter's eyes. "You know, you can always come over to my room when you're feeling lonely," he added pointedly. Peter's cheeks were ablaze, and his trousers about to burst, and yet he couldn't look away from those inviting, hazel eyes. "Well, I should let you get back to your, uh, studies," Gabriel said, motioning with his jaw at the Penthouse on the floor. "But, shouldn't you be working on a paper about the Ottoman Empire?" "That's not due 'til next week," Peter answered, before he even had time to wonder how Gabriel knew such things. Standing up, Gabriel gave him a soft, warm smile. "Why don't we order a pizza after the Study Period, Peter? First we'll eat...and then we'll eat." Gabriel lifted an eye brow, and reached down to give the boy's hardness a confident squeeze. Peter gasped, and could only nod, and then Gabriel left. Peter locked his door, and dropped his trousers in a blur, and his five inch pubescence stormed through his boxers' fly. His fingers wrapped around his diamond hardness and he didn't even make it through a single stroke. The heat from his own hand ignited his scrotum like it was a fuel tank, and his back arched to his limits. Four ropes of rich boy juice flew across his room, spilling in trails on his rug. Gasping and groaning, Peter shivered, and squeezed out the last drops from his spent pastry gun onto his free hand, then licked his palm free. With a smidgeon of self-disgust, he had to admit he loved the flavor. After cleaning up the mess, and straitening his clothes, his appetite was briefly slaked, and he picked up his history book. As he read about the Ottomans, he became aroused again. And the more he focused and took notes, the harder he grew. He had a literal hard-on for homework. But if he stopped to touch himself, his penis retreated from his hand, softening until he started reading again. Time flew, his writing was frenzied, and before he knew it, the school's chapel bell rang the signal that the study period was over. The lower grades had an hour of free time before Lights Out, and yet Peter was helplessly immersed in his studies, pizza with Gabriel long forgotten. It was just before Lights Out, that Peter answered another knock on the door. Gabriel entered, wearing a bathrobe, and look of apology on his face. "I'm sorry about the pizza, Peter. I got caught up in something." "That's OK," the other boy rushed to assure him. He was just happy to see the alluring boy once again in his room. "It's so weird. I just couldn't stop studying. For real." Gabriel smiled. "I had a feeling," he said, meaningfully. Peter wasn't sure how to respond, but his teen lode stones found their polar attraction walking toward him. Just then, the chapel bell rang the 9:00 PM signal that it was bed time for grades 6-9, and Peter got up to flip the switch. "Oh, I guess I'lI have to spend the night here, or a prefect might give me demerits" Gabriel said in a low voice, pointing casually at Peter's bed. "If you don't mind?" "Yeah, uh, cool," his changing voice broke embarrassingly, but in the dim illumination from path lights below his window, Peter saw only warmth and not mockery in Gabriel's smile. Still, he was frozen, unsure of whether the exquisite boy was actually seducing him, or playing an elaborate joke. Should he get into bed with his clothes on? He almost shook from nervousness. Gabriel pulled down the bedcovers, and Peter realized the boy was serious. But he was still rooted in uncertainty. Later, Peter wouldn't recall any conversation leading to Gabriel helping him out of his shirt, and then Gabriel was similarly naked from the waist up. While Gabriel removed his shoes and socks, Peter was frozen, unwilling to take the next step. His boyhood throbbed painfully, and he was afraid of revealing his condition to the other boy. With his experience mostly limited to his imagination, he felt like livestock entering a killing floor. Gabriel's eyes twinkled in the darkness, his reassuring smile radiating tranquility. "We should get in bed, wouldn't you agree?" Gabriel quietly suggested. His voice sounded richly musical, peaceful and calming. He undid his trousers, letting them fall down slender legs to his feet. Peter studied his almost-nude friend. Golden locks hanging to his olive shoulders, Gabriel was like a sculpture of the surfer ideal, though his was no seasonal tan. And he was clad in little briefs so black they seemed to absorb all light. Peter could not make out any detail of what lay within that dark snuggery. In an era when American boys were begging their parents to replace their tighty-whities with boxers, Gabriel was unashamed to reveal all of his shapely legs and slender hips in underwear other's found uncool. It was just another measure of his indifference to typical teen obsessions. He was starting to think Gabriel was something more than just a boy. Peter had to pry his eyes off Gabriel and turn away, before pulling off his jeans. His erection charged through his fly, and Peter was grateful for the dimly lit darkness as he shoveled his embarrassing limb back into his baggy boxers, which offered no camouflage. Then, he lay stomach down on the far side of the single bed, hugging the wall. "That doesn't look very comfortable," Gabriel whispered. "And I'd like to give you massage. Would that me OK?" "Yeah, sure," Peter squeaked, his face resting on one side. Kneeling on the mattress to pull Peter into the center, Gabriel straddled the boy, resting for a moment, buttocks on buttocks. Warm fingers slowly kneaded into Peter's shoulders, and at the same time, he felt adolescent ardor pressing into his ass. Peter giggled. "You've got a boner," he whispered. "That's because you're so handsome, mon ami." Gabriel replied unapologetically, digging his fingers skillfully into Peter's back. He'd never been complimented by a peer, and he didn't see anything attractive when he looked in the mirror. He'd always thought he was just average. But could it be? Gabriel took his time working down to Peter's waistband, and he had the boy sighing, dampening the front of his underpants. "You know, it would be easier if we got rid of these," Gabriel suggested, tugging gently on the boy's boxers. Peter couldn't agree more, and raised his hips to help, while reaching down in front to make sure his raging hardness didn't snag on his last stitch of clothing. And then he was naked and alone with a near naked boy, and his heart raced like he'd been running a 100 meter sprint. It was gonna happen! Gabriel's fingers dug into his bottom, and the room spun. While Gabriel worked his butt cheeks, lightening flowed from his ass through his cock, coming to ground in his moistening mattress, and leaving him panting and groaning. Gabriel moved down each of Peter's legs, loosening all of his muscles, before tenderizing the boy's feet. Peter groaned again, learning for the first time of how good a foot massage could feel. Gabriel rolled Peter onto his back with ease. The boy lost any hesitation about revealing his 5 inch cock in the dim light. Circumcised and of average width, It pounded against his small thatch with angry insistence. 
Peter's breathing grew deeper, while Gabriel massaged his way up one leg, almost reaching the boy's flabby sack, then working on the other leg. "Please rub it, just a little!" Peter prayed. But Gabriel ignored the rigid flesh stamping impatiently, and straddled the boy's lap. Yet rather than rest his full weight on the boy's oozing hardness, Gabriel's butt cheeks hovered and feathered, and Peter's adolescence rhythmically slapped up against them. When he reached forward to work on Peter's arms and chest, Gabriel's cock taunted him with a light, silken touch. Finally, he finished, and Peter almost melted away. "I think that's good, don't you?" Gabriel, leaning his face toward Peter's face, while resting his forearms on either side of the boy's head. Peter felt Gabriel's warm hardness pressing into his own, and he sighed. With little warning, Gabriel's lips met his, and Peter immediately recoiled. "Never been kissed?" Gabriel asked innocently. Honestly, Peter never had been, by boy or girl, and he shook his head sadly. "This will be good practice for when you meet Maura over Thanksgiving." "Who..?" But before he could finish the question, Gabriel's mouth feathered across his. Slowly, gently, Gabriel taught him how to play with another's lips, with nibbles and pecks. And then tongues chasing and sliding, dancing and pressing. Gabriel tasted vaguely like the spice his mom used in apple pies. Peter grew dizzy, his mind numbed to anything but the sensations in his mouth. But then, Gabriel rolled to one side of the small bed, and his finger slid down Peter's torso, teasing him for a moment, before getting off the bed. "Where're you going?" Peter cried in sudden panic. Gabriel chuckled. "Just getting a gift," he replied, bending down to the shoulder bag he frequently carried. Returning with a fancy glass bottle, Gabriel whispered, "This is a special oil, Peter. I made it just for you," and set it on the bedside table. Still standing, Gabriel looked down at Peter with a curious gaze. "Don't you want to see me naked? Feel me naked?" Slack-jawed, he only nodded, and Gabriel reached down to pull the boy up with both hands, and gave him a tender kiss. "Say, `I want you naked, Gabriel,'" the golden boy whispered. Though nervous, Peter's words poured out like water. "I want you naked, Gabriel." "Say, `I want to see your cock, Gabriel.'" His hesitation retreating, Peter declared the incantation proudly. "Tell me you want to hold it, and kiss it, and suck it." Suddenly Peter stumbled; his fear crept back into the room. "I'm not sure I can do that." "Sure you can," Gabriel said with a reassuring grin. "You want to. You've wanted to since you first learned of such things." Peter sighed. It was true. There was a word for it: bisexual. And he could finally admit his desires to another. But just before he could recite the last mantra, Gabriel silenced him with a gentle kiss. Pulling away, Gabriel whispered, "We'll have other nights, Peter. Right now, I want your hands on me." Then he pulled one of Peter's palms to the front of his thin underpants, drawing a smile from the boy. Peter cupped the steaming, pulsating mystery, puzzling with his palm the form within. Gabriel still held his hand, and slid it up and down his length. Both boys breathed in deeply. Then, Gabriel pulled Peter's other hand up to his waistband. "Go ahead, Peter," Gabriel whispered musically. "Do what you've wanted for so long." Peter lowered himself to his knees, and rubbed his face against Gabriel's groin, sighing as he felt the damp, warm contours of another boy's penis radiating through thin fabric. Intoxicated, he slowly lowered the boy's jet black briefs, finally revealing what he'd been touching. In the dim light, the erection waving at him was just as long and thick as his own, and Gabriel's smooth, low-hanging scrotum looked nearly identical to Peter's. If not for the fact that Gabriel was uncut, and for his total absence of body hair, the Belgian boy's genitals could be stunt doubles for Peter's. The barren groin was an enigma. Gabriel was taller, his voice almost as deep as Peter's changing pitch, and yet he was smooth as a baby. Girls shaved their legs, so... "Did you, uh, shave off your pubes, Gabriel?" The blond boy merely replied "No," offering no explanation, and Peter was too eager for sexual communion to pursue the matter. As Gabriel's underpants fell to the floor, Peter hesitated for only a moment, before reaching out to hold another boy's penis. In his hand! It was a warm and pulsating treasure, vaguely fragrant like bread, and Peter spent long moments simply squeezing and exploring it, as well as Gabriel's smooth sack. Then, without prodding, simply wanting to, he kissed Gabriel's tip tenderly, and ambrosial moisture met his lips. "Why don't we get back in bed, Peter?" Gabriel suggested, then sat on the mattress. Gabriel suggested they sit facing each other, with Peter's legs lying over his own. And when they did, Gabriel took Peter's face between his hands and plied him with gentle kisses that grew more feverish. Eventually, Gabriel's lips floated away, and Peter found he was hugging the other boy tightly, sharing more than body warmth; more than a joy that almost brought him to tears. And their cocks, nearly twins, embraced in oozing rapture. After gently settling back with rich smiles on their faces, Gabriel reached for the bottle and uncorked it, pouring some oil into his hand. As Gabriel rubbed his hands together to coat them, the room filled with the scent of jasmine. Gabriel's finger traced down from Peter's shoulders to his nipples, where he stroked and tweaked until the boy shuddered and moaned, having never known before that a boy's breasts could harden with rich pleasure. Gabriels fingers fell to Peter's inner thighs, where his momentary caresses left lingering, spicy heat. With a slippery thumb and fore finger, Gabriel gently warmed the boy's circumcised head, twirling round, and rubbing from ridge to tip. Peter's voice broke in a loud moan. It was as if flames burst from his tumescence. He reached and squeezed Gabriel's fleshy rod to hang on. It was a powerful resonance, and for a few moments, Gabriel's rigid, thrumming cock was his only lifeline in a world shattering into his penis. And then Gabriel's fingers trailed down to cradle Peter's nuts, rolling them and tickling them, and warming them into twin furnaces. Peter reached out to follow Gabriel's lead, and marveled at the smooth treasures nested in his palm. He wanted to hold onto each of Gabriel's nuts forever, and let this moment never fade. When Gabriel's other fingers traced more arabesques around Peter's copiously drooling glans, the boy shook for a moment again, then reached for the other boy's tip. Like Peter's, Gabriel's nozzle oozed with a sticky, crystalline stream. But he'd only stroked one other boy his entire life, who'd been uncircumcised. Peter worried he might injure his new friend, and only held him. Clearly understanding the boy's trepidation, Gabriel told him, "It's just like your's, only more sensitive. You need to use my pre-cum. Or some oil. Or do this," he explained, pleasuring himself with his own foreskin. 
In awe, Peter replaced Gabriel's fingers with his, stroking the mysterious boy with his own hood for a few moments, jealous of a option denied him by America's rote pediatric procedure. "May I have some oil, please?" Peter asked, so he could copy Gabriel's handiwork. A moment later, he was fondling Gabriel's bag with one dripping hand, and twirling his fingertips around the boy's unsheathed crown with his other greasy fingertips. Both boys sighed. And though desperate to cum, Peter committed to the gentle teasing pace Gabriel set. It was like syncopated meditation. "Peter, you feel so exquisite," Gabriel whispered, and encircled Peter's shaft with his palm and all fingers of one hand, save his thumb. That short, fat digit rubbed gentle circles around the bottom of his tender head, sending shock waves down from the bulb and frenulum. Gasping, Peter mirrored his teacher, and their deep breathing was harmonious, pierced by the occasional moan. Peter's joy was boundless. He was sharing his body with another person -- another boy! Peter grew dizzy again, and sparks showered in his eyes, and the lights dancing across the room could have been his brain billowing with dopamine. And yet it seemed the light was reflecting off Gabriel. It didn't matter, since Peter didn't really care about anything but the fingertips now making butterfly kisses up and down his stem. Desperate to cum, yet desperate to hold his orgasm at bay, Peter focused on pleasuring his friend, mirroring everything Gabriel did to him. Gabriel leaned in again, and their lips flowed to one another, the confluence of warm streams. Their tongues met and twined, and as he felt Gabriel clasp him tightly with all his finger tips, Peter struggled to concentrate on stroking the other boy with the same building rhythm. One of Gabriel's scrotum cupping fingers reached out, gently rubbing the space between Peter's balls and anus, making him moan loudly. Hie was starved for his climax, and as if sensing this, Gabriel gripped him a little harder. With every upstroke, Gabriel fanned his thumb under Peter's tender crown, like Pete Townshend windmilling a guitar. Peter's moans grew in volume and number, and his eye sight blurred and doubled, and he couldn't keep up with the angelic miracle happening in his loins. His orgasm was so near. But when it nearly arrived, Gabriel's fingers left him, caressing the boy's thighs instead, leaving him melting in anguished whimpers. Twice more, Gabriel lead him to the cliff's edge, and each time, Peter became more disoriented, his head bursting with light and shadow and colors. By then, he struggled to focus on simply stroking Gabriel, much less understanding the complex friction brought to his quivering adolescence. "Pleeeeeease!" Peter begged. But this time, when the boy's fingers left him, they repositioned his legs, splitting wide enough so Gabriel could kneel between Peter's calves. When his fingers return, Gabriel polished him furiously, while squeezing and caressing Peter's tender little orbs. Something strange was happening. The room seemed to darken in Peter's fading vision, but Gabriel seemed to glow with rippling lights. Before he could make sense of the myriad glowing colors dancing across Gabriel's skin, Peter felt pillowy lips sealing around his tender glans. Peter gasped and cried out, as Gabriel's lips pursed and pulled at him, and the boy's tongue flicked under his glans. Everything disintegrated in white light, while Peter's cock detonated 4 or 5 times, threatening to pull him inside out in waves that rippled all the way to his fingers and toes. And then, he fell into a dreamless darkness. The sun was not yet up when Peter's alarm went off at 6 AM. As he groggily arose alone in his bed, he wondered when Gabriel had left, saddened the boy wasn't there for him to squeeze in the dark pre-morning. Moreover, when he'd passed out, he hadn't triggered Gabriel's orgasm. He'd probably never get a second chance to measure up. His mounting fears were quelled when he saw the note on his desk: "You're a lovely friend. Study hard, and I'll see you Friday? -- A" Though his cock swelled as he recalled bits and pieces of the previous evening, he didn't touch himself. It had been his habit to start each day giving his dick a serious workout, then several more until nightfall. But over next few months, schoolwork kept him rigid until bed at night, when he could finally find release. And in reward for reaching the Honor Roll, Peter's Friday nights were always dedicated to a different kind of education. ================================================================== "It's supposed to be just up ahead, Timmy," 13-year-old Wren Peterson said. "Stop calling me that," his blond 12-year friend replied with aggravation. `TI-MOTH-Y. Or TIM. It's not that hard.' Wren snickered. "I could get it pretty hard if you let me," he thought, but only said, "Sorry dude. Like I said, my little brother is a Timmy." He also thought his friend was too cute to be anything but a Timmy. And he liked to needle other kids his age. Bantering brought boys closer. Hopefully Ti-moth-y would be more than a friend. His best-bud the previous year hated the school, and wasn't returning that year, and Wren really liked Tim. "I should have photocopied the map, but it looked so easy." The boys had been hiking for over an hour, mistakenly losing the trail uphill from the school several times, searching out the largely ignored standing stones in a glade on the hilltop. Though the majority of prehistoric megaliths were erected in Europe, several hundred were scattered across North America, largely concentrated in New England. A still-unexplained triad of stones could be found on Phantom hill, if one followed an old map in the school's library, and the pair of young explorers wanted to photograph the structures. According to legend, the sun would set between between two vertical stones on Halloween, and behind the horizontal third lying between. Archeologists theorized from the still-untranslated markings on ]the third block that it was an altar, possibly for sacrifice. Strange stories surrounded what would happen at sunset on Halloween, and the boys wanted to scout the site a day earlier so they'd know the route in case they needed to escape quickly. But it was also a good excuse for two members of the photography club to shoot Fall colors and possible wildlife. Unfortunately, what was supposed to be a quick ramble turned into a long afternoon adventure in dropping temperatures, and the skies were darkening with unpredicted weather, when Wren and Timothy finally stumbled into a stony opening in the woods. Maybe 30 yards across, the circular clearing was devoid of all growth, save scatterings of dry weeds. In the center, two rough rectangles faced one another, on either side of a procumbent third, like they were witness to a death. An air of melancholy seemed palpable, as the boys slowly approached the scene. Expecting the supposed alter to be stained with blood, they were disappointed by an ordinary piece of Connecticut granite, albeit one roughly cut to the same width as the others, and inscribed with curious patterns. Judiciously sparing in using up their limited stock of film, the boys documented the carvings, then walked back to shoot the structure from different angles. Somewhere behind the thick clouds, the sun was setting, and Timothy was disappointed his color film was wasted in that dreary light. Wren, on the other hand, was shooting in Black-and-White, and thought the clouds rendered the standing stones beautifully bleak. But the whole experience was becoming depression. Trying to break the mood, Wren asked his friend to pose on the alter, using it as a modeling cat walk. Giggling the boys burned through a roll of Tri-X with Timothy miming outlandish modeling mannerisms, and Wren secretly hoped he could talk his friend into posing in the nude. But that would have to wait until another day. Distant chapel bells chimed 6 PM, and the boys would have an hour to get back to campus in time for dinner. Just then, a few flakes of snow started falling, and the boys hit the trail with gusto. While hiking back, they boasted about all the girls they'd make out with at the annual Halloween party Phantom Hill held with its all-female sister school. In reality, they both knew it was a pipe dream. With its campus in town, Dyer Academy was high-school only, and it was the rare middle schooler who could even score a dance with the older girls. And, secretly, Wren was really only interested in boys, particularly Tim. He'd have gravitated toward the enticing blond even if they hadn't become friends through the photography club. Late bloomers tended to get picked on, and pantsed regularly in homoerotic hazing by older students, many of whom were a little too eager to see younger kids naked. And though his first handful of pubes had appeared late that summer, Wren could have passed for a 10 or 12 year old. So he, like the smaller kids at schools everwhere, were outsiders, and sought one another in pack solidarity. Though the boys had assumed it would be an easier return, just simply going down hill, the forest was growing dark from the trees collecting an increasingly heavy snowfall. As before, they frequently lost the trail, bushwhacking through thickets, then finding the trail again. At first, there was only a light snow cover on the forest floor, and it took a while before they found their own footsteps in the dwindling light. The chapel bell tolling the dinner hour seemed no closer than when they'd been in the clearing, and Timothy panicked. "We've been going in circles for a hour!" "It's OK, Tim," Wren calmly replied. "We'll just head straight down the path toward the bells." His tone belied his own fear and frustration. He'd camped a lot in Scouts, and had never gotten lost. He'd have used the lichen growth on trees in place of the compass he'd mistakenly neglected to bring, but the forest was so thick the fungus coated all sides of the trees. It was getting very cold and the boys started shivering in their light parkas. The sudden squall had come out of nowhere, and soon, their sneakers were ankle deep in snow. Wren explained to his friend they needed to find shelter soon to wait out the storm. While scanning the forest for a leaning tree, he spotted an indentation in the hill that could have been a cave. "Let's check it out," Wren said, also warning that it might be an animal's home. As they reached the hillside opening, they discovered the man-made entrance was perfectly rectangular, and carefully lined with blue stone. Odd markings, similar to those from the altar stone, were engraved above the entrance. "Probably used to be some farmer's root cellar," Wren suggested, still feeling uneasy about the opening. But the snow was falling harder, and it was forcing their choices. First calling into the darkness, then throwing stones, they hoped to scare out any critters within. But nothing stirred, and Wren lead the way in, using his camera's flash attachment to see further. They stood in a stone-lined box about 8-feet high, with a granite circle in the center, and pair of granite slabs on either side. "Weird place," Wren said. "Maybe it's a hunter's cabin?" He added in hope. Tim shivered and shrugged. He didn't think Wren's theory likely. "Whatever it is, it'll keep us alive," Wren reassured his friend. "Fanwick knows where we were headed," he continued, referring to the school librarian, "And they'll come looking for us." "I kn-n-n-n-n-ow," the 7th grader replied through chattering teeth. "S-s-s-o c-c-c-old," he whimpered. "Yeah. We have to share our body heat." Normally, he'd have been excited to press up against the 12-year-old. Now it was a matter of necessity. Coaxing Tim to pull his arms out of his parka, he reconfigured the two jackets as a make-shift cloaking for two. Their hands were raw and burning, and as they huddled face-to-face, Wren unbuttoned and unzipped the top of his jeans. "Here, before you get frostbite, put your hands in my pants." Despite his misery, Tim giggled. However, Wren was serious, and pulled the boys numb fingers to the back of his trousers, and shoved them in. In any other circumstances, he'd have preferred to feel Tim's hands on his naked buttocks. But even though the barrier of his underpants, they felt like cold packs on his bottom. Moments later, he'd loosened Tim's trousers, and rested his finger against cotton-clad buns he wished he could feel. With hooded heads resting against each other, the boys hugged, and slowly warmed their hands by rubbing them on one another's bottoms. Painful tingling lead to the returning sense of touch, and the boys kept rubbing each other slowly. Their trousers slipped a little down their thighs, and their cotton mounds pressed through the triangular openings, sharing a little more than warmth. "This is totally gay, Wren," Tim giggled again, continuing to rub feeling back into his fingers. In truth, he'd wanted to squeeze his friend's ass for a while, and he quietly added, "But you're so warm, and this feels nice." "Yeah, it does," Wren replied squeezing the other boy's slender buttock, finally feeling them. "I had a cousin who used to play with my butt when he thought I was asleep," Tim said, recounting how the older boy would slide his hands into the back of his pajamas when they camped out in the back yard. "I busted him, and made him let me feel him up everywhere. He showed me how do stuff." "Do you...still do stuff?" Wren felt a hard pressure poking into his boner, and had a good idea of the answer. Tim giggled again. "Any chance I get! But I haven't had any chances here -- until now!" "Oh pretty sure of yourself, huh?" Wren chuckled. Tim looked shyly away for a moment, and replied. "I has hoping. I've been hoping for a while that you might want to mess around." Squeezing the boy's slender buns, and compressing their throbbing loins together, Wren replied, "What do you think, you little hottie?" The blond grinned at him, squeezing the muscular boy's plump round bottom. "You've got such a great ass." "So do you." Without any conscious signal, the boys' lips met tenderly for a few moments, and when they drew apart, Tim mewled like a kitten. "You're a good kisser, Wren," Tim whispered. "You're pretty good, too," Wren replied. "I had a friend last year. We spent just about every night together. So I got a lot practice." Their lips drew together again, undulating with greater passion, tongues dancing, then wrestling. Their groins rubbed together more urgently. "This would be a whole lot easier if we lay down," Wren quietly suggested, looking over at the nearest of the granite slabs. Tim nodded. "I hope it's not too cold." But he was so eager, he readily sat to test it. A look of surprise spread across Tim's face. "It's not cold." It wasn't warm, but it wouldn't drain their body head very quickly. Both boys pulled their arms back through their parka sleeves and rearranged them as normal jackets, and then Tim lay back. The stone was just long enough to hold an almost 5-foot boy, like it had been carved just for him. Wren stood over his friend and reached for the boy's trouser waist, then raised his eyes questioningly at Tim. Tim nodded, but quickly pled, "Don't laugh. My mom still buys my underwear." In fact, he chose all his own clothes. Wren pulled Tim's jeans half-way down the boy's slender thighs, apprehensive about leaving too much of his friend exposed to the cold. Plain white briefs peered out under the kid's wool shirt, and Wren smiled. "Same as me, dude," Wren replied brightly, lowering his jeans mid thigh. Pulling his shirt up to his chest Wren smiled at the sight of a different brand of briefs framing well-defined abs. Biting his lip, Wren pulled his free hand up his thigh, and then gave his rump a swat. Tim laughed. He'd love to spank those round butt cheeks. Kneeling between Tim's slightly spread legs, Wren reached down to press the front of his friend's loins with the flat of his hand savoring the pulse pounding protrusion pushing back through soft, warm cotton. Sighing, Tim found Wren's boyhood, and stroked its length, happy it didn't feel much larger than his own. "Come down here and give me another one of those kisses," Tim suggested with a hungry smile. "You bet, cutie," Wren replied, laying down on the boy, who enveloped him with his arms. While their lips met in tender reunion, Wren caressed Tim's cheek with one hand, and combed fingers through the boy's blond hair with the other. Their kissing grew as feverish as their breathing, and their hips rolled together less gently. Sliding his arm under Tim to grip the boy by the shoulders from behind, Wren repositioned his knees for leverage. Lips parted, and Wren rested his face next to Tim's and plowed the blond boy's groin with centralized force. Tim hugged Wren tightly, and thrust up to meet him with every thrust. Awash in a mix of heat and building need, Tim's ragged breathing evolved into high-pitching moaning. And first he thought it was his imagination that their bench seemed to be getting warmer. But as their passion mounted, and their pumping grew more urgent, his back and legs grew damp with perspiration. "Wren," Tim gasped, "this stone is getting really warm." Wren rested for a second, his attention drifting from their confederation of cock, and grew aware of the heat radiating through his arm sleeves, into his knees and heating the air around them. "There's probably a hot spring under this place," Wren proposed, in a desperate search for an explanation. The boys didn't dwell on the phenomenon, and simply traded places, with Tim on top, humping into Wren. Within minutes, Wren's clothes were damp with sweat, as well. "We can't hike back in wet clothes, Tim." The blond boy needed little convincing to get up with Wren. They quickly stripped down to their undies, and lay each piece along the slab to dry. Gazing at each other, the boys smiled. Though a year apart in age, they only differed in height by inches, and Wren yearned to see what was hidden within the willowy 12-year-old's snug, bone-white briefs. Tim was nervously appraising the stringy muscles the brunette built through lacrosse, abs and slender, corded legs separated by secrets cloaked in rhythmically-stretching, snowy underpants. He prayed he wouldn't disappoint Wren. On the brink of mystery revealed, time seemed to stop, then Wren wrapped his arms around Tim, hugging the boy tightly, and gave him a kiss on his delicate neck. Moving back a little, Wren reached down with both hands and peeled Tim's undies down his thighs, catching the boy's erection and making it snap up. Then Wren let them fall to Tim's feet. A moment later, his own briefs were at his ankles, and boys took a moment to study each other in eager delight. Tim smiled at loins not much more developed than his own. He wasn't sure if he wanted to play with a really hairy boy just yet. A vein ran the length of Wren's slender, 4-inch hardness, which was crowned with of a dozen silky, brown hairs. Below, his grape-sized nuts hung in a scrotum so skinny each testicle was clearly defined. At the same time, Wren was relieved that though the still pre-pubescent boy cock he faced was a little thicker than his own, it was maybe an inch shorter. As bald as his base, Tim's wrinkled little sack snuggled securely against the boy. The air started to chill, and Wren suggested they lay on their sides, facing one another. When they did, they found the stone was not as warm as before, and Wren wondered aloud if the hot spring below was cyclical, like Old Faithful. But they were still comfortable as their lips met once again to pillow gently, then flowered open so their tongues could play like eels in saliva surf. Fingers caressed from nipples to groins, then traded caresses from their circumcised heads to their pubic mounds and back. Tim took moments to roll Wren's balls in his fingers, then traced more patterns along the boy's turgid cock with an index finger. Light as a feather, Wren drew a thumb and two finger from Tim's base to his tip in a conical fluting, then repeated the process until the boy loudly moaned into his mouth. Neither boy was surprised that the slab grew warm again, half-convinced by Wren's idea of a cyclical hot spring. As their teasing mounted, their sides began sweating, and they shifted position. Lying on his back and rolling Tim onto him, Wren held the boy's face once more to behold his beauty, then set about kissing his lips and cheeks, eyelids and ears, and the length of his throat. At the same time, Tim pumped into him, with a languid, measured beat. Later, he'd wonder why they hadn't gotten lost in a frenzied race to orgasm. But just then, they were content with a curiously slow rhythm, like crashing waves on a calm day at the beach. When they almost reached the brink of relief for which they became ever more hungry, they also found themselves too hot and sweaty, and rotated again to their other sides, kissing and gently stroking, filling their fingers to pull or squeeze. And then Wren was atop once more, grinding penis to penis in a gradually increasing tempo. But on the edge again, they had to rotate to their sides. Two boys in a tropical rotisserie of flaring need denied. Who knows how long they'd been sighing and moaning, stroking and humping, when they learned they were not alone? As clouds of sparks burst in their eyes with cloying and then frantic kisses, they became aware of actual light in the underground room. Halting in place, they looked toward the doorway, where a couple of boys around their age stood, holding glowing oil lanterns, watching them with vague smiles. Judging by their torn and simple wool clothes, and closely shorn hair, they had to be local farmers. Wren and Tim scrambling up, covering themselves with their hands and making lame excuses. One boy pointed fingers at his ears, and shook his head, signaling he was deaf. The other boy, carrying a roll of firewood, set to building a fire. Moments later, with flames crackling in the ring, the farm boys stood by the bench stone closest to the entrance, and quickly disrobed. Seemingly unconcerned with Wren and Tim, the muscular youths embraced and kissed. With slack-jawed incredulity, Tim lay down on Wren once again, staring at the mute boys through flames alternately obscuring and magnifying. Sometimes their vision filled with orange and red plasma, and then every detail of the rural boys' uncircumcised erections, gripped in pumping fists, as well as their mouths sealed together in ravenous feasting, filled Tim and Wren's eyes. "What the fuck?" Tim whispered. "This must be their sex clubhouse," Wren replied, though he could scarcely believe his own words. His friends at home had a fort in the woods that changed purposes as they grew older, so it was possible. But that didn't account for the dreamscape perception, and the vertiginous ether in which they were floating. "They're really into each other," Tim whispered in awe of the hallucinatory splendor. "Not like I'm into you, man," Wren said quietly, now staring at the blond boy, who turned his head and smiled. "Really?" "Yeah, you are to die for, Timmy," Wren replied with a mischievous grin, and pulsating erection. Rolling his eyes, but still smiling, Timothy whispered back, "Yeah, well, me too, Wreny-poo." The boys giggled, but their youthful ardor was painfully needy. Their lips joined, their hands caressed, and their hips thrust in slowly building agitation. It was so hot in the chamber that both boys were pouring sweat, rolling over and over in a blur. The farm boys were almost forgotten but for the myriad shadows on the walls and ceiling, and at some point, Tim glanced over and saw one of them on hands and knees on their bench, shapely ass arcing violently, and the other boy standing at the end of the slab, hips punching back and forth into him in a fury. He hoped Wren would let him do that sometime. Hair sopping, bodies pouring with boy brine, pumping in a building frenzy, Tim and Wren writhed. Wren was once again facing down at Tim, his hips working like a chain saw, while the blond gasped, his eyes rolling, holding their cocks together with both hands. "I...really...gotta cum...Wren!" Tim heaved, his exhausted hips still surging to meet Wren's tidal force. "Fuck! Yeah!" Wren gasped. "Let's DO IT!" Concentrating like pro bowlers, Wren and Tim thrust together in metronomic rhythm and singular purpose, moaning in piping unison. Finally, Wren felt his balls erupting. 
"Gonna...GONNA...CAAAAAHHHH!" Wren screamed. Wren's life's film reel flashed through his mind, jettisoning with tidal force through his silently shrieking cock. For the first time in his life, a tiny stream of clear wonder sprayed out of him and onto Tim like a blessing. At almost the same time, Tim convulsed, his head shaking as fast as hummingbird wings, and his consciousness exploded through his prepubescence. For a moment, it was like he was only his cock, radiating and jubilating, broadcasting the joy of existence in pulse after pulse of dry exultation. By then, Wren's vision was filled with flames and shadow, but the last image he remembered was the farm boys smiling at them. Dogs barked distantly. Men crackle-called through megaphones. Wren stirred, then shook his friend awake. The fire had burned down to flickering coals, offering just enough light for the boys to get dressed in their dried clothes. "Where did those guys go?" Tim wondered, pulling on his parka. Wren shook his head. If he spoke what he was thinking, Tim would think him insane. Minutes later, knee-deep in thick snow, the boys trudged towards flashlights sweeping though the trees, and yelled at the search party calling their names. As the police and volunteers helped the boys out of the woods, they peppered them with questions, particularly about the hidden chamber, thinking it might be a drug stash house. But when Wren described the benches and fire circle, and the inscribed doorway, the cops grew silent. When Wren and Tim spoke about farm boys building a fire, leaving out almost everything else, the lead detective hinted a strong suspicion that they were under the influence, and maybe should stop talking. The Headmaster and teachers met Wren and Tim with relieved hugs, coca and hot food. And before the boys separated for their different dorms, Wren discretely squeezed Tim's hand "Hey, when the storm's over, you wanna, maybe do that fashion shoot again, up at the circle?" Wren asked shyly, then suggested Tim do it in the nude. "Yeah, man!" Tim grinned eagerly. "But why not tomorrow night in my room, after the bonfire?" Wren grinned. Fuck the dance. They'd have their own party. ============================================= To be continued...