Date: Sun, 2 Jan 2022 12:54:20 +0000 From: olhap8464972175@elude.in Subject: THE MONKEY'S GRIN, CHAPTER 4 THE MONKEY'S GRIN by Oliver Hapland This continues the story of thirteen-year-old Martin who inherits a certain piece of intimate sports equipment with magic powers. He visits his friend Colin, hoping to discover more about Colin's excitement for restraint. Thanks to everyone who commented on the previous chapters. Warning: this story contains descriptions of sexual behaviour by boys. If this is likely to offend you, please do not read on. This story is fiction. It is an artistic exploration of its themes and does not condone them. Readers who enjoy this story may like to read my other stories, such as 'The Lustful Little Mouse', 'Little Lord Barry' or 'Gulliver's Pageboy' (see links below). I am always delighted to receive readers' email at: olhap8464972175@elude.in Please consider making a donation to Nifty to continue providing all these wonderful stories http://donate.nifty.org/ THE MONKEY'S GRIN CHAPTER 4 I ran into Peter the next morning, almost literally! I was bombing down Carter's Hill on my Raleigh Chopper and he appeared from behind the red phone box, carrying a crate of empty pop bottles. Anyone who spent as much time as I did riding a Chopper as a kid will appreciate that, with the small wheel at the front, it is not the easiest bicycle to steer at speed. Amid a squawk of brakes, I careered up off the pavement on to the grass verge and skidded to a halt. "Look where you're going," I said, shaken. "I nearly hit you!" I could see I had frightened the life out of Peter and he had only narrowly managed to escape dropping the bottles, which he told me his mum had sent him to return to the newsagent. "Where are you going so early on a Saturday?" he asked suspiciously. "I have to take Colin's shoes back to his house," I told him brightly. "He left them in our car last night." I showed Peter the shoe bag slung between the handlebars. He huffed and said tetchily: "You are still coming to mine later, aren't you?" "Yeah, probably," I replied nonchalantly. But when I saw Peter's hurt look I added: "I mean, if you still want me to come." "Don't care! Only, I thought you wanted me to help you with your back foot." "I do." Peter had promised to advise me on my batting stance, but his mention of feet reminded me now of our game of footsie and how he had promised to pay me back. I wondered if it had reminded him, too: I felt myself getting a hard on. "See you later, then," I said hopefully. I started to turn my bike to go. "Why have you got your box on?" he demanded. "I haven't." "I can see it in your trousers." I looked down and the box was very obvious in my tracksuit bottoms, where the bike's seat was pushing it up. I hesitated. I couldn't very well keep denying it was there. "We might do some practice," I said. "I thought you were only taking Colin's shoes back." I shrugged; I couldn't tell him that the reason I was wearing the box was because I hoped it might lead to doing some sex with Colin, just as it had with him. "See you later!" I said quickly, and rode off, waving over my shoulder, leaving Peter looking glum with his crate of bottles. There was a doorbell but it didn't seem to work, so I rattled the letterbox. "What are you doing here?" Colin said when he came to the door in bare feet. I handed him the shoe bag. "Oh, I never even noticed I'd left it." he said. "Thanks." Then we stood looking at one another and I realised that I hadn't thought of anything else to say: he was just going to say "bye" and close the door! My vague plans were going to come to nothing and I wouldn't discover any more about the intriguing feeling I had got from him at cricket practice. But instead of sending me away, he asked me in. "You'd better bring your bike in, too," he advised. As he closed the squeaky front door, a woman's voice came from the room opposite, over the din of a TV. "Who is it?" "Don't worry, Mum; it's only Martin." "Who?" "From cricket!" The voice said nothing more and I couldn't see into the room where it came from. "Do you want some lemonade?" Colin asked me. I followed him into a tiny kitchen, past a slightly scary picture of the Virgin Mary on the wall. The house smelt of cigarettes and dogs and in the corner by our feet, curled up on a frayed blanket, with one forlorn eye watching us, was a bristly brown-and-black mongrel. "That's Bungo," said Colin. "Like Bungo from The Wombles." I laughed; the dog did look a bit like a Womble with its long snout. Colin bent down to scratch Bungo's ear, which the dog evidently relished. Colin had on a T-shirt of the Montreal Olympics and some sports shorts that came only to the tops of his thighs. As he went to pet the dog, these shorts pulled tight about his bottom, revealing every contour. My dick gave a flip inside the box. On the worktop were a full-up ashtray, dirty plates and pans, and a cut-glass tumbler with the remains of some amber liquid in the bottom. Colin rinsed this under the tap and got out another, and I had to move so that he could get into the fridge for the lemonade. We took our drinks to his bedroom. He led me up the narrow stairs and at the top he said: "Not that one. That's my mum's room." We pushed our way into Colin's bedroom and I perched on the edge of his bed, while he flopped down on a rickety wooden chair. As we sat there awkwardly, the lemonade fizzed loudly in our glasses, which Colin had filled to the very top. Colin's bedroom was like mine with posters all over the walls, except, where I had David Bowie, he had the Bay City Rollers, and his room felt more like a cupboard than a bedroom. "It was good at cricket yesterday, wasn't it?" he said cheerily. I agreed, but without conviction. "I like cricket practice," he went on. "I wish we could have it every night!" I looked around at the dirty, threadbare carpet, the tiny picnic table with Colin's homework, and the battered chest of drawers. "I wish I was as good at cricket as you and Peter and Roger," he said. "Mum won't let me keep it up if I don't get better. She says it's a waste of money." "You're not as bad as some of them," I reassured him, "I mean, you're quite good, I mean...er...What's that?" I groped for something to change the subject. "That's my rosary. Mum makes me do it every night before I go to sleep." Colin showed me how he counted "Hail Marys" on the beads. "You don't believe all that stuff do you?" I asked, noticing for the first time the little crucifix hung above the bed. "I believe some of it," he said. "I think there's things that go on that we can't see. You know?" "Yeah," I said, thinking of the strange events that had been happening to me since Granddad left me his things. "I believe that there's spirits," Colin went on, "and that when you die you go somewhere, and there's such a thing as evil. My dad says it's all rubbish. That's one of the things Mum and Dad used to argue about, before he went back to Holland. He used to call it 'waardeloze rommel'." "What's that?" "It means, like, 'bullshit'." I giggled. "That's neat! What language do they speak in Holland?" "Dutch." "Do you speak Dutch?" " 'Course I do!" And he proved it to me. I didn't realise it at the time, but looking back I can see that Colin was the archetypal Dutch boy, with his long blond hair and blue eyes, albeit with some Celtic freckles, as well. "Look. These are my dad's trophies." He showed me a line of coloured rosettes stuck on the wall. "He won them for flower growing." And Colin launched into an enthusiastic explanation of how his father was a skilled and successful breeder of flowers; I hadn't even realised before that there were such things as flower competitions. I listened, without interrupting, because Colin was always so engaging and funny when he got excited about something. As I listened, I began to relax and to try to get myself back to the place in my mind where I had been in the changing room, when the box had let me slip into the other boys' minds. Could I see into Colin's again now? At first nothing came. I slowed my breathing and let Colin's chattering wash pleasantly over me, as he stood at the side of the bed. I felt a resistance as I reached my mind out to his. As he chattered, I sensed there was something that he was anxious I should not find. Something in that room. Something that he had hidden. Something very private. "I've got to take a piss," he announced, with an affected coarseness. "That pop's gone right through me!" I heard him go into the bathroom next door and pull down his shorts. This was my chance to search for whatever it was that Colin had hidden. I don't know why I wasn't stopped by a sense of the wrongness of looking through someone's private things when he left the room - and I am somewhat ashamed to relate this now - but the power that the box gave me made me feel superior to ordinary concerns. I was reassured by the sound of Colin pissing strongly into the toilet. I knelt and peered under the bed: boxes of toys; a half-inside-out sock; some fluff; half a biscuit; a ruler; and a squashed roll of toilet paper, with most of it gone; I didn't think any of these things could be what I was looking for. I lifted the foam mattress off the sprung metal frame: nothing. I peered under the chest of drawers and behind it: nothing there. Standing up, I cast around desperately. Where could it be (whatever it was)? There was nowhere else. Then, all at once, with the box glowing warm in my crotch, I knew that what I was looking for was in the bottom drawer of the chest. I heard Colin cough and the toilet flush. I dived into the drawer and pulled out some folded trousers and a jumper. The thing was well hidden. There was even a kind of false bottom to the drawer, made of an old cereal box, so that you would never guess, unless you knew, that there was anything underneath it. Lifting this cardboard, I found an exercise book, which I hurried to take out and open - if only just to glimpse before thrusting it back. Colin was in the room and he sized up the situation immediately, grabbing the exercise book and pulling it away from me. I held fast and we tussled until his rage won over and he wrenched it from my grip. "How did you find this!" he roared, hitting me with the book. "How? HOW?" He was fuming. "You mustn't go through my things!" "I'm sorry," I said, cowering behind my hands. "I didn't look at it!" His shoulders went down some in relief and he ceased his onslaught, but he was still outraged. "How did you know where to look? It's that box of yours, isn't it!" I was speechless and gawped at him. "What do you mean?" I managed. "I saw it down your tracksuit trousers when I was stroking the dog. I thought there was something strange about it last night. Do you remember when you took it off me?" I stared at him, my mind working very fast. Suppose that when I had got the connection with his mind and had seen something of his sexual secrets, just suppose he had also seen something of mine! I felt sick. "I can see in your face that you know what I mean," he said. "And the monkey did point at me, didn't it?" I sighed. He had found me out. It seemed best to level with him. The fun had just gone out of this game. "You like being tied up, don't you?" I said. He flomped down on the bed, still clutching his exercise book. "It's all right," I reassured him. "I was just curious. I wanted to know more about it." "Did you really not look at this?" he said, waving the book. "No. Really!" "Well, you might as well see it now, I suppose," and he flung the little book at me. "It's not very interesting. You'll probably be disappointed." I picked it up and leafed through it slowly. It was full of pictures of people who had been restrained in some way. Most of the pictures where cut out of magazines or the newspaper, but some were drawn directly on to the lined paper, obviously by Colin. There were photos of people on TV game-shows tied up by people pretending to be pirates; pictures of famous escapologists performing tricks; pictures of film characters tied up by gangsters, Red Indians, Romans; sailors tied to the mast; even Miss Piggy on some railway tracks; some were quite disturbing: grainy photos of Nazis interrogating prisoners, and some grim pictures from Vietnam. The drawings by Colin were most interesting though, and they were quite well done. Laid down in heavy pencil, they were mainly of women with big tits wearing black leather, tied up in contorted positions, over barrels, or upside-down; or of men tied up naked with women watching and the men had big erections. As I closed the last page, Colin said: "You like boys, don't you?" I looked at him. "What?" "The way I like girls, you like boys." I looked at my trainers and shuffled uneasily. Colin said, "I knew you did when you took the box and something happened between us. I just knew it!" I sank down on to the rickety chair. "I don't mind," said Colin, "if you like boys. My uncle in Ireland is bent!" "Is he?" I looked up. "Yeah, he lives with a man called Frank. But no one's supposed to know that they're benders. Mum says I mustn't tell anyone. But you're OK, I suppose, because you're one." I considered this. I had never thought before that I was like those people. "Bent" meant being like Larry Grayson and sashaying around with a limp wrist. I wasn't like that. Was I? "What do they do?" Colin asked. "Who?" "Two men, how do they do it?" "I don't know," I said truthfully. "Like everyone else, I suppose." Colin frowned. "Do they use their arse holes?" "I think so...and they do other stuff...like sucking," I said. Colin's face lightened. "I sucked my cousin's dick once," he said. "Did you?" I sat forward in the chair. "Yeah, it tasted BAD! I quite liked having mine sucked though." I laughed with relief to know that Colin was actually guilty of doing "bent" things, even if he hadn't realised it. "That was with my cousin in Ireland, but it was, like, three years ago. I haven't seen him since then." I felt quite jealous of Colin and his cousin. The ice was broken then, and we fell to talking more freely, albeit in slightly veiled terms, about our sexual peccadilloes, asking questions of one another and answering them, with little thought being paid now to my invasion of Colin's bedroom furniture which had brought this about. I think we were both relieved to have someone else know about and accept our guilty predilections. "You've still got your box on," said Colin. "That's not fair!" As it happened, the box had gone quiet and I hadn't been trying to get it to work for me, since there was no need now that we were talking freely. "Take it out," Colin demanded. So I pulled it up from the depths of my underpants and chucked it on the bed. The monkey looked normal and inert, as if there was nothing at all out of the ordinary about it. When Colin went to pick it up I said: "Don't!" I didn't want him finding out any more about me without my consent! "I don't like that thing," said Colin. "I think it's evil!" Nevertheless, the box seemed to have brought us together according to its own purpose. Now that we were on equal terms, Colin seemed to relax and sprawled out on his bed. Emboldened, I asked a question that I thought I already knew the answer to, given what I had seen in Colin's mind in the changing room, but I wanted more information. "Do you tie yourself up, then?" Colin said simply: "Yes, quite a lot, actually." When I pressed him further, he showed me how he liked to tie his wrists or ankles to the bed frame with his dressing-gown cord. "It helps me to toss off for some reason," he told me. "The problem with tying yourself up though, is that you have to always leave it loose so you can get out again. It's more exciting when someone else ties you up, so you can't escape!" I looked at Colin's small, rough bed as he lay on it, and the image of him naked, like the men in his drawings, tied to it hand and foot and sexually aroused, was one that was very attractive to me. In a moment I heard him asking me: "Do you ever tie yourself up?" I thought for a second. "Once I put a belt round my neck and pretended I was a dog." Colin giggled. "That's cool!" It was something I had done on one or two occasions to excite myself before masturbating. "But what is it you like about it?" I asked, as I flicked through his exercise book again. "It makes me feel safe," he said, "being held tight." "But what about having your head stuck in a smelly old bucket!" "That's not very nice. But it's exciting before that when you don't know what's going to happen and you can't control it." I started to feel that I understood Colin a little and I asked when he began to know that he liked being restrained. "I was in the infants' and we played a game where, if you couldn't remember all the names of the Mr. Men, you got tied up with a skipping rope and put under a pile of leaves. I got such a massive hard on, it hurt me - even when it wasn't my turn to get tied up!" After getting these new feelings that day, he eagerly sought out others to play games with, and he soon became addicted to the wonderful excitement he felt whenever he, or other boys or girls, were restrained in some way. Colin and I were so engrossed with revealing our secret worlds to one another that the morning soon vanished and our stomachs started grumbling. "Do you want some lunch?" asked Colin. "I'm starving!" I followed him as he padded downstairs, expecting to find his mum making food for us in the kitchen. But everything was just as we had left it, with the detritus on the worktop and the dog in the corner. Bungo lifted a sad eye, hopefully, as we entered and his tail started thumping the kitchen unit. Loud snoring came from the living room. Colin picked up a chip pan, which contained a chip basket set in cold, congealed fat, and he put it back down again quickly. In the bread bin was some unappetising bread with mouldy specs in it. Eventually, he found in a cupboard one tin of supermarket noodles in tomato sauce. There was nothing else. He poured the noodles into a saucepan and heated it on the gas stove. "All the plates are dirty," he said apologetically. So we ate the noodles straight from the pan with a fork each, sitting up on the worktop with our shoulders squashed against the wall cupboards. Bungo picked himself up from his blanket and came and sat on the floor between us, fixing his whole attention on the saucepan. "Are you hungry, boy?" said Colin and jumped down to fetch some dog biscuits from a bottom cupboard, scattering them on the lino. The dog crunched them noisily. "What do you want to do after?" Colin asked me, clambering back up. "You don't have to go yet, do you?" "No!" He pulled one bare foot up on to the opposite bare knee as he fished in the saucepan. The bottoms of his feet were surprisingly grubby, especially when seen against the paleness of his hairless thighs, where they disappeared up into his very short shorts. I couldn't help my eyes lingering. Colin noticed where I was looking. "Do you want to play a game?" he asked. *** Readers can email me at: olhap8464972175@elude.in It is always great to hear that people have enjoyed my stories. Don't be afraid to email me more than once: comments encourage me to write more! Check out my other stories: The Lustful Little Mouse - about the budding young son of a Russian diplomat in Victorian London. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/the-lustful-little-mouse/ Little Lord Barry - about a wicked boy in the time of King George. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/historical/little-lord-barry Gulliver's Pageboy - a comedy about the sexual adventures of a larger-than-life adolescent. https://www.nifty.org/nifty/bisexual/celebrity/gullivers-pageboy