Date: Mon, 5 Jan 2009 10:03:17 -0500 From: John Ellison Subject: The Landing - Chapter Six This story contains situations and scenes of graphic sex between consenting males. All legal disclaimers apply. If this topic offends you, do not read any further; and ask yourself why you are at this site. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, although it may be loosely based on real events and people. If you are under the age of 18 (21 in some areas) and too young to be reading such material or if you are in a locale or country where it is not legal to read such material then please leave immediately and come back when it is legal for you to do so. We'll be glad to have you back. Copyright 2009 by John Ellison Additional works publish in Nifty in the Military Category: The Phantom of Aurora The Boys of Aurora Aurora Tapestry The Knights of Aurora Aurora Crusade The "Aurora" books are a series and should be read in sequence. A Sailor's Tale Constructive criticism is always welcome, and comments are appreciated. Flames expounding a personal agenda are not appreciated and will be treated with the contempt they deserved. Please feel free to send comments to: paradegi@sympatico.ca I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. In October I was diagnosed with lung cancer and in mid-December had the first of two operations. Then Christmas and New Year's was upon me and I was dilatory in completing the excellent edits sent to me by my Editor, Peter, who has been a sterling, true friend, not to mention an excellent, if sometimes irascible editor. I expect to hear from the surgeon this week for the day of my next surgery. Please be assured that I will continue on, no matter what. I will try to complete Chapter Six before I am hospitalized. There will be a delay, though, as laptops are not allowed "inside the walls!" Yours aye John The Landing Chapter Five As Wade Hampton and I sat under the tree admiring the scenery and playing Wade's silly games, I noticed Sinjin shambling around the corner of the Inn, his red hair bright in the morning sun. Behind him shuffled Tristan and Damian Conyngham. All three boys wore the uniform of the day: shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes without socks. They were also carrying baseball mitts, and Damian had a bat resting on his shoulder. Sinjin spotted Wade and me and my three friends came over, plopped down and grinned. As we were all perfectly comfortable with each other, they were more or less unaware that everything they owned was on full display. None of them was wearing underpants, and with their legs spread wide the curving heads of their soft peckers were peeking out of the legs of their shorts. "So, whatcha guys doin'?" Sinjin began as he lay back on his elbows. He was darting glances at Wade Hampton and I swear his pecker lengthened a bit. I saw his eyes sweep over Wade's crotch and remembered that Wade was going commando. "Nothin' much," I replied, nonchalantly closing my legs - I was going commando as well and I didn't want to give Sinjin any ideas. Sinjin's looks and demeanor were not lost on the Conynghams. They giggled and nudged each other in the ribs. Damian finally snickered loudly. "Y'all better look out," he laughed. "Ole Sinjin is hornier than a Smith on heat!" Tristan laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach. "Yeah, he ain't had nothin' since you blew him, Wade Hampton!" he advised us, barely managing to get the words out through his laughter. Sinjin flashed a black look of pure evil at his friend. "Y'all shut the fuck up!" he snarled. "Well you are!" returned Damian, totally unfazed by Sinjin's ire. "You told us yourself you're so horny you'd fuck a knothole in a tree!" he added with a huge grin. Not knowing how to deny his recent statement, Sinjin fell back on his old retort. "Suck my dick!" We all guffawed and shook our heads. "No way!" said Damian. "Rather suck a dill pickle!" added Tristan. Sinjin, who had a short temper at the best of times, puffed up and looked as if he was about to explode. He reached down and adjusted his junk, hiding his pecker and balls under the blue cotton of his shorts. He glared angrily at the Conynghams and then looked at Wade Hampton. His hand returned to his shorts. Now, while I had no objection to Wade Hampton and Sinjin having a little bit of the this and that, the lawn of the church, in full view of half the town, was hardly the place to do it. I saw the look that came into Wade's eyes and noticed them lingering on the growing lump in Sinjin's shorts. I quickly changed the subject. "So, where's the rest of the guys?" I asked hurriedly. Tristan shrugged. "Tony 'n Vittorio are workin'," he said. "Their momma told 'em they had to help out in the kitchen 'cause they got a big party comin' up from Charleston for lunch." I nodded. The Landing Inn did a land office business in the summer tourist season and the Ravelli boys were always being hauled away by their mother to help out, in the kitchen, prepping food, or upstairs in the rooms, making beds, and cleaning. The riot in Overbridge had had a great impact on the Landing Hotel. Papa Ravelli no longer trusted his colored employees, and relied more and more on his own family when he needed extra help. "Where's John and Thomas?" I asked, wondering where the Pegram brothers were. "Their Gran is ailin' again," said Damian. "They had to go to Columbia." We all snickered. Grandma Pegram, who was older than God and meaner than a snake, was a wrinkled old crone who had been dying for years. I think she was hanging on just for spite. "Nicholas, and Bob Lee, and Greg are in Charleston," said Tristan, referring to the Cecil boys. He looked around, making sure there was no one near enough to hear us. "Somethin' is goin' on, Coops," he said conspiratorially. I had no idea what Tristan was talking about. "What could be going on?" "Well, Greg told me that they had to go to the tailor in Charleston to be measured for school clothes." Now I was curious. The Cecil boys went to the Consolidated Schools, the same as we all did. There had never been a requirement for special clothing of any kind, except for sports uniforms, which the schools provided through Biedermeyer's anyway. "They said they ain't goin' back to school," said Damian. "Not with niggers comin' in." Wade Hampton gave Damian an inquisitive look. "They going to school in Charleston?" Damian shrugged. "Don't know. All they said was they had to go to Charleston to get measured up." He looked at me. "You goin' back?" I shrugged. "Well, I guess so. We don't have a lot of choice, do we?" We all knew that the Consolidated Schools were scheduled to be integrated in the coming school year. We also knew that our parents were none too pleased at the prospect of sending their innocent sons to a school filled with blacks. The riots had not helped the situation at all and my mother was now firmly convinced that sending Damian Lee and me to a school filled with blacks predisposed to violence, was tantamount to sending us into the lion's den. Surprisingly, Mam Berta agreed with my mother. She was firmly convinced that I would be beaten up, or raped. Mam Berta was firmly convinced that "mixin'" would only lead to more trouble. However, they both complained in vain because the truth was we didn't have a choice. There was no private school, except for the military school, and they only accepted boarders, and I wasn't too keen on the idea anyway. I didn't have a military bone in my body, although my father was already talking about me following Philip Charles, and Damian Lee, at the Citadel. There was the Ursiline School, but that was for girls, and so far as I knew the nuns also accepted only boarders, and only had room fifty girls at the most. We were all therefore faced with returning to the Consolidated Schools in September, or home schooling, which I knew none of our mothers had the time, or the inclination for. "Well," I said presently, "maybe Wade Hampton got lucky." I grinned at him. "You'll love having the Cecil boys at Porter-Alexander." Wade sniffed. "Only if their daddy can pony up the fees. School ain't cheap." And therein lay the rub. Nobody had a lot of money. Mr. Cecil was a lawyer and like my father made a decent living, but nowhere near as much as he needed to send his three sons to a posh boarding school in Charleston. "It can't be too bad anyway," Tristan temporized. "I heard my daddy and momma talkin' and the coloreds can't do anything but go to classes. No swimmin', no football or baseball, no nothin' but book learnin'." "No gym?" I asked. "Nope. They come to school, go to class, and go home," replied Damian. "Well, it won't be all that bad then," I said. "Guess not," agreed Tristan. Wade Hampton, who was becoming restless, and tired of our take on our coming school year, interjected, "Are we gonna sit around her all morning?" "We were hopin' for a game of pickup ball," said Damian. "Wanna go riding?" asked Tristan. I shook my head. "Nah. I don't feel like going home to change." I looked at the Conynghams. "Besides, I don't have any money, and my father is still bitchin' about me putting the riding fees on his bill." Tristan and Damian nodded sagely. We didn't own horses, and when we rode, we had to hire mounts from Hampton Stables, which was across the river. Not only would we have to pay five dollars for the mounts, we would have to pay a dollar to the ferryman to take us across. The last time we rode I had charged everything to my father's account. He had not been pleased and while he paid the bill, he docked my allowance (ten dollars every Friday) two dollars a week until I had paid him back. "We can always go swimming," blurted Sinjin, giving Wade Hampton a hopeful look. A strange look passed between the Conynghams. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," said Tristan quickly. I swear Damian gave Wade Hampton a come-hither look as he said, "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea!" ****** We left the square, walked along Broadlands and skirted the wall of the military school. I had no idea what life on the other side of the wall was like. We saw the boy cadets, of course, as they shopped in town and in May they held parades on Friday afternoons to which the public was invited. Sometimes, when the wind was right, we could hear muffled commands and band music, but that was all. The school wall ended and we walked down a path that led through a stand of pine trees and then we were at the swimmin' hole. It was not a swimming hole, but a deep inlet. Before us the Cooper River flowed toward the sea. There was a shallow, sandy beach littered with small stones and an occasional piece of driftwood. There was nothing special about the place at all, really. We stripped off and waded into the river. The beach sloped gently into the gray/blue water and only deepened about ten feet or so out. In the deeper water we could dive and swim or let the slow moving waters carry us down a bit, and then we would swim back. We kept close to shore for the most part. There wasn't much traffic on the river, usually a pleasure boat, or a sailboat from the military school, and the tourist launch. Whenever a boat or the launch passed we stayed in the water - we were naked, after all, and not at all anxious to advertise our shortcomings! We fooled around in the water for an hour or so, playing grab ass, or grab balls, dunking each other, our usual practice. When we tired we swam to the beach and lay on the warm sand, enjoying the sun on our bodies. As we lay on the beach Tristan kept glancing at Wade Hampton, and I could see Tristan's pecker plumping up. Sinjin was looking daggers at Tristan, while Damian seemed to be in a daze. His eyes would dart first to Wade, then to Sinjin, and then back to Wade. I tried to remain aloof, but lying on a beach, nekkid, with four other boys, nekkid, wasn't easy. Add in the feelings that still lingered from my trysts with Wade, it was no wonder that my own pecker started to act up. Wade noticed what was going on and an evil smile broke his face. I saw the smile and shook my head. I didn't say anything, but I had a feeling that Wade was about to begin his campaign. I also wondered who would open the ball. I didn't have long to wait. Tristan, who had been lying apart from us, slowly stood up, walked the few feet and lay down beside Wade. Damian glared at his brother, who ignored him. Tristan's hand drifted down to his crotch and he began to tweak the head of his pecker. Wade's eyes slid down Tristan's slim body and he grinned. "Y'all got a nice lookin' pecker, there, Tris," he said. He raised his body and rested on one elbow. His free hand drifted over to Tristan's stomach, which Wade rubbed slowly. His hand slid down and he chuckled, "Yes sir, a right proud hangin' pecker, Tris." I heard a small groan and looked up. Damian was staring at Wade's hand on his brother's body. His own hand had drifted downward and he was duplicating Tristan's actions. By now Tristan and Damian were hard as rocks, their cute circumcised peckers jutting upward. Sinjin, who was lying on the other side of me, suddenly rolled closer. I felt his hand drift over my bare hip and down to my soft pecker. I could feel his hard organ pressing against the skin of my thigh. I didn't say anything. Sinjin's hand was warm and soft, and felt wonderful as it gently cupped my balls, and then gently rubbed the head of my pecker. I glanced at him, smiling. I had been jealous of Wade doing Sinjin, and figured that now it was my turn. Sinjin was starting to breathe heavily, and I could feel the sticky dampness of the head of his pecker against my skin. His eyes were soft, and sparkling. "Okay?" he whispered. I nodded and slowly opened my legs, to giver Sinjin more access. Wade saw Sinjin and me, and grinned. He looked at Tristan and nodded his head toward the deep undergrowth and sea grass off to one side of the beach. "What say we give 'em some privacy?" he asked with an evil grin. He scrambled to his feet, pulling Tristan with him. "What about me?" Damian squeaked. Wade grinned again. "Well, why not?" He bobbed his head toward the bushes. "Come on." Rising somewhat wobbly to his feet, Damian followed his brother and Wade Hampton. I had no idea just how far Sinjin was willing to go, but I damned sure wanted to find out. I rolled onto my side, facing him, and my hand found his hardness. I looked into his eyes and then, impulsively, I leaned forward and kissed him. Again, I didn't know how he would react, and was totally surprised when he moaned softly and returned the kiss. We lay on the beach, our bodies hot, thrusting against each other, moaning and kissing, our hands manipulating each other's pecker. Sinjin's breathing grew heavier and deeper and I decided that I wanted more. I left his sweet lips and pushed him back, gently kissing my way down his body to his hard boyhood. I took his spongy, sculpted pecker head in my mouth, and slowly worked my way down the throbbing shaft until my nose was buried in the sparse collection of pubic hair that adorned his mound. Sinjin growled and thrust his hips upward, filling my mouth with his hardness. His legs were splayed, offering me the chance to play with his hefty balls. I cupped them and rolled them in their smooth, hairless sack, and felt them begin to draw upward. He was close and I wanted to taste him. I pulled back on his pecker until just the head was in my mouth. I then ran my tongue around the head, the tip teasing the little knot of nerve endings left from his circumcision, at the back of the head. Sinjin went nuts when I did this and his body arched upward. "Ahhhggghhh . . ." he groaned. "Coops . . . I'm gonna squirt . . . Coops . . ." His pecker throbbed and pulsed and I tasted the warm sweetness of his seed. I swallowed greedily, savoring the sweetness. Sinjin must have been saving up for the winter, 'cause he sure blew a load! I thought he'd never stop. But he did, and lay back, his eyes closed, gasping for air. "Oh my God!" he managed between gasps. "Oh my Lord!" I gazed at poor Sinjin, his body flushed, his pecker shrinking slowly, and grinned. ****** Sinjin and I lay on the beach, he enjoying the afterglow of a superior blow job, I enjoying the feelings of having just made my first "conquest." Off to the side we could hear the grunts, groans, squeaks, moans and whines of an apparent very successful threesome. We listened for a while and then Sinjin giggled. "What?" "Wade Hampton sure does like makin' a boy happy," Sinjin observed. "Two, actually," I observed. Then I giggled. "But damn, it sure does feel good." Sinjin nodded, rose up a little and looked past my body at the underbrush. "Ya know, Coops, I wanted that, um, what you did." "I wanted it too." I gave Sinjin a hard look. "I was some pissed, ya know." "Huh?" "Well," I began, lying back, "I sorta like you, a lot, and um, well, I know we fooled around and such, but I um, well, I did wanta be the one who gave you your first blow job." Sinjin was taken aback. "But Coops, you never . . ." he began to protest. I knew that I was being unreasonable and unfair. Had I taken the bull by the horn - so to speak - as Wade Hampton had, I would have taken Sinjin to glory long before now. "Ah, I'm just glad we did it now," I said. "I really liked it, Sinjin." He smiled. "Me too." He reached over and cupped my package. "I've wanted it for a long time and now that we've done it . . ." His voice trailed off. Before I could answer a high-pitched wail broke the still, hot air. "Jesus!" I exclaimed. "Tristan or Damian?" Sinjin wondered aloud, and raising his head to stare at the underbrush. A loud, groaning, "Fuuuccckkk!" rent the air. I snickered. "Don't matter. Sounds like the Conyngham boys are no longer virgins!" Sinjin laughed loudly. "You got that right." His hand squeezed gently. "What you did felt great, Coops and . . ." I looked at him, my eyes flashing, desire rising in my loins. "Again?" Sinjin nodded slowly. "Yeeeaaahhh," he panted. "Oh yeah!" ****** The rest of the afternoon was a blur, and remains so all these years later. I recall flashbacks . . . hard, weeping boy dicks bouncing . . . warm lips on my pecker and balls . . . hot, pulsing pecker in my mouth . . . a daisy chain of sucking and slobbering . . . Sinjin sucking his first pecker . . . Damian sucking his brother and Wade moaning as I returned all his favors by taking both of his balls in my mouth and fondling them with my tongue. I tasted Damian's watery ejaculate, Sinjin's rich, sperm-filled cream, and Wade Hampton's nectar. Tristan, who had not yet begun to produce cum, was typically constantly hard, and dry-came at least five times! I lost track of the time, concentrating on my first orgy! God, it was wonderful. Five completely uninhibited boys, all constantly hard, all groaning and moaning as we climbed peaks and crossed valleys of indescribable pleasure. ****** Eventually we were too exhausted to continue. I immediately began to wonder what would come next. Would the Conyngham boys become wracked with guilt? After all, sucking Wade, Sinjin, each other and me was not an everyday experience. Would the threats of hellfire and brimstone that had been drilled into us all our conscious lives suddenly rise to the surface and send them running home to tell all to their horrified parents? Would Sinjin, possibly my best friend, suddenly have doubts? Would he dismiss what he had done together as something that "Best Buds" did? The questions bothered me. Wade Hampton dismissed my fears with a disdainful wave of his hand. "Coops, they did it because they wanted to," he told me later that night, as we lay together. "But . . ." I began to protest. Wade snorted. "There ain't no buts about it. They loved suckin' dick, and getting' their dicks sucked." "But . . ." I continued stubbornly. "Damn it, Coops, they did it. They ain't going to cry about it . . . and my guess is Damian and Tristan are gonna do it to each other - hell they probably already done three or four times!" Given the enthusiasm of the Conyngham boys I had to agree. "They won't think it queer . . . that they're fags?" Wade shook his head firmly. "Nope. It's just havin' fun. Queer is when you fuck a guy up the butt, or he fucks you up the butt! Everything is just 'sperimentin'. They tried it, they liked it, and my guess is that when they get older they'll stop. It's what usually happens." "Yeah?" "Yeah . . . Coops, I'm queer. I admit it, but the guys I help out are just horny guys. Sinjin, Tristan and Damian will be back." Wade Hampton paused and then said quietly, "So will the others." "What others?" I yelped. "I ain't done any `others'!" Wade chuckled and started to play with my pecker - he was insatiable and never seemed to need a rest, as I did - and said, "Coops, sooner or later word will get around. When it does you'll have more peckers to play with than you can shake a stick at. It always happens." Visions of the other boys in my little "gang" swam in my head . . . the Cecils, John and Thomas Pegram . . . the Ravelli boys, Marty and Joe Beidermeyer . . . and who else? Would they . . . ****** The answers to my questions would be forthcoming, and sooner than I expected. For the moment, however, we were more or less a closed shop. Nobody really wanted to spread the word about what he did every afternoon thereafter when we were together. If the others joined us we reverted to our former sex games, just playing around and lying beside each other, jerking off. I suspected that the other boys guessed something had happened, but no one said anything. There were sideways glances, hesitating looks, but nothing overt happened . . . then. ****** A week before school was due to start Wade Hampton was called home. His parents made up, as they always did, although not without his Daddy paying a hefty price for peace. Wade would later tell me that his Momma was pacified with gifts: a stunning silver and gold centerpiece that made her the envy of all her neighbors and guaranteed a mention in all the local guidebooks, and a rosewood sideboard made by Thomas Elfe in 1770. Ah, the price of love, or at least peace and quiet! ****** As school opening approached I was still wondering what would happen on the day. I knew that something was going on. In typical adult fashion, whenever my parents were involved in a conversation that they didn't want me to hear, the moment I entered the room they would stop talking. Their silences were thunderous! I questioned Mam Berta, who pretended ignorance. Damian Lee was no help, and insisted that he didn't know anything. Of course, it would have helped had he spent some time at home, but he seemed to spend every waking minute with his newest girlfriend, a slattern who seemed to demand sex morning, noon, and night, at least according to the ever accommodating Damian Lee. On the Friday before Labor Day Mam Berta gave me a swat and told me to get my butt over to the school and clean out my locker. She informed me, needlessly, that my Daddy had paid good money for the sports gear that had been moldering away at the bottom of my locker all summer. Waste not, want not, was the general theme of her grumbling words. I protested that opening day of school was time enough to clean the cesspool. After all, I was only moving from one side of the complex (the junior school) to the other, where the high school was. I was also anxious to get away, as Sinjin and I were going riding. Mam Berta fixed me a look that froze my blood. I was, she informed me, to collect my gear. Then she mumbled something that sounded like, "A lot you know!" Curious as to what she was talking about, I took the coward's way out. The old black woman would not hesitate to swat my butt if I didn't obey so, grumbling, I got my butt in gear and did as I was told. I walked into town, dragging my feet. It was a scorcher of a morning but the square and streets were busier than usual. Labor Day was not a great holiday, but it was a holiday and brought out the tourists in droves. The local entrepreneurs and crafts people were setting up their stalls and tables, Crazy Betsy was arguing over her place on the square with the wife of the mayor, who wanted the spot, Stubby Richmond was in his usual place, glaring at the passersby, and the old men were parked, as usual, outside of the café and in the square, drinking "coffee" out of brown paper bags and playing checkers. I strolled through the square, and down Hampton Road. I noticed the horses and carriages outside of the funeral home, waiting to carry the latest customer to glory. As no one that I knew had died, I assumed that the funeral was for country folk and passed on. When I arrived at the Consolidated Schools I noticed that the parking lot, where all the teachers left their cars, was all but empty. This was strange in that the teachers always showed up a week before official opening to prepare their lesson plans and get their classrooms in order. Inside, the halls seemed emptier than normal. I saw a couple of kids cleaning out their lockers, and old Mr. Buxton, the black Custodian, lazily washing the floor outside the cafeteria doors. I went to the second floor, where my locker was located, spun the dial of my combination lock and, with fear and trepidation, opened the locker. My locker reeked. That was the kindest word I could think of to describe the horrible odor that wafted into the wide corridor when I opened the door. At first I could not for the life of me think what I had left in there back in late June when school closed for the summer. The wider I opened the locker door, the more a miasma of stench wafted outward. Gulping back my disgust I carefully looked into the dark aperture and cringed. The top shelf was a mare's nest of wrinkled, crumpled papers - old lab work papers, splotched with things I don't ever want to see again or even think about. Peeking out from under the splotched notes left from my dissection of a frog, was a curling paperback, The Red Bad of Courage, which I had tried to read one Sunday and left out in the rain. The mould-covered pages smelled like wet dog. My watering eyes drifted lower to what looked like a pile of rags at the bottom of the locker. Lying on top of everything was a yellowed jock strap, which our Coach delicately called a balls supporter. The supporter nestled against a pair of once white gym shorts, spotted with grass stains, skid-marked, and never washed once, since I never took any of my sports gear home. Mam Berta had long since decreed that I could do my own laundry and I, in my usual procrastinating way, let everything pile up, and snitched boxers from Damian Lee who, being Damian Lee, did his laundry every Saturday morning without fail. That way I figured I always had clean undies and didn't have to worry about being run over by a stampeding mule and taken to the hospital. I would have preferred to simply close the locker door and walk away, but rather than face the wrath of Mam Berta, I decided to again take the coward's way out. I went to the Janitor's Closet and appropriated a garbage bag. Very gingerly I piled everything into the bag and took it outside to a dumpster where all the school trash was stored for pickup. My hands smelled like a cesspool (or so I thought) and I wandered down to the basement and the boys' toilets. I really did not expect to see anyone and was scrubbing away at one of the sinks when the door slammed open and Adam Blake strutted in. Adam was the oldest of the Blake boys. There were four of them - Adam, Jason, Matthew and Ethan. They were all of a kind, tall, beefy, dark blond and boasting muscles. All the Blakes were good looking, taking after their father, and very athletic. Adam played football and was already tapped for the University of Columbia on a scholarship. The Blakes were Upcountry, coming originally from a tiny village in the shadow of Sassafras Mountain. Mason Blake, the patriarch, was a contractor who had a brother, Eames, who was a state senator. Eames sat on the State Highway Committee so it was no surprise when Mason was awarded a contract to repave the highway that ran between Greenville and Spartanburg. Other contracts followed and Mason eventually branched out, building a gated, bedroom community on the old Lewisham Plantation, where the family lived in a white-columned mansion more suitable for the pages of "Gone With the Wind" than Carolina. Mason was now building a down-scale version of Lewisham Estates, Blake Acres, on derelict acreage that he bought for something like ten cents an acre from the State. When finished he hoped to sell the neat, trim, brick houses to the up-and-coming Negro entrepreneurs who were cashing in on the Black Revolution. I knew Matthew and Ethan Blake well. They both attended the Middle School, and I had Ethan in my gym class. Matthew was a grade ahead of me but was close to his brother and it seemed that wherever one brother went, the other was close behind. Jason Blake was a junior, and I only saw him occasionally. Adam was a senior, and I saw him every Friday when he played football. My brother, Damian Lee and Adam were both Eagle Scouts, and close. Good looking rather than handsome, Adam had a walk that could only be described as a banty rooster strut. I don't think he was conscious of it, but there it was. He was popular with the girls, and rumored to be a cocksman. From the large bulge in his shorts I could well believe it. As usual, Adam strutted the length of the toilets and stood in front of the last urinal. He unzipped and pulled out his parts and, balls to the breeze, pointed his fire hose and let loose. I had never seen all of Adam's pecker and I had to look. Jesus Lord, the boy was hung like a small horse or a large mule. Hanging over hairy, goose egg sized balls was the longest, thickest slab of meat in three counties, including the Smiths (sheer speculation) and the black boys of Overbridge (rumor). The thing had to be six inches long and as big around as my wrist. I knew he'd been born in the foothills and I wasn't surprised to see that the head of his pecker was covered in skin. As I watched out of the corner of my eye, Adam skinned back his pecker, idly playing with the loose skin. I admit to be mesmerized, and in my eagerness I also admit to licking my lips. Unfortunately, Adam saw me. He turned, held his pecker out and asked nastily, "Like what ya see, faggot?" He skinned back all the way, revealing a pale purple glans as big as a Damson plum. "Wanna suck it, queer boy?" He grinned evilly and waggled his sausage at me. Now, I am no fan of the natural boy. I grew up with clean cut, All American urchins and I knew what I liked. However, Adam's arrogance and assumption that I would automatically want to snuffle at his crotch got me angry. I knew that Adam was a good Scout, and had been plowing into Damian Lee on a regular basis. The first night I had been dragooned into the Boy Scouts, Sinjin Tradd and I had snuck down to the Aerie, the room reserved exclusively for the Eagle Scouts, forbidden territory for tenderfeet and the like. We peeked in and saw an orgy in progress. Simmons Richmond and Jason Blake, nekkid, were lying on the dusty floor, moaning and groaning, engaged in a sixty-nine. My brother, Damian Lee, was bent over the arm of the spavined sofa while Adam Blake, as naked as a jay, pumped his cypress log into my equally nekkid brother. How Damian Lee ever managed to take that thing up his butt appalled and intrigued me. As we watched, Sinjin's hand drifted over to my crotch and began to squeeze my pecker. I reciprocated and before too long our breathing became heavier. Sinjin began to squeak like a mouse, the sign that he had passed the point of no return. He exploded a second before I did and I left the meeting hoping that Damian Lee had done a laundry! Knowing what I knew, I regarded Adam a second or so, grinned and walked purposefully toward him. Before he could react I had my hand on his massive dong. I began to squeeze his member while leading him toward the stall behind us. Adam had a look on his face that registered surprise and, I suspect, fear. While he was well-versed in boy to boy sex, I doubt that anyone had ever come on to him so boldly. Before he knew it, I had him in the stall, with his khaki shorts and green-striped boxers gathered around his ankles. I sat on the throne, with just the head of his dick in my mouth. I knew about "deep-throating", thanks to Wade Hampton, but there was no way I could take Adam's monster all the way. I left off his head and snuffled my way down the thick shaft to his pubes, and smelled the unique odor of fresh-scrubbed teenage male, a combination of Lifebuoy soap, clean cotton, and musk. I drank in Adam's smell, enjoying the perfume, and teased my way up the shaft to the head. "Oh, ffffuuuccckkkk," Adam moaned as his hips began the age old rhythmic thrusting. The head of Adam's dick was spongy and firm and surprisingly, sweet tasting, with just a hint of residual pee. As I suckled I could taste the precum that oozed from the slit in the head, and decided that I liked it. To spur Adam on I reached up and squeezed and pulled on his balls. He groaned again and I could feel them draw upward. His breathing grew harsher and I knew it would not be too long. Suddenly, Adam's head rolled back and his hips thrust upward. A low, animal growl rose from his throat and he exploded, a huge stream of his spooge filling my mouth, followed by another and another and another. I swallowed greedily as Adam's knees buckled and he leaned back for support against the closed stall door. As his dick began to shrink I pulled away, and then leaned forward and licked a residual drop of semen from the head. He shuddered and started at my touch and for the first time spoke. "Please, no, too much, too much." Poor Adam, not knowing what to say or do next, allowed me to pull him gently forward and seat him on the toilet. I looked at him and reached down to give his near flaccid member a squeeze. I never said a word and as I slipped out of the stall I swear I could feel his hazel eyes boring holes into my back. As I opened the door leading outside, I heard a second, long, low, "FFFUUUCCCKKK!" ****** I left the school and walked back into town, stopping only as the funeral procession, traces and tackle tinkling, passed by on its way to Magnolia Cemetery. I didn't know the guest of honor, whose polished, flower-covered coffin rested in the glass-sided hearse, but knew that as sure as fate if I didn't pause to pay respects, word would get back to my mother with the speed of light and I would be punished for disrespect and read a lecture on proper manners. As I passed the Landing Inn I saw Mama Ravelli supervising the waiters as they lowered the awning that covered the patio restaurant. She saw me and waved me over, asking how I was and if I was going to tutor Tony, her son. Tony was a nice guy, but not the brightest bulb in the box, if you know what I mean. He had a mental block when it came to mathematics and last school year I had tutored him and he had managed to pass the year. Mama Ravelli worried constantly about Tony. She wanted her first-born son to succeed and didn't mind paying me five dollars a session. I asked her where Tony was - I hadn't seen him around the Inn, and she told me that he was upstairs, in the family quarters. As she always did, she also offered me something to eat, which I politely declined, and then she told me to go on up and speak to Tony about his schedule. Avoiding the elevator - it was reserved for guests - I walked up four flights to the top floor where the Ravellis actually lived. Not bothering to knock, I walked into the apartment, which was very quiet. I knew that Papa Ravelli was downstairs, supervising the delivery of supplies. Where Tony's brother was, was anybody's guess . . . probably in the kitchen, washing dishes or stirring huge pots of pasta sauce. I didn't see Tony in the sitting room, or the kitchen, so, having been in the apartment before I walked down the short corridor to his bedroom. I entered and saw Tony stretched out on the bed, sound asleep. I looked at him for several minutes, thinking that he looked damned cute, and then, emboldened, I lay on the bed beside the sleeping boy, with my head toward the foot of the bed. Tony was breathing the slow, measured breaths that indicated deep sleep. His right arm was back, under his head, while his left was resting on his stomach just above the leather belt that held up his tattered jeans. His torso was covered by a black, short-sleeved shirt, and the sun shining through the open window cast his face in a dark shadow. Now, Tony had never, in all the times he'd been skinny dipping with us, ever made a move on any of us, and had never participated in our sex games. I'd seen him soft, but never hard and now, emboldened with what had just happened with Adam, wondered how Tony would react if I . . . I reached over and gently took his hand, moving it off of his stomach and letting it rest at his side. No reaction, so I then reached over and placed my hand where his had been, never taking my eyes off of the lump in his jeans. I slowly rubbed his stomach - still no reaction - so I reached up and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his smooth, hairless chest. I saw the little treasure trail that meandered downward from his navel and under the white waistband of his boxers. Daringly, I let my fingers riffle his treasure trail and then I decided to explore further. I slowly undid his belt, and undid the top button of his jeans. Tony stirred slightly and I quickly raised my hand. I heard no interruption in his breathing so I lowered my hand, found the tag of his closed zipper and slowly pulled it down. There was still nothing from Tony so I pushed aside the fly of his jeans, revealing the blue and white striped cotton boxers he was wearing. The fly was slightly ajar and I could see his dense pubic bush and just an inch or so of the shaft of his pecker. That inch of flesh was too tempting and I ran my finger along it, feeling the warmth and silky smoothness of it. I withdrew my finger and, about to throw caution to the wind, slowly let my hand descend. Suddenly, Tony stirred and dropped his right hand down to his side. I drew back and waited, wondering if I had wakened him. The room was still, with Tony's rhythmic breathing to break the silence. Convinced that he was still sound asleep, I slowly inserted my fingers into the fly of Tony's boxers. Gently, carefully, I slowly drew out Tony's proudest possession, holding it with two fingers. I had seen Tony naked on more than one occasion. To be honest, he would never be called an "Italian Stallion". His pecker was normal sized, although thicker than most. The skin of the shaft was more olive than tan, and the head a light pink. Just below the curving corona was a ridge of skin, darker than the skin of the shaft. I made a small dome with the fingers of my hand and began to pump Tony. As I did so he squirmed and a low, barely audible moan escaped his lips. His pecker began to grow until it was firm and hard under my fingers, standing about five and a half inches tall. What truly intrigued me about Tony's hard pecker - aside from the fact that I was actually holding it and stimulating it, was that while he'd been circumcised, he had no ring, as the rest of us did. He'd been circumcised close to the head, and when hard the skin was a pale, almost white color. Even more intriguing was the dark ridge of skin about an inch or so below the head. The head itself was well-formed but angled back, not much, but enough. The skin between it and the ridge, instead of being smooth, was dimpled. I wondered, as I continued to feel him, if this made Tony insensitive, or perhaps more sensitive, I did not have too long to wonder for Tony suddenly thrust his hips upward. His hands, which had been at his side, grasped the waistbands of his boxers and jeans and he began pushing them down, exposing his hairy crotch and tight, close-hugging hairy balls. Surprised, I looked at Tony. His eyes were still closed, but his lips were closed in a tight smile. His breathing had become shallow. He was awake! Tony lowered his body, and then raised it again, offering his pecker. Leaning forward again, I cupped his balls and lowered my head. My tongue flicked out and licked the head of Tony's pecker. He tasted sweet, and I could smell his unique scent. It was different from Wade Hampton's, and Sinjin's, slight musky, with just a hint of soap. I opened my mouth wider and engulfed his hardness, slowly sucking in every inch of Tony until his wiry pubic hair ticked my nose. Savoring the sweetness in my mouth, I suckled Tony, rising up to taste just the head, and then back down. Up and down I went, my tongue teasing the slight roughness below the head of Tony's dick. This ring of skin was apparently very sensitive as each time my tongue swiped it Tony groaned louder and raised his hips, thrusting slowly upward. I could hear Tony's quiet moans and gasped "Fuuuccckkk" as he raised his hips higher. I ignored his soft moans, savoring the warm flesh that filled my mouth, lost in a world of indescribable pleasure and desire. I could feel Tony's balls against my chin, high up in his crotch, enjoying the slight pulsing of them as he approached orgasm. I knew he was close and then . . . Tony let out an almighty groan and then his pecker spasmed and the first of four strong jets of his semen slammed, I swear, against my tonsils. I swallowed every drop, not wanting to waste any of his offering. Tony's semen was not at all offensive. It tasted slightly salty, but sweet and I continued to suck even when he had no more to offer. I drew back on his softening pecker and held the head in my mouth. Tony yipped loudly and pulled back sharply. After cumming he was extremely sensitive, and couldn't stand being touched as he recovered from his orgasm. "God damn!" he managed through heavy gasps. I looked at him to see him looking back, his hooded eyes bright. I grinned at him, remaining silent. We continued to stare at each other, which made me think that Tony might not have been too enthusiastic about me giving him a blow job. Rather than confront him, I decided to end our session. While Tony watched me like a cat regarding a plump mouse, I slowly pulled up his boxers. He rose slightly to accommodate me. As his now flaccid member began to disappear under the blue and white striped cloth I impulsively kissed its head. Then I stood up, and smiled at him. Tony never said a word, his eyes never left me, as I slowly gave him a friendly wave of my hand and left his room. ****** My worries that Tony might not have been as keen as Sinjin or the Conynghams were short-lived. Tony's silence had been disturbing, and I worried that he'd do something to me, like beat me up. I had blown Tony on Friday. On Saturday I met Sinjin, fooled around with him, and then went into town. My father had given me instructions, via Mam Berta, to pick up a package at Biedermeyer's. Father bought most of his clothes from the store, and I assumed that he'd been shopping. I walked into town and as I passed the Inn I saw Tony standing on the patio, placing some glasses on one of the tables. He saw me, stared at me, and then hurried down the steps and stood in front of me. Oh God, I thought, here it comes. Standing close, Tony began to rub his hand down the side of his dress pants. "Um, hi Coops," he said eventually. I drew back, wondering what was to come. "Hi, Tony. How's it going?" I answered, At first Tony did not reply. Then, ever so slowly, he reached over and squeezed the front of his trousers. "Um, you still want to tutor me?" The gesture was not lost on me. "If you want," I said softly. I glanced down and saw that there was a definite fullness to Tony's crotch. "Um, yeah, I really need some tutoring," Tony replied. Then his soft smile turned into a wide grin. "When can you start?" ****** When I returned from Biedermeyer's, Mam Berta told me that my mother was waiting for me in her office. This was a small room off the entry hall, dominated by an ancient, battle-scarred secretary desk and a crumbling old chair. The pigeon holes of the desk were stuffed with papers and the scarred veneer lay hidden under account books and the month's most recent bills. Mother was the household accountant, so to speak, and spent at least an hour every morning in the small room, writing checks and entering sums in her account books. When I entered, Mother was studying a typewritten letter. I could see the letter head, a crest of some sort and a black and white line drawing of some buildings. They looked vaguely familiar. Mother smiled at me. "Cooper dear, you've returned." "Yes, Mummy, and I have Papa's package. Where shall I put it?" Mother looked thoughtful a moment and said, "In your room." She saw me about to protest at putting my father's new clothes in my room and held up her hand. "Cooper. I know that there has been some confusion as to school . . ." I wasn't aware of any confusion at all. "I'm going back to the Consolidated Schools," I said. She shook her head. "No. Your father and I have decided that you shall attend a different school this year." She looked at me with a firm look in her eyes. "As will Damian Lee." I couldn't for the life of me think of a school other than the one I attended. "What?" Mother took a deep breath. "Cooper, neither your father nor I will ever consent to your attending school with . . ." She paused and then all but hissed, "Those people." It didn't take a crystal ball to know what "people" Mother was talking about. "Arrangements have been made," Mother continued on, "for you and Damian Lee to attend Parker-Semmes as day students." "But Mummy! I don't want to go to military school!" Then, for some reason, I added, "I'd look lousy in a uniform." My mother's lips twitched, trying to form a smile. Then her iron control came to the fore. "Actually, you are the type to wear a uniform," she told me. "However, uniforms are not at the moment in your future." I shook my head, wondering what was coming next. Mother took a breath. "Cooper, whether your father and I like it or not, the school is to be integrated. We cannot stop that, for it is the law, but we have explored other options." Mother then went on to explain that when it was clear that every legal avenue to prevent total integration of the South's schools had been exhausted, a committee had been formed. The purpose of the committee was frankly to find ways and means to circumvent the law. It was stressed that integration would go forward. There would be no protests, the public schools would open, and any white parent could send his child there. For just about every white parent in town, this was not an option. The committee then explored ways to have their children educated. The two private schools, the Ursiline Convent School and Parker-Semmes Military Academy, were approached, and arrangements made. As private schools, both demanded fees. Teachers had to be paid, after all, buildings kept in good repair, and so on. Father was tasked with finding funds to help the schools enlarge their facilities. He contacted friends, and put the bite on Alva's philandering husband. They money father collected served several purposes. Some of the families could not afford hefty fees, and some of the families wanted nothing to do with Catholics or their schools. This age old prejudice was an insurmountable barrier. However, after a talk with the Reverend Josiah Chapman, Pastor Emeritus of the Evangelical Temple out on Hampton Road, and Mason Blake, the Charles Town Christian School was incorporated. The students, most from the farmers and sharecropping families, would offer a "Christian" education (as defined by the Reverend) to the children of the congregation. By the tone of my mother's voice I knew that the matter was settled. I would attend Parker-Semmes, and I was to go to my room and try on my new school clothes. Mother assured me that my friends, the Cecils, the Pegrams, the Ravelli boys and Sinjin would also be day boys at Parker-Semmes, as would Damian Lee. I would not, she pointed out, be lonely. Loneliness was the least of my worries as I carried the bulky package to my room. I had visions of spending the next four years in tight fitting, brass-buttoned, Cadet Gray jackets, and marching back and forth from class. I could not have been more wrong. The new day boys would wear distinctive clothing - Parker-Semmes was a military school after all. For warm weather we had knee-length, khaki shorts, a short sleeved starched white shirt, black knee socks and polished black oxfords. We also had a tie, regimental pattern, of black, red, mauve and white stripes. For colder weather there were long khaki trousers, and a windbreaker. All in all the uniform wasn't that bad and when I tried my new duds on I thought the white shirt did set my tanned skin off a treat. I decided that attending Parker-Semmes would not be that bad, especially since it was an all-boys school. With the memory of Tony Ravelli's sweet pecker still tantalizing my taste buds, I lay on my bed, content.