Date: Sat, 03 Feb 2024 14:28:50 +0000 From: olhap1758472649 Subject: THE MONKEY'S GRIN, CHAPTER 8 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 special powers. Here is a recap of the story so far: Martin has managed to use the cricket box 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. But its lure is too strong to put him off and he still has hopes of sex with his best friend, Peter, even though, in the hot summer of 1976, Peter has gone off on the hunt for girls with another pal. Thanks to everyone who has commented on the story so far. Do keep your comments and encouragement coming if you want more. I love to hear from readers and I always reply. Please note my new email: olhap1758472649@proton.me Warning: this story contains descriptions of sexual activity by boys. This story 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 8 I shoved my feet inexpertly into my sister's tights and eased the nylon up my skinny legs. The tights glided on and molded to my shape -- even around the bulge that had arisen in the knickers I was wearing. As I stood up, the mirror on the wardrobe door gave back an epicene alien figure that was now becoming quite familiar, having visited Earth -- or more specifically, my bedroom -- several times before. I only transformed myself into this creature of indeterminate sex when I could be absolutely sure of having enough time to complete what I needed to do, and then, afterwards, time to stuff all of the borrowed clothes back hurriedly and rub off the make up, before my family arrived home. The martian in the mirror -- which was, no doubt, only one of thousands of mix-and-match Ziggy Stardust imitations concocted in 1970s' suburban bedrooms -- had on my mother's frilly gold-lame blouse, which didn't cover its belly button, and a purple pair of my sister Kathy's hotpants. I had even tried to ram my feet into her knee-length Cuban boots without success, and so had had to settle for completing the ensemble with rainbow-striped tube socks and my own red-leather platform shoes. The mirror creature had a large red-rimmed gold circle in the middle of its forehead -- actually a sort of yellowy-orange circle, since I couldn't find any gold make-up in the house. The only thing that was missing was Ziggy's hair: mine was too long on top to give that spiky mullet, so I had hairsprayed it backwards, which gave a similar effect. I struck a pose, with my legs apart and arms out, fingers splayed, in an arty manner that I felt sure David Bowie would approve of. The Spiders From Mars were playing on my record player and I strutted around my bedroom playing acoustic guitar in the air, imagining I was sidling up to Mick Ronson as we exchanged knowing smirks, engaged as we were in an artistic partnership, the creative depths of which those lesser mortals of the press could only imagine. A grainy photo in one of Kathy's old Melody Makers had shown David squatting between Mick's legs on stage at the Oxford Town Hall, apparently plucking Mick's guitar with his teeth. According to the journalist, Bowie was simulating "fellatio", which I had never heard of but assumed must be something like a blowjob -- although I wasn't exactly sure what one of those was either. I had always wondered since then whether Bowie and Ronson could perhaps be even closer than simply musical partners; but the guitarist always seemed so straight... At school that day I had decided that I was going to treat myself to a "Ziggy" when I got home, and now I had carefully placed my mother's moisturising hand lotion on my bedside table, in reverential pride of place, for later. I had had an emotionally disturbing day with the result that I had felt like a wound-up sex spring when I arrived back at our empty house. Dad was working late and Kathy was somewhere in town with her girlfriends, and Mum had gone to her crochet evening class. So, I would be alone until eight o'clock, at least. That gave me another half an hour, which I reckoned was just enough time -- my game was now very near its climax. So why had I been so excited after school? Well, the answer starts with something I had found at the weekend in Granddad's cardboard box on top of my wardrobe. I had slung the hateful cricket box in there when I had come back from Colin's house, and hadn't dared to look at it since. After what it had apparently done to Colin and me, I had come to the conclusion, very firmly, that the cricket pad, with its monkey, was too dangerous to be meddled with further. And yet, my eyes had been drawn to the cardboard box as I had lain on my bed with my head resting on my hands -- drawn irresistibly, it seemed, by some deep force. The monkey may have been the cause of some peril for both myself and Colin, but it had also been the conduit for some good things -- sexy things. And for any boy of thirteen and a half, whose only channel for his lust is his hand, anything that offers the prospect of an alternative outlet can be overpowering. Boys are, I believe, by nature reckless, and what boy could resist for long the promise of being able to read other people's thoughts? So, I had slipped off the bed and taken down the cardboard box. There was the monkey grinning up at me from the bottom, surrounded by the other cricketing things and the photograph album. Kneeling on the rug, I lifted the cricket pad out and, as I did so, I noticed something that I had missed before sticking out from under the fold at the bottom of the box. It was an envelope on which was written in Granddad's wiry hand "To Martin VERY IMPORTANT". I felt my heart pumping suddenly as I lifted it out and unfolded the flap, smoothing out the sheet of writing paper inside. My dear Martin, I leave you the treasures in this box because I know you will appreciate them. They are not much but they were special to me when I was your age and I have never been able to bring myself to throw them away. I doubt if they will be very much good to actually play cricket with now but I thought you might enjoy looking at them. One thing is very important though, these things are not toys and one of them in particular must be treated with respect. It has a purpose that you will come to understand and you should not force it to do what it is not meant to do. I had to learn this the hard way! If you heed this warning you may find yourself having some interesting adventures. But BE CAREFUL! Love always, Granddad. The letter seemed to confirm what I had suspected: that Granddad, too, had come under the influence of the grinning monkey. It could only be the cricket box that he referred to, surely. But what did he mean by "it has a purpose"? The words on the page swam with tears as I tried to read through the letter again. Finding a new message from my Granddad was both too wonderful and too sad to bear. It did, however, set my resolve where the monkey was concerned. Perhaps there was a way of using the special powers of the box without incurring bad consequences. Had Granddad found a way, without "forcing" it? The thought buoyed me to give it another try. And, I reasoned, a little bit of pain might be worth the further pleasures, which could only be guessed at, that the monkey promised. At that age I was just discovering what every boy comes to understand: that no matter how much he might like to believe he is his own master, in reality he is controlled by his dick. In those days before the internet, we were pretty well alone with our masturbation; although boys talked about it all the time, it was a matter of ribaldry, and you could never really trust anything you heard said about it, not even from your best friends. My guilty mind ran in circles. Did I do it too much? Would I wear my penis out? Would the sperm be all used up before I was an adult? I always wondered how my once- or even twice-a-day compared with other boys' -- surely I must be a depraved freak doing it as much as that! -- and I think this desire to know was behind my decision to take the grinning monkey out of the cardboard box again and to take it to school the next day. When I pulled open my bedroom curtains in the morning, the cricket box was already installed down my trousers. Old Mrs Sullivan in the house across the road scowled at me and I waved hesitantly with a sudden irrational fear that she could tell what I was up to. Mrs Sullivan lived with her grown-up daughter and was always sitting at their upstairs window in her rocking chair. When the light was on, I could see right into her room and she, no doubt, could see right into mine. When I got to school, nothing much happened to start with. The box was scratchy and uncomfortable to sit with at my desk and as far as "intriguing adventures" went, it seemed I was not destined to have any that day. Grantwich Comprehensive was one of those 1960s' schools -- all plate glass windows and metal panels, concrete paving everywhere and endless tarmac -- and by 1976 it had lost its "new" gleam and was beginning to look decidedly kicked around. Sitting in our form room on the second floor, half the kids were either poking one another under the desks or gazing out of the windows, while the others rooted around anxiously in their bags or yawned. Mr Jenkins was calling the register. Mindful of Granddad's warning, I tried to empty my head of my desire to pry into the thoughts of the other boys ... "you should not force it to do what it is not meant to do" ... But how was I supposed to know what it was meant to do? I sat hardly daring to look around at my classmates. Though I knew them all very well, having spent the past two and a bit years sharing lessons with them, I realised that I knew next to nothing about their sex lives. Of course, you knew who was "going out with" whom that particular week; you heard bravado from some of the show-offs, and you occasionally got wind of some indiscretion that some girl had allegedly committed, but otherwise, what people did with themselves, how often and how they liked to do it, was a complete mystery. I sat trying not to think about such things. But surely the monkey could sense the urgency of my desire. I wasn't going to think about it. No, positively not even for a second think about other boys doing things. Of course, my unconscious didn't co-operate and quickly began to fill my head with images of boys naked, boys as I had seen them in the showers, or how I imagined my classmates must look without clothes -- I tried to shut them out and think about my geography homework but it was no good -- the nude boys in my head started wanking themselves -- an oxbow lake is formed when a stream cuts across the narrow end ---- then they started wanking each other. "Dempster... Martin! Wake up, boy." I blinked and looked up at my form teacher. "Sorry, sir. Here, sir." Mr Jenkins made a mark on his register and moved on with a scowl. "Elmsworth..." And then all at once I was in -- in the heads of the other boys. It wasn't quite the sexual cacophony I had found myself bombarded with that first time in the cricket changing room; this time it was more like standing in a noisy office. I was at once aware of voices and images, or rather flashes, glimpses. I was suddenly inside the lives of those around me, inside their consciousness; I was seeing and hearing lots of quite mundane things -- and not just from the boys. -- Angry words from parents -- a new bike -- I didn't bring my PE socks -- where's my dinner money? -- God, I haven't done my maths homework -- Top of the Pops last night -- Mr Gordon's going to kill me -- ouch! that nasty boy kicked me on the bus -- it's my birthday in three days! -- I've just wet my knickers a bit [That one was from a girl.] As before in the changing room, it felt overwhelming to be in the tidal surge of other people's thought waves. It was like having my head jammed full under high pressure -- like when you try to push the lid on a boiling saucepan. I began to breathe quickly in fright and the girl sitting at the desk next to mine stopped tying her hair into a pony tail and gave me a funny look. I jammed my hands into my crotch and tried surreptitiously to push the cricket box away from my privates. It was glowing warm and as I succeeded in moving it away from my skin, the maelstrom of light and sound altered as if someone had turned a dimmer down. As it went -- and perhaps the monkey was taunting me -- I was left with the distinct impression that there was at least one erection in the classroom, though I couldn't tell who had it. The bell rang for first lesson and there was a kerfuffle of coats and scraping chairs. I think it was the erection thing that made me keep going, in spite of the head-jam feeling. We had maths first thing, which I suppose gave rise to a certain mental calm as people concentrated on trying to follow what the teacher was chalking up on the board. Sinking down in my chair, I felt the box warming gently again between my legs and I opened my mind to what it might reveal ... not forcing it ... or even willing it ... just ready to receive ... anything. There were a lot of thoughts rippling around -- now it was more like a choppy sea -- thoughts mainly about algebra, some about all the stuff I had just seen in form only now at a lower level. Primarily, I was interested in the boys, of course, and I realised that I could discern boys' thoughts from girls' thoughts -- boys' had a different tone or flavour somehow ... a roughness: something that told me they were coming from a boy's mind. I focused on one boy's thoughts at a time, sampling his mental waters, as it were, before moving on. Across from me, a little boy called Stuart, was thinking of his grumbling stomach and looking forward to buying a Toffee Crisp at breaktime; another boy, Andrew, behind, was thinking about his pet rabbits. I started to notice that sometimes -- quite frequently, actually -- a powerful swell would break through the calmer surface of a boy's mundane consciousness. These swelling thoughts were stronger in intensity, more forceful than their more humdrum fellows, and every boy seemed to get them, though some more than others. These particular thoughts seemed to come almost unprovoked and unwilled, although they didn't seem unwelcome to the thinkers. They were -- to put it crudely -- to do with cock. A boy might be thinking about his Scalextric, for example, and then, quite unexpectedly, he would have a strong urge to scratch his willy. I was shocked at first by how much "cock" there was going on all around me, how much idle sex there was in the heads of these boys. Almost every boy, I realised, must be having quite regular randy thoughts. Most of them were lazy and unformed, but every so often I would receive an unusually strong cerebral pulse that told me a boy somewhere in the room needed to wank. Could every lesson really be like this? It dawned on me, as if it were confirming something I already knew, that it could and almost certainly was. Cock seemed to be popping into the head of one or other of my classmates almost continually. It seemed that not more than a few minutes would go by for any one boy before that insistent thing attached between his legs made its presence felt again: it was either straining against his clothes or lying fat against his belly, or else curled up quietly but reminding him nonetheless of the excitement he felt for it. I was distinctly aware, in a way that I never had been before, of the ten or more young cocks, besides mine, that were in that room, close by me. Cocks that ---- The wooden blackboard-rubber clonked me on the head. The pain was sharp. "Martin, stop daydreaming!" I sat up with a start. Everybody was looking at me. "I asked you a question, Martin." "Ergh?" "You haven't been listening to a word I've said." Mr Watson's hand was still raised from throwing the board-rubber at me. "You've been gazing off into space for the last five minutes." I protested my innocence. "What is the answer, then, to the quadratic equation on the board?" "X = -0.2 or -1," I said. I didn't even look at the blackboard: I didn't need to because I could read the answer in Mr Watson's mind. The teacher's mouth slid open and he seemed momentarily lost for words. Then composure returned. "Erm, open your books at page thirty-five and do exercise one," he said to the class without taking his suspicious eyes off me. There was a great shuffling as books were taken up and the page found, and all thoughts of cock were momentarily forgotten. For the next forty-five minutes, while surreptitiously rubbing my bruised head and being careful to appear as if I were doing my work, I enjoyed surfing in and out of the other boys' minds, listening in on the radio frequencies of their thoughts: Jamie, Stuart, Kenny, John, Stephen, Andy, Justin ... With practice, I found I could "tune-in" to the sex frequencies and eves drop on a boy's deep secrets and anxieties: how much hair he had; which TV actress really made him excited; where he had hidden that magazine he found in the bushes; whether he was coming properly yet. I learnt a great deal that I shouldn't have about my friends. But it wasn't the secret thoughts of only the boys I could read, or even just the kids, as I was to discover to my great shock in the next lesson. "I crashed my plane on Saturday," said Brian as we climbed the spiral stairs to French. Brian was our tubby, but very dependable, wicket keeper on the cricket team. "I was leading the pack on the last lap and it clipped a tree and went in the lake. Me and my dad had to take a pedalo out to get it back." "Oh, gutted," I said. "Was it all smashed up?" "One of the wings came off. The radio control was all right, though. I'm trying to talk my dad into putting it into a Spitfire shell -- that would be ace!" There was jostling at the top of the stairs as we crowded outside the classroom until the teacher came to unlock the door. "I saw your little mishap at the common, Brian," said Miss Newman as we filed in. "I was there with my nephew." Brian blushed. Somebody shoved Brian as we got through the door. "You're in there with her, Lardy. Phwaahh!" "Shut up! And don't call me Lardy." Brian was often on the receiving end of cat calls about his ample figure. He had short, dark hair and dimpled cheeks, podgy fingers, and a belly that filled out his grey school pullover and hung over his trousers. He was famous in our year for being slightly "in a world of his own". He continued to tell me about how he and his father had repaired the model aircraft, as we unpacked our books and settled at our desks behind Janet, a big girl with her hair in a plait. Miss Newman stood expectantly at the front of the class. She was, I suppose, in her late twenties, with those shapely, well-suspended breasts that women often have at that age, and she always wore high heels and a skirt that revealed a lot of leg. I wasn't especially moved by Miss Newman's body, but I became aware, sitting there waiting for the class to start, that some of the other boys certainly were. The box was exerting a pleasing warmth and I could feel a definite sexual frisson in the air -- I could almost hear it hum. "Bonjour, la classe!" "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Newman," we chorused, without enthusiasm. Miss Newman had been the subject of lewd playground discussions ever since we had started at the school. It was hotly speculated upon as to whether she had a boyfriend, and although some people claimed that she had been seen out with a sixth former, no one had yet been able to verify this. Whatever the boyfriend situation, I should think that Miss Newman must have been a recurrent feature of erotic daydreams across the school, and fantasies of her must have hastened a good many masturbatory orgasms among boys at Grantwich Comprehensive. I had even thought about her myself on occasion. She strolled now from one side of the class to the other, making eye contact with various of the trouble-makers and enunciating her words precisely as she set out the day's lesson. "Aujourd'hui nous allons faire des courses dans une charcuterie -- we are going to go shopping in a charcuterie. Now, can anyone tell me what products I can buy in a charcuterie?" The well-developed girl in front of us waved her hand insistently. "Is it like salami and stuff, miss?" "Very good, Janet," beamed Miss Newman, and then she went round the class taking suggestions for various items that could be found in the shop and writing them on the blackboard with their French translations. I sank down in my chair and my concentration drifted away from the lesson again. Quite a number of boys, it seemed, were ruminating on Miss Newman. I could sense that some of the littler boys were feeling their pricks beginning to stick up in their pants just from observing the teacher's figure. Justin, sitting close by me, one of the maturer boys, was thinking hungrily about her cleavage Of course, you would not have guessed that any of these thoughts were going through the minds of these boys by looking at their bored stony faces. My attention came to focus on Brian, next to me: he seemed to have become distracted from the lesson -- not by Miss Newman, however. He was gazing intently at Janet's back, where the outline of her bra straps was clearly visible through the tight material of her white blouse. He traced the strap with his eyes and seemed to be moved somehow by the shape of Janet's shoulder. I could feel clearly the effect this was having on him. There was a growing tension in his mind and he was getting the tickling fancy for an ejaculation. I looked down at his crotch and saw that he had thrust his hands under the folds of his belly. I swallowed. Again, I hadn't willed the monkey to look into any of these boys' heads: it just seemed to have known what I wanted; this was all too easy. The words from Granddad's letter came back to me, "you should not force it to do what it is not meant to do. I had to learn this the hard way!" Had I forced it? Somehow? I didn't think I had. Brian gazed longingly at Janet's blouse with his hands over his boner. He had a great urge to masturbate, and I knew somehow that he hadn't done it that day and was about ready. In Brian's case, you probably didn't need the monkey box to tell you what he was thinking: you could have made a good guess by looking at him. And, in view of what Miss Newman did next, I wonder whether she had taken a look at him and put two and two together. *** Do email me with comments and suggestions. Tell me which parts of my stories made you excited and what you would like more of. Also, I'm always glad to share boyhood experiences. Drop me a line! 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