Date: Wed, 03 Apr 2024 13:49:58 +0000 From: olhap1758472649 Subject: THE MONKEY'S GRIN, CHAPTER 10 THE MONKEY'S GRIN by Oliver Hapland Thirteen-year-old Martin inherits a certain piece of intimate sports equipment with special powers. He has managed to use it to help him seduce some of his teammates but the mysterious monkey, which seems to be its animus, has made him pay some uncomfortable penalties. However, its lure is too strong and Martin still has hopes of sex with his best friend, Peter, who has gone off on the hunt for girls with another pal. Thanks to everyone who has written with comments and suggestions. Do keep your encouragement coming if you want more. I love to hear from readers. Please note my new email: olhap1758472649@proton.me Warning: this story contains sexual activity by boys. It is fiction. It is an artistic exploration of its themes and does not condone them. Check out my other stories: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/bisexual/adult-youth/schoolboy-stats https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/the-lustful-little-mouse/ https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/historical/little-lord-barry https://www.nifty.org/nifty/bisexual/celebrity/gullivers-pageboy Please consider making a donation to Nifty to continue providing all these wonderful stories http://donate.nifty.org/ THE MONKEY'S GRIN CHAPTER 10 The body-hum grew in intensity and became rosy in its warmth; it was like being in an electromagnetic field with an iron bar vibrating in your hands. Brian was behind the toilet door with his hands under the folds of his belly, playing with his meagre erection. I knew it wasn't big: I had seen it at cricket. The cricket box felt red-hot between my legs and my mind began to be packed out with images spewed up by Brian's libido: images of long, feminine legs, and breasts with large, protruding nipples like my mum's when she sunbathed topless. "What are you doing here, Dempster?" I jumped. Mr Mason had just come out of a classroom carrying a pile of exercise books. "I, err... I'm just waiting," I said emphatically and crossed my legs in an urgent sort of way. "There are plenty more toilets in the school, lad. Why is this one always so popular?" "Don't know, sir." "Well, run along and find another one." "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." I made to move off back up the corridor, and fortunately the teacher's lunch break was evidently too valuable to waste on the vagaries of boys' lavatory preferences, and he continued into the staffroom. The hum from the toilet had ceased abruptly as soon as Mr Mason had spoken. Brian must have been able to hear us from behind the door and been startled out of his erotic daydreams. I tiptoed back now and flattened myself against the wall by the toilet door, ready to scarper if anyone else appeared. Just as I suspected: Brian soon resumed his endeavors, only this time with what seemed an increased effort. Evidently, he wanted to get it over with quickly now. The hum came again and this time grew to an almost painful buzz that went from rosy to crimson. I felt hooked into Brian's consciousness in a more intimate way than I had with any of the others; it was as if I were experiencing his pleasure with him, as if I were wanking, but only with my mind. The images of tits became huge and stifling, the legs massive and intimidating. Then, unexpectedly, amongst this melee appeared images of penises, or certainly one penis, erect and expectant, but who it belonged to wasn't clear, only that it wasn't Brian's. The lust buzz grew to almost overwhelming proportions. Then everything went suddenly haywire and was eclipsed by a blinding flash like the energy pulse I had seen on TV from the explosion of an atomic bomb. I could feel Brian's mind seize up, momentarily paralysed, and I shared in the orgastic ecstasy coursing from his distended cock as it jammed his brain waves. I rocked on my feet with the shock and clung to the door frame. The turbulence passed quickly and I straightened up. From inside the toilet I could hear Brian rumbling off yards of toilet paper from the roll. I stumbled hurriedly up the corridor feeling exhausted and shaky as if I had had an orgasm but without the physical satisfaction. As I rejoined the hubbub of the dinner queue, the noise seemed to pound my brain and I realised I was getting a headache. I felt nauseous and knew it was to do with the box. I had overdone things. Having your thought waves coupled with someone else's -- especially when they were violently out of step with your own, in sexual climax -- was it any wonder that one felt knocked about? I managed to turn to the wall for concealment as I groped in my trousers for the box. I pulled it out and then slipped it into the pocket of my blazer. I had had enough of its capabilities for one day. "You OK?" said a boy in the year above. "You've gone pale." I joined my mates for lunch but I didn't feel much like bantering. I didn't see Brian again, other than at a distance, until afternoon lessons and then I wasn't sitting with him. How odd to think that, apart from him, I was the only one who knew what he had done since morning school: that he had committed a dirty act on himself in the toilet. He didn't look like he had; I mean, he didn't look any different from before, unless (if it were possible) he were even more relaxed -- or was that just my imagination? Although it troubled me somewhat that I had spied on him, it set me wondering whether any of the other boys around me might have given themselves a private tug during the lunch hour. How would you know? I had no desire now to use the monkey to find out. By quarter to four I was feeling much better and was waiting at the bus stop to go home, when Peter came up to me without his new crony in tow. Peter's nose was looking red and he seemed dejected. "I'm sorry about going off with Charlie and being a bastard," he said. He sounded sincere, with a bunged-up nose. I looked at him and felt the urge to say something spiteful, but I could not. I had seen him a couple of times at school during the day and thought that he looked ashen and rather unwell. I think I might have said before that Peter was a bit maturer than me physically. He was broader in the shoulder and longer in the limb compared with my slender frame, and he could have knocked me flat in a fight. But seeing him now, he looked so sorry for himself that I couldn't help feeling pity. His school uniform seemed to hang on him and his arms and legs were like individual things that had to be pitied because they were parts of him; his unruly hair was more messy than usual as it caught the afternoon sun -- and for some reason I began to imagine his dick, with its inadequate foreskin, hanging limp inside his trousers and I felt sorry for that, too. I wanted to squeeze my poor Peter tight and then walk him home. Of course, I did none of these things -- school boys don't. And I was wary of selling my friendship too cheap. "I don't mind if you want to have other friends," I said rather grudgingly. "It's not dat," he said snuffling. "Or ad least ... well, Charles is a bid of a shid, actually." My heart was melting now but I drew myself up and looked at him cynically. "I'm not going to be your friend just because you've broken up with him." "It's not like dat. Really. I like you much more... You're the only person who knows almost as much as me about cricket!" Oh, Peter, you really knew how to steal my heart! "What are your thoughts on Imran Khan's performance this season?" he ventured studiously. I knew then that I really did want Peter back, but I was wise enough not to show quite how much. We spent the next two and a half minutes in an intense discussion about who, out of England and Pakistan, would bowl the most maiden overs that year. Then the bus roared up and what a wrench it was to have to leave Peter. I bent down to pick up my bag, and the cricket box slid out of my blazer pocket and bounced on the pavement. "What's that doing here?" Peter said stooping to pick it up. "NO!" I shouted and dived in before he could reach it; I didn't want him to touch it even, not after what had happened with Colin. "No," I said again more quietly and tucked the box away. "But we didn't even have cricket today," he said. Thankfully, the bus driver revved up just then and the bus began to move. I jumped on. "See you at the Mestridge match on Saturday," I called. He grinned and waved and was left standing with some others in a blue cloud of diesel smoke. I threw myself down on the back seat feeling quite elated and hardly noticed the other kids squashed in around me: Peter was my friend again; Charles was out of the picture; and the cricket season still had weeks to run. I now felt reassured also by the amount of sex I had observed around me at school. My mission seemed to have been accomplished. I had confirmed that my own desires weren't unusual -- in magnitude, if not in direction. Just like mine, other boys' minds seemed to be engaged much of the time in thoughts connected with wanking -- amazingly, even some of the teachers seemed immersed in sex fantasies -- and I knew that at least Brian was having homosexual thoughts, even if they were only when his unconscious took over at orgasm. All this, not surprisingly, was making my cock swell and I pinched it through my trousers under cover of my school bag. It wouldn't be long now. My parents wouldn't be home till late, nor would Kathy, and I knew exactly what I was going to do as soon as I got home. My blazer with the monkey discarded along with my other school clothes in the corner, I now eyed with rising anticipation the bottle of my mother's hand lotion on my bedside table, as the androgynous martian creature I had transformed myself into neared the torrid climax of its performance in the mirror. Complete with orange circle in the middle of its forehead, the alien struck a pose with arms and legs splayed, gold blouse, rainbow-striped tube socks over nylon tights, purple hotpants and red-leather platform shoes, all helping to lift the Earthling Martin Dempster out of his humdrum, sexless terraced existence and into another higher universe of peak experiences where anything seemed possible. Hand lotion was a very powerful product -- as I had discovered the first time I tried it -- one that I reserved for very special occasions. It was quite a difficult and risky task to procure it surreptitiously from my mother's dressing table, and so it could only be got rarely. And the near-death intensity of the come that was possible to induce with it was greater than I felt able to endure more than once a week or so. I had christened my version of Ziggy Stardust "Wizz", probably after Roy Wood's glittery band Wizzard -- I had thrown some glitter over my face and hair, which sparkled in the glare of the overhead bulb. Now the alien's hotpants came open and its heavy cock bobbed and swayed obscenely in the mirror beneath a strip of exposed navel. I had timed this crescendo so that it met with the arrival of the album's title track on my record player. As the searing guitar riff rang out, my cock seemed to swell and throb to the very noise. I fished in Kathy's knickers for my balls and pulled them over the hem so they hung down like two swollen, puce fruit ... --Ziggy played guitar-- crowed Bowie. ... I eased back my foreskin so that the darker plum of my glans might match my balls. There was some smegma there, which I picked out with my nails and flicked on to the rug. --He played it left hand ... But took it too far-- At that age, the skin was still tight and when I eased it back during erection, as I did now, the lip of the prepuce would fold itself under the rim of the corona and stubbornly resist any attempt to coax it out. --He could lick 'em by smiling ... He could leave 'em to hang-- The restrictive tightness of the retracted foreskin was like a ligature around my cock's neck, accentuating its shiny, purple helmet. I regarded my penis in the mirror, tantalised, a throbbing sex rod of impossible horniness jutting out lewdly between my legs. --Well hung and snow-white tan-- Mick Ronson's guitar distortion burst out of the speaker. It was time for the alien to die, as it always must at the end of one of my "special sessions", an excruciating death-by-lotion in my ever-improving hand. I took up the bottle and unscrewed the cap, squeezing a generous amount on to both palms before applying it to my prong. A shudder gripped me and I caught my breath as the cool, silky liquid made contact with my sex skin, and I drew its slippery friction across the glans -- a place I couldn't bear to touch ordinarily. And then, maintaining control with no little difficulty, I began the familiar repetitions. --He was the naz-- There was always some stinging if the lotion got down the slit, but the pain was worth enduring for the razor edge the fluid motion gave to the climax. --He took it all too far ... But, boy, could he play guitar-- There would be no returning to mundane existence now until my engorged sex had been sated; I watched as the being in the mirror began gyrating its hips in great leg- and tummy- tightening trusts into the all-powerful pumping hand; the world began to fall away, frozen in time, the street, school, boring Grantwich, all insignificant specs below me as the Ziggy-boy/girl-martian I had given myself up to rocketted towards the stratosphere. The image of Bowie fellating Ronson filled my mind again, intermingled with images of Brian -- me fellating him ... him fellating me... --Making love with his ego ... Ziggy sucked up into his mind-- My hand became increasingly a blur till the sensation was so acute that I could only jerk the hand fitfully back and forth across the raw flesh. "Ohh-yeaahh!" My knees buckled and a projectile of suddenly liberated semen fired itself, from its launch site deep in my crotch, a full six feet through open space and splashed down on the mirror. I collapsed, little more at that moment than a convulsing sperm cannon, in a tangle of limbs, hand lotion and boy slime, and lay twitching on my back sweating and panting as The Spiders From Mars crashed like iron fireworks through the remainder of the song. As Bowie's plaintive "Ziggy played guitaaaaar!" washed across me, I found myself looking upside-down at the open curtains of my bedroom window. The open curtains! I could have sworn I had closed them. I instantly righted myself, all of the sex feeling gone, to be replaced by the sensation of cold doom. The bedroom light was on. That meant that someone outside at the right level could see in and see everything that I had just done... Someone like Mrs Sullivan! I leapt across the bedroom stealthily like a cross-dressing commando and peered over the window sill with dread, almost not daring to look at the house across the street. The curtains there were open at its upstairs window opposite; the light was on. And ... no one was there. I slumped down on to my knees in utter relief and felt sick. But Mrs Sullivan's chair was there and her knitting too as if she had just left the room. What if she had seen everything and had gone to tell her daughter, and her daughter was coming over to complain! What if she told my mother! I got up and scanned the street below. No sign of anybody ... yet. But then I saw he monkey sitting there on my window sill. My mind wound back frantically to the moment I had entered my bedroom. I had stripped off my clothes and dumped everything, including the cricket pad, in the corner by the door, where everything still lay in a heap. Yet the pad was now on the window sill, the monkey grinning out at me with his raised paw. And his smile seemed wider than ever, almost a smirk, teeth white against the yellow of the box. I HAD closed the curtains -- I was sure of it. Could the monkey possibly have opened them? And it HAD moved. I had definitely left the box by the door. Then he winked at me. He winked, or was it just that I blinked? It was just like that very first day when Peter and I had found him in the cardboard box. It had all begun when the monkey winked at me. Had I overstepped the mark when I pried into Brian's mind in the toilet? I felt certain now that I must have. And now the monkey had made me pay the most humiliating price: Mrs Sullivan had seen me do my most private thing. Granddad's words came back to me: "the box is not a toy ... you must treat it with respect". I rushed the curtains across to cover the window and the box and then withdrew my hands hastily as if the monkey might leap out. I felt sure that old Mrs Sullivan must have seen my shameful display. I began feverishly pulling off my costume and rubbing the makeup from my face. I wondered, hopelessly, whether I should pack a bag and run away from home before my parents returned, leaving them only a note to say that they would be better off without someone as sick and perverted as me for their son, and that I was sorry. But then courage welled up from somewhere. If Granddad had learnt to respect the monkey and harness his power, then surely I could also. We Dempsters weren't finished off so easily -- even if some of us WERE perverts! Looking like my normal self again, and with all of the borrowed things back safely where they should be, I slunk downstairs in my jeans and T-shirt. I would stake out the front door. If Mrs Sullivan or her daughter were to come calling, I would get there first! *** Do email me with comments and suggestions, and tell me what made you excited and what you would like more of. If you like, tell me how old you are and where you are from. olhap1758472649@proton.me Check out all my stories: Schoolboy Stats -Joseph gets a shock when some girls reveal his most shameful habit to the class. But he's not alone! https://www.nifty.org/nifty/bisexual/adult-youth/schoolboy-stats The Monkey's Grin -13-year-old Martin inherits some intimate sports equipment with strange powers. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/the-monkeys-grin The Lustful Little Mouse -the budding young son of a Russian diplomat discovers sex in Victorian London. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/the-lustful-little-mouse/ Little Lord Barry -the tale of a wicked rich boy in the time of King George. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/historical/little-lord-barry Gulliver's Pageboy - a comedy about the traveller's sexual adventures with a larger-than-life adolescent. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/bisexual/celebrity/gullivers-pageboy