Date: Wed, 21 Sep 2005 12:55:36 -0400 From: kicky1000@yahoo.com Subject: What I Did on My Summer Vacation What I Did on My Summer Vacation by Little Dan It was Monday, the eighth of September, and my mother had dropped me off in front of P.S. 972. It was going to be my first day in the third grade, and I was looking forward to it. My parents had sent me to sleep-away camp for the summer, and I had just hated it. I was not athletic, and all those days of ballgames were mere torture for me. I was glad to be getting back to school, and the important, intellectual things in life. I joined the more than one hundred other kids crowding through the front door, but before I could get inside, I heard, "Pssssttt." I turned around and looked. Then I started moving forward with the throng again. Once more I heard, "Pssssttt." I turned around again and looked. There were so many kids. Then I saw my friend, Wally, standing in the schoolyard, a little apart from everyone else. He motioned me toward him with his index finger. "Pssssttt. Marhsall. Over here," he said. I pushed my way out of the crush and joined Wally in the schoolyard. "Hi, Wally," I said. I hadn't seen Wally since our last day of second grade last June. Wally's parents had sent him to sleep-away camp also. But a different camp from mine. "Hey, Marsh. How ya doing?" "Fine," I said. "You?" "Fine," he said. "What's up?" I asked. "I got something to show you." "Okay," I said. But he wasn't showing me anything. "What is it?" "Not here. Let's go around the side of the building." I shrugged. "Okay," I agreed, and we walked around to the side of the big brick schoolhouse. "What is it?" "You gotta promise you won't tell anybody." This was getting more and more mysterious. And more and more intriguing. "What is it?" I asked again. "Here," he said, and dug something out of his pocket. He drew it up from his pocket along his clothing, and held it close to his chest. Finally he held it out a little from his chest and I could see what it was. Photographs. Several of them. "Look," he said. I reached out and took them from him. There were about five snapshots. I studied the first one. I couldn't really make out what it was. "What is it?" I asked Wally. "Look at it," he said. I looked again. Gradually I began to make out the shapes. The picture was of two men. And they were naked. I had never seen anything like this before. No wonder I couldn't recognize what it was. "They don't have any clothes on," I noted. "Yeah," said Wally. "And?" "And what?" I studied the picture again. It was really strange. They were twisted around in the funniest position next to each other. And each of them seemed to have the other's sissy in his mouth. "What are they doing?" "Look," said Wally, by now pretty exasperated with me. "You don't know what they're doing?" "No," I admitted. "They have each other's sissy in their mouths." "They're sucking cock, you dummy. They're sucking each other's cock." I had never heard about that before. That was so strange. Who would want to do that? "You never heard of that?" "No," I said. "Well, I have," said Wally. My older brother, Wilmer, told me all about all this stuff." Wally was so lucky. He had an older brother to teach him things. He was so much more sophisticated than I was. "Look at the next one," Wally urged me. I put the top picture on the bottom of the stack and concentrated on the new image. Now I really didn't know what was happening. The bodies were connected in the strangest kind of way. "What is it?" I asked Wally, knowing he would know. "They're fucking," Wally scoffed. He couldn't believe my ignorance. "What's that?" I asked naively. The picture still hadn't clarified itself in my brain. "You don't know what fucking is?" "No," I said despairingly. I was such a dummy. "It's when one guy has his cock, or his prick, whatever you want to call it, up the other guy's ass." "Oh," I said, and looked at the picture again, and now I could see that the both guys had hard stiff sissies, and the first guy's sissy was just sticking straight out, but the second guy's sissy was sticking between the behind of the first guy who was in front of him. Now I could see what they were doing. That was interesting. I looked at the other pictures, and they were just more pictures of fucking. But in one, the guy with his sissy in the other's behind was on top, and the other guy's legs were over his shoulders. And in the next one, one guy had his behind up in the air, and the other guy was behind him with his `cock' sticking into the behind in front of him. It was really fascinating. "You can fuck a girl too," said Wally sagely, nodding his head. "Wow," I said. You could really fuck anything, I realized. This was a whole new world for me. I was tantalized. Then Wally proceeded to tell me everything his older brother, Wilmer, had ever told him about fucking and sucking, and about cumming, and he taught me a lot of words. And he even conveyed some information that his brother had gotten second hand about how great it felt to fuck someone, and also how great it felt to get fucked, yourself. It was so interesting. I really felt so much older and more mature, now that I knew everything about fucking. "Do you like the pictures?" asked Wally. "They're great," I said enthusiastically. "Where did you get them?" "At camp. I stole them." "You stole them?" I was shocked. Stealing was wrong. But maybe those pictures were worth it. I wished I had some pictures like that. "Yeah," said Wally. "Out of my counselor's trunk. I was in the Bunk alone one day, and I started to investigate, and I found these." "Didn't he know they were missing?" "It was the last day of camp," said Wally. "When he came back into the Bunk, he locked the trunk, and we all left. Don't you dare tell anyone," Wally warned me again. "I won't," I promised. Wally looked down at the pictures, and we perused them together. "That's my counselor," said Wally, whispering. "The guy with the cock up his ass," "Wow," I said again. "He's handsome." "Yeah," said Wally. "I wish I could have fucked him." "Me too," I rejoined. "We better go in," said Wally, and indeed he was right. We had spent ten minutes inspecting the photos, and if we didn't get into class immediately, the bell would ring and we would be marked `tardy.' Wally put the pack back in his pocket, and we literally raced for the front door of the schoolhouse. There were no crowds now. Everyone else was already in class. We galloped down the long hallway and went into room 42, our third grade class. There were two empty seats in the middle of the third row, one behind the other. Wally took the one in back of the other, and I took the one in front of the other. "I'm Miss McKenzie, your third grade teacher," said Miss McKenzie getting up from her desk, and addressing the class. She was a small pretty woman, with wavy gray hair. She was wearing a blue dress, and sensible shoes. I knew very well whom she was, because I had seen her in the hallway last year when I was in second grade, and also the year before, when I was only in first grade. "Now I want you each to stand up by the side of your desk, one after the other in turn, and tell me your names. We'll start with the first row." She nodded to the little blonde girl at the front desk in the first row. The little blonde girl stood up. "Elizabeth Darnay," she said. Miss McKenzie smiled, and gestured with her head, and Elizabeth Darnay sat down, and the girl behind her stood up. "Mary Alice Montgomery," said the girl in the second desk of the first row, and she sat down, and the third person who was a boy, stood up. And so on and so on. And now we were in the third row, and it was my turn and I stood up. "Marshall McCall," I said, and I sat down. And Wally stood up. And so on. And so on. And so on. When we were finished, Miss McKenzie stepped forward. "Thank you very much, class. Now I feel we all know each other much better. For our first lesson^Å.." And before she could continue the classroom door opened and a big tall man, who was older than my mother and my father and my Uncle Chuckie, came into the room. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit, and black shoes and black socks, and he had black hair, and a black moustache, and a little black goatee. He was very strong looking, and he looked very fit, even though he had a little bit of a belly. I knew who he was. He was Mr. Arbutton. He was the school principal. I knew whom he was because he had also been the school principal last year when I was in second grade, and also the year before when I was only in first grade. "Boys and girls," said Miss McKenzie. "I'm sure you all know our school principal, Mr. Arbutton." Everybody nodded and Mr. Arbutton smiled. "Mr. Arbutton would like to say a few words to the class," said Miss McKenzie, stepping back a step and leaving the floor to Mr. Arbutton. "I just wanted to welcome you all back to P.S. 972," said Mr. Arbutton, jovially. "I hope you all had a wonderful summer, and are now ready to buckle down to work and to study and to learn learn learn." He turned to Miss McKenzie. "Thank you, Miss McKenzie. That's all I wanted to say." "And thank you, Mr. Arbutton, for dropping into our class and welcoming us back to school. I'm sure I speak for each and every one of us," said Miss McKenzie presumptuously. But we all nodded. Mr. Arbutton smiled at us again, and left the classroom. "And now, class," said Miss McKenzie, if you will open your desk and take out the red book. That will be your third grade mathematics text book." We all lifted the top of our desks, and sure enough one of the books inside had a red cover. I took mine out. So did everyone else. Miss McKenzie moved to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. "Our first lesson in third grade math is not so difficult. You will soon get the hang of it." I hoped she was right. "In first grade, all of you learned addition. One and One equals Two. One and Two equals Three. One and Three equals Four. Do you all remember your addition?" "Yes, Miss McKenzie," we all said in unison. "Good," said Miss McKenzie. "And last year in second grade," she continued, "you all learned to subtract. Four minus Three equals One. Four minus Two equals Two. Four minus One equals Three. One minus One equals zero. Do you all remember your subtraction?" she asked. "Yes, Miss McKenzie," we all said in unison, nodding our heads, all except, of course, Buster Bruson, who was in the last seat in the last row, and was a real dummy. But he was tough. "Good," said Miss McKenzie. "And now we come to third grade mathematics. A little trickier, but I know you can do it," she assured us. "It is multiplication." We stared at her blankly. "Does anyone know what multiplication is?" asked Miss McKenzie. We stared at her blankly. "I see," said Miss McKenzie. I think she was a little shocked that no one knew what multiplication was, but she wasn't going to let that stop her. She was going to teach us what multiplication was. After all, she was a teacher. That was her job. She began. "Multiplication is how many times something is," she explained. We stared at her blankly. "An example would be `Two times Two equals Four." We stared at her blankly. This was going to take every ounce of her educational skills. "Repeat after me," said Miss McKenzie. "Two times Two equals Four." "Two times Two equals Four." "Good. Now memorize it," she ordered. "Two times Two equals Four." "Two times Two equals Four." "Two times Three equals Six." She conducted the class orchestra from her podium. "Two times Three equals Six." "Two times Four equals Eight." "Two times Four equals Eight." We got all the way up to Two times One Hundred and Twelve by the end of the school day, and I don't mind telling you that I was having a little difficulty remembering everything by that time. "Very good, class," said Miss McKenzie. That is our Two table. Tomorrow we will start our third grade reading. If you look in your desks, our reading is the book with the green cover, `Bobby and Betty Go to San Francisco.' On Wednesday we will resume arithmetic and we will learn our Three table." "Oh, God," I thought to myself. "There's more? Now there's a Three table. And then I suppose she's gonna tell us there's a Four table. Will it ever end? How would I ever learn all of this? So much remembering. "And now, class, I'm going to give you a little homework assignment." Everyone groaned. "Now, now. It's not that bad. I want to see how well you write. I want each of you to go home and compose a little essay. `What I Did on My Summer Vacation.' Bring it in tomorrow, and when I read your essays, I'll know each of you a lot better, and I'll be able to judge your composition level." Then the bell rang, and as we were getting up to leave, Miss McKenzie, said one more thing. "And remember to practice your Two table. We'll be having a little test on Friday." Everyone groaned again. When I got out of school, I waved goodbye to Wally, and got into the car. I would be taking the bus from now on, but on the first day of school, mother wanted to drop me off and pick me up. "How was school?" Mother asked. "Okay," I answered, noncommittally. "What did you learn today?" She asked me. "The Two table," I answered, and mother nodded. She knew what the Two table was. When my father got home from work, we had dinner. Mother, father, Uncle Chuckie and me. Uncle Chuckie was my mother's brother and he lived with us, because he didn't get along with his parents, my grandmother and grandfather. And they were a real pain. I loved my Uncle Chuckie. He was always taking me hiking and fishing. And we would sleep overnight in sleeping bags in a tent in the woods. He was more like a pal than an uncle. At dinner, my father asked me what I had learned in school, and I told him the Two table. "How much is Two times Fifty?" asked Uncle Chuckie. "One hundred," I answered loudly and proudly. I had remembered. "Very good," said father. ""That's great," said Uncle Chuckie. I was so happy. I had impressed my family. I was intelligent. "After dinner I have to go upstairs and write an essay," I announced. "Really?" asked my father. "It's my homework," I explained. "An essay about what?" asked my mother. My family was very involved in my education. "An essay about my summer vacation. "What I Did on My Summer Vacation." "Good. Then you can write all about camp," said Uncle Chuckie. "That shouldn't be so hard." Uncle Chuckie didn't know that I hated camp. Nobody knew that I hated camp. I hadn't said a word. Especially after my father told me how much money it was costing him to send me to camp, and what a sacrifice he and my mother were making for me. "Yes. All about camp," I said. Because after all, that was where I spent my summer vacation. After dinner, I went up to my room and sat down at my small desk. I picked a ballpoint pen up in my left hand, and took a clean sheet of lined paper. I began to write. What I Did on My Summer Vacation by Marshall Mccall This summer I was a very lucky boy, so my father told me, because he was going to spend a lot of money to send me to summer camp. To sleep-away camp. I didn't really want to go, but I didn't say anything. The camp was Camp Tahacheepachee, and it was on Lake Caruso in Maine. My father told me I would have a lot of fun playing baseball and tennis with a lot of young boys like myself, whose fathers' had also spent a lot of money to send them to sleep-away camp. And I would make a lot of great new friends with the other boys whose fathers had also spent a lot of money, and it would be such fun, to be out in that fresh air, and to go swimming everyday. My father told me he wished he could be my age again, so he could go to sleep-away camp, and play baseball and tennis with the other boys, and go swimming every day. On July Seventh, we all got in the car, with my trunk in the trunk of the car, and we drove up to Camp Tahacheepachee. It took a long time, and we stopped for lunch, and we stopped for dinner, and we stayed overnight at a motel, and we had breakfast at a diner down the road, but finally we got to Camp Tahacheepachee, and my father pulled up to the front office. Mr. Lemanski, the camp owner came out to greet us, and so did the head counselor, Herman Krumsap. Mr. Lemanski was old, and he had gray hair and thick glasses, and Herman was about my father's age, but he was not dressed in a suit or a jacket. He had on blue shorts and a tee shirt that said Camp Tahacheepachee, and he had a whistle around his neck, attached to what I later found out was called a lanyard, and which I would be making lots and lots of in Arts and Crafts. A lanyard is where you braid four strands of plastic over each other, so you can make a necklace or a dog leash or whatever. And the long cord slides through the end part, which is a different kind of weave. Herman's hair was brown, but he was losing it on top of his head. On the other hand, he had tons and tons of hair on the other parts of his body, like on his arms and on his legs. He reminded me a little of our wire-haired terrier that got run over, Skippy. But Skippy's wire-hair was black and white and was much prettier. Herman also was a little fat. But he seemed like a nice person. They put me in Bunk 7 with other eight year old guys, Mike and Alan and Murph, whose real name was Wolfgang, but everyone called him Murph. Our counselor in the bunk was the nature counselor, Ginger, who had ginger colored hair, on top and even down below, but the down-below ginger was much brighter than the ginger on his head. I liked Ginger a lot, and I was glad I hadn't gotten Arnie as my bunk counselor. Arnie was the bunk counselor in Bunk 8, which was next to Bunk 7, and had more eight-year-old guys in it. Arnie was nice enough, I guess, but he was the baseball counselor, and that's all he ever talked about, baseball, baseball, baseball, and he only really liked the kids who were good in baseball, and it turned out that I wasn't good in baseball, and it turned out that I really hated baseball, and after a while, Arnie hated me, and I really hated Arnie, so it's a good thing he wasn't my bunk counselor. Herman and my father carried my trunk out of the trunk of the car, and put it at the foot of my bed in Bunk 7. My mother and father stayed with me the rest of the day, and we went and saw the lake, which my mother said was just beautiful, and Arnie showed us the baseball diamond, which my father said was just terrific, and my mother and father stayed in a bed and breakfast down the lake a ways, and the next morning they drove back to the camp to say goodbye to me, and then they left, and I was on my own for the first time in my life. I was already homesick. The next morning I heard a bugle blowing what they said was Reveille, and I didn't want to get up, but Ginger pulled all the blankets off the bed, and made me go brush my teeth, and put on my camp uniform, my blue shorts and socks and the white tee shirt that said Camp Tahacheepachee in blue, and then me and Mike, and Alan and Murph went with Ginger to the mess hall, where we had breakfast, which was frozen orange juice, and oatmeal. I just love oatmeal. I'm being sarcastic. On Mondays we played baseball. On Tuesdays we had Nature Walk. Ginger showed us all the wonders of the forest, like the poison ivy and the snakes, and also the cute little orange salamanders. I really liked those. I wanted to take one back with me, but Ginger wouldn't let me. He told me the salamander had a family who was waiting for him to come home and it really wouldn't be fair for me to keep him. And also he would die. On Wednesdays we played tennis. My father had bought me my own tennis racket and was sure that one day I would play at Wimbledon, but the racket was so heavy. I really couldn't swing it. I missed every ball. And also I couldn't serve. On Thursdays we had Arts and Crafts, and that's where I learned how to make lanyards. I guess lanyards was my very best camp experience. On Fridays we had pingpong tournaments, and it was really hard to see that little ball. We also had archery. They still haven't found that last arrow that I shot. On Saturdays we went hiking over to the girl's camp, Camp Watchuwanna, and our counselors had a great time with the girl counselors at Camp Watchuwanna. I know that Saturday was the favorite day of the week for Ginger. He had a special girlfriend at Camp Watchuwanna, Olivia. I didn't see what was so great about Olivia. I thought Ginger with his ginger hair deserved a lot better. On Sundays we could do whatever we wanted, which for me was to lie on my cot in Bunk 7 and make lanyards. Of course, twice every day, we got into our bathing suits, and walked down the long path from the bunks to the water, and went swimming in Lake Caruso. Lake Caruso was really really cold. It was freezing. And then three times a day we had our meals in the mess hall. Breakfast, which I told you about, and also lunch, which was generally creamed chipped beef, and dinner which was usually either meat loaf or overcooked, dried-out fish which they caught in Lake Caruso. Cuisine-wise, I would be glad to get home, the last week of August. In the next to last week of August, while I was weaving my twelfth lanyard, we had color war, and we became divided into two halves. The Blues and the Whites. I was a Blue, and so was Alan. But Mike and Murph and Ginger were all Whites, so we were enemies, which I hated. Arnie was a Blue like I was, and when I struck out in the baseball game and the Blues lost, he was really really nasty to me. The last night before we went home, we sat around the campfire and sang camp songs, which were a little maudlin, but what can you do? And then on August 28th, my mother and father drove up to camp Tahacheepachee, and Herman and my father took my packed trunk from the foot of my cot and put it back in the trunk of the car, and we drove home. And that is What I Did on My Summer Vacation. THE END I had done it. I had written my essay. I was so proud of myself. I thought it was really good, and that maybe one day I would become a famous novelist and write horror novels, and make a lot of money, but then I reread it, and I thought^Å^Å. BOOOOOO------RRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGG. Boring boring boring. I couldn't submit this. I mean, who even cares about nature walks, or Arts and Crafts, or Baseball. Not me. And if I didn't care, how would anybody else care? Boring boring boring boring boring. I had to come up with something better. I thought and thought and thought. That's when I remembered the photos that Wally had shown me earlier in the day. Maybe that's what gave me my idea for version 2 of `What I Did on My Summer Vacation.' I mean, Miss McKenzie hadn't specified that the story had to be true. I knew I could come up with something more meaningful then version 1, the version I had just written. I folded up version 1, and put it in my desk drawer, and took fresh lined paper. I began version 2. What I Did on My Summer Vacation by Marshall McCall I was so excited when my Uncle Chuckie told me how I was going to spend my summer vacation. I was going to spend it with him, and we would go hiking, and fishing and camping out. We would sleep in sleeping bags in a tent in the forest, under the stars. I really love my Uncle Chuckie. He is tall and thin and has blonde hair, a little lighter than my mother's hair, because Uncle Chuckie is my mother's brother, except he is four years younger than she is. Uncle Chuckie lives with us at our house, because he hates his parents, my grandmother and my grandfather, and I don't blame Uncle Chuckie at all, because they really aren't very nice, and they have never once given me a birthday present. And also, Uncle Chuckie can't afford his own house right now, because he is a stockbroker and there is a little cloud over his head at the moment, about some inside information he might have given to a big customer, and so now Uncle Chuckie doesn't have a job. But I love my Uncle Chuckie. I couldn't wait to go camping with my Uncle Chuckie. We were going to have such fun this summer. Before we left, we each packed a duffle bag and put it in the trunk of Uncle Chuckie's silver Toyota along with both our sleeping bags. As we drove off, my mother and my father stood on the front porch, and waved bye bye. My mother had some tears in her eyes, because we were going to be gone for several weeks, and she would really miss me. I turned around in the front seat and waved through the back window, but when we turned the corner, I turned around in my seat, and buckled myself in with the seatbelts. You always have to buckle yourself in with the seatbelts, because driving without seatbelts is very dangerous, and if you got into a car crash, you could really get hurt if you weren't buckled in. We drove for many many hours, and when it started to get dark, Uncle Chuckie pulled off the main road and we drove down some country lanes, and there were woods and thick trees on each side, and we even saw a deer by the side of the road, and I wanted to get out and pet him, but Uncle Chuckie said no, because even if the deer would let me pet him without running away which he wouldn't, if I petted the deer, I could get Lyme disease from a tick which is living on the deer's skin. You can't even pet a deer anymore. Uncle Chuckie noticed a footpath leading into the woods, and he said he thought this would be a good place to camp for the night. So he opened the trunk, and we took out the tent and our sleeping bags only and walked down the path into the forest. About one quarter mile down the path, we came to a big clearing, and Uncle Chuckie said that this would be a good place to set up camp. I helped Uncle Chuckie pitch the tent, and then we both crawled into it with our sleeping bags. It was a real hot night, so Uncle Chuckie said it would be much more comfortable if we slept without any clothes. We each got into our sleeping bags and I was just dozing off when I heard loud noises and growling outside the tent. I asked Uncle Chuckie what it was, but he didn't know, so he got out of his sleeping bag and crawled to the flap of the tent and peeked out, and he told me he didn't see anything but that he thought it might be a bear. And I started to get real scared and freaky, because I had heard on television last summer how a tourist was mauled by a bear in Yellowstone National Park. Uncle Chuckie saw how scared I was, so he said we should put our sleeping bags together, and he could hold me and keep me safe. And I said okay, because I was really scared, and I knew it would help me fall asleep if Uncle Chuckie had his strong arms around me. I mean, he was a grown man, and I was just a little boy, so naturally I needed his protection. I felt Uncle Chuckie's long tall body against mine, and I felt much better. I put my top arm around his back. It felt so long and so strong, and then I moved my hand down, and I could feel his butt. Way below, I could feel his thick hairy legs against my thin smooth legs, and I felt his cock hitting against me. It was stiff and it was hard, and it was so big. I reached down and wrapped my hand around it, and then I heard Uncle Chuckie groan a little, and he started feeling my bottom and rubbing his hand on it, and then he reached between us and wrapped his big hands around my teeny little sissy which was now stiff, and he was able to hold both my cock and my two balls in one hand, that's how big his hand was. He told me that I was the one who had made his cock get hard. That it was my fault, and now I would have to make it get soft again, but I said I didn't know how to do that, and he told me that he would tell me how, and then he told me. And what he told me was that I would have to crawl down between his hairy legs, and put his big thick hard cock in my mouth, and I would have to suck on it, and suck and suck and suck until he shot his load, which meant that white stuff would come out of his cock into my mouth, and I had heard about that, but had never seen it and I really wanted to see it, and I wondered what it would taste like. I crawled down between Uncle Chuckie's legs, and wrapped my little hand around his big cock and gingerly I inserted the cock head between my lips and started to flick my tongue against it, and he started moving around a lot, so I guess he was liking it, and his liking it made me like it. A lot. So then I really started to suck on it and suck and suck and suck, and Uncle Chuckie was crying and screaming, and telling me I was a great little cocksucker, and he wanted me to be his personal cocksucker for all the rest of time, and would I be it, and I said yes I would, because I loved sucking on his cock and I wanted to be his personal little cocksucker forever and ever and ever and ever. After about five minutes, Uncle Chuckie roared so loudly that if there really was a bear outside, it would have scared him away, and then put one of his strong hands on top of my head and forced my head down so that his big thick cock went way back into my throat, and I thought I was going to throw up but I didn't and then I felt his big thick cock start pulsing and pulsing inside my mouth and this hot liquid shot out of it in a lot of spurts and went right down into my stomach and I didn't even really get to taste it or roll it around on my tongue, and I still didn't really know what it looked like. After that, we were both very tired and sleepy and we both dozed off. In the morning, we packed up the sleeping bags and the tent and put them back in the trunk of the car, and drove further and further, always seeking new forests. The next night we camped by a stream. We went fishing in the stream, and we caught a couple of small trout and we cooked them over the fire we built and we ate them. Then we crawled into the tent and got undressed, and I crawled down between Uncle Chuckie's legs, because I knew he wanted me to, and I started sucking on his big cock which was stiff and hard, but then he asked me if I wanted to try something new, and I said yes, and he said it was called fucking, and I said what's that, and he said I'll show you. And he showed me. He made me lie down on the top of the sleeping bag, and then he climbed on top of me and lay on me. He was heavy but I didn't mind. And I could feel his big thick long dick rubbing against my behind cheeks. And I sort of instinctively knew that I wanted his big thing inside me, to pierce my tiny asshole and to move down down down into my body, and then I felt him place the tip of his stiff hard cock against my hole, and he was doing just what I had been thinking. He was piercing my tiny asshole with the tip of his long stiff dick and it was moving down down down into my body and he was moving everywhichway on top of me, and it felt just so terrific I wished it could last forever, and it did last for about a half hour and then he started roaring again and now I could feel the pulsing in my behind and then I felt the hot liquid shooting out of his long thick cock deep deep deep inside my body and it felt so good, and I asked Uncle Chuckie if it felt good for him too, and he said yes it did, it felt better than anything he had ever felt before, and he wished I could be his personal fuckboy for all the rest of time and would I like to be his personal fuckboy forever and ever and ever, and I said yes I would, because I loved getting fucked by his big thick long cock and having the warm stuff shoot off inside me, and I wanted to be his personal fuckboy throughout all time. The only thing was I still didn't know what cum looked like. I made a mental note to get a look at it as soon as possible. The next night we found an abandoned log cabin right in the middle of the woods. In front of the cabin was a big rock, and on the big rock was the cutest little orange salamander. I wanted to take it home to live with me. To make it a pet. But Uncle Chuckie said no, that the salamander had a family who was waiting for him to come home and it wouldn't be fair for me to keep him. And also he would probably die. Over the fire, we grilled some hamburger meat that we had bought in the country store a few miles away, and then we went into the tent and got down to business, but there were so many new ways to fuck that we never had to do anything twice. The second night Uncle Chuckie made me face him, and he put my legs over his shoulders. And he stuck his big thick cock up my asshole again and we fucked that way. It was a lot of fun. The next night I crouched down like a dog, and he got up close behind me, and mounted my ass like that. It was a lot of fun. The next night^Å^Å^Å^Å.. (I went through about twenty more wonderful nights where I learned new things, but then it was time to wind up.) So finally after many weeks, Uncle Chuckie and I drove home from our wonderful camping trip, and he parked in front of the house, and we went inside, and my father was away on business for the week, but my mother was inside and she asked us if we had a good time, and we both said yes we did. And then my mother put two more plates on the table and we had dinner. The only disappointment was that I never did get to see what cum looked like. THE END I was finished. I took out version 1 from the top desk drawer and I read it over. Then I read version 2. Yes. Definitely. Version 2 was much better. Version 1 was just a boring sleep-away camp story. Probably everyone who had gone away to sleep-away camp would have a story just like it. And also version 2 showed me as more adult and sophisticated. After all I knew all about fucking and sucking. In the story I was fucking and sucking all the time. Yes. Definitely. It was decided. Version 2 was the version I would turn in to Miss McKenzie the next day. I did. She smiled at me as I handed her my essay `What I Did on My Summer Vacation.' She said she was going to read all our essays that very evening. I was sure she would appreciate my literary talents and be very proud of me. I could see right away, that all the other kids were turning in just a single page, whereas my composition was many many pages long. That should count in my favor also. Then I sat down at my desk, and Miss McKenzie told us to take out the book with the green cover `Bobby and Betty Go to San Francisco.' Miss McKenzie told Elizabeth Darnay, the girl at the front desk in the first row, to stand up and read the first paragraph. Elizabeth Darnay stood up and began to read. "Bobby and Betty's father got a new job, and they moved to San Francisco. Bobby and Betty's father had bought a beautiful old house in the Castro district. The neighbors in the Castro district were very interesting people. They were very different from the folks in their old home town in Cassawappa, Idaho." At that time the door burst open and there was this woman and two men. They spoke to Miss McKenzie. And then they went all around the room and took everybody's green book away from them, and gave them a pink book, `Happy Village.' Then they left. I found out later that they were from the PTA and didn't like the Bobby and Betty book. I wondered what they had against Bobby and Betty. Now Elizabeth Darnay had to stand up and read the first paragraph of `Happy Village.' "Linda woke up one spring morning and all the birds were happily singing in the beautiful garden outside her bedroom window in Happy Village, USA." That night we sat down to dinner, and in the middle of dinner, the doorbell rang. "I wonder who that could be," said my mother. I shrugged. I didn't know. Uncle Chuckie shrugged. He didn't know. My father didn't know. "I'll get it," said Uncle Chuckie and went to the front door. We were all curious so we followed Uncle Chuckie out into the hall, and when he opened the door, there were about Eight Policeman there. There were Four in the front, and there were Four in the back. Two times Four equals Eight. Right? "Who's Charles Dirkland?" One of the cops asked. "That's me," said Uncle Chuckie, and before he could even ask them what they wanted, they spun him around roughly and pulled his arms behind him, and put steel handcuffs on his wrists. Then they started dragging him backwards down the front path to one of the police cars. "I didn't do anything," pleaded Uncle Chuckie, "Why are you arresting me?" but nobody would answer him, and just before they shoved him in the back seat of the police car, he called out to my mother. "Get me a lawyer, for Godssake." Four of the cops drove away with Uncle Chuckie, and the other four stayed behind, and one of them came into the house and looked at me. "Is this Marshall?" he asked. "Yes," said my mother. "What's wrong?" "You don't wanna know," said the officer, shaking his head sadly. "Yes. I do want to know," insisted my mother. "Take me down to the stationhouse immediately. I want to see what you're doing to my brother." "It would be better if you stayed out of this," he said. Then the remaining Four cops got into the other patrol car and drove off, leaving us standing open-mouthed in the doorway. "Get out the car," my mother said to my father. "We're going down to the police station." "But the officer just said^Å.." "I don't care what the officer just said. Whatever it is, my brother didn't do it. We're going down there." We got into the car and drove down to the police station. Poor Uncle Chuckie. I wondered if this had anything to do with the insider information thing. But that had been almost a year ago. We went up to the front desk, and mother told the desk policeman who we were and why we were there. "Why are you holding my brother?" she asked. A bunch of cops led us into a little private room, and one of the cops stepped forward and tried to act very sympathetic to my mother. "I don't know how to tell you this," said Officer Duffy. "But your brother is a monster. A monster," he repeated. "He is not a monster. What did he do? Why are you holding him?" "Ma'am, your brother is a short eyes." "What's a short eyes?" My mother had no idea what the officer was talking about. "Sorry. That's a prison term. It means your brother has been arrested on a charge of child molestation." "What???" screamed my mother. You could have heard her in Kentucky. "He is not a child molester." "Yes, he is." "No, he isn't" "Yes, he is." "Then who is it that he supposedly molested?" My mother was sharp. She cut right to the point. Officer Duffy looked right into my eyes, and wagged his head in my direction. "My son? You must be crazy." He wagged his head at me again. "Ask him," he told her. "Honey," said my mother. "Did Uncle Chuckie ever ever molest you?" "What's molest?" I asked. "Did he ever touch you in an inappropriate fashion?" asked my father, trying to clarify the issue for me. "What's inappropriate?" I asked. My mother buried her head in her hands and started to cry. "Here," said Officer Duffy to my mother. "Maybe you'd better read this," and he handed her a stack of papers. I recognized the stack of papers. It was my essay, `What I Did on My Summer Vacation.' My mother sat in the chair and began to read. As she finished each page, she put it behind the others and continued reading my magnum opus. As she was reading, however, her face kept getting whiter and whiter, and her hands started shaking so much that you could hear the sheets of paper crinkling. It was obvious my mother didn't like my essay. I was really disappointed. I thought it was really good. Really creative. Now she was crying softly as she read. Was it that bad? I guess I would never grow up to be a great novelist. I would end up working for the post office or something. "I don't understand. I don't understand," she kept repeating that sentence and shaking her head, and dabbing a tissue to her nose which was running along with her eyes. "How could this be? How could this be?" And then she started repeating that sentence a million times. When she finished reading, the pages just dropped from her hand all over the cement floor. Officer Duffy bent down and picked them up, and carefully put them back in order. Like they were evidence or something. Like of what? "I don't understand," my mother said to Officer Duffy. "It's like you just read in the kid's composition. His uncle took him away for the summer and tampered with him." "But he didn't go anywhere with his uncle this summer. He went to sleep-away camp." "Yeah, sure," said Duffy. "No. It's the truth, officer," my mother swore. "I don't know what's in those pages, but my wife is telling you the truth. We sent him to sleep-away camp for the whole summer. Camp Tehacheepachee up in Maine. And it cost me a fucking bundle. Ooops. Sorry." "Well, where did that composition come from?" He says that's what he did on his summer vacation." That was Duffy again. He was a bulldog. "Marshall," my mother said to me, very quietly and very sweetly. "How did you come to write that composition?" "I thought it was good," I said, defending myself. "You're not answering me. Have you ever had sexual intercourse with Uncle Chuckie?" "What's sexual intercourse?" And then it hit me. Sexual intercourse was fucking and sucking like in my story. And that's why they had arrested Uncle Chuckie. I had had no idea that fucking and sucking was illegal. Oh, my god. I had gotten my wonderful uncle, whom I loved so much, into a lot of trouble. "I made up the story," I said, trying to put things right. "But the title was `What I Did on My Summer Vacation,' insisted Officer Duffy. The bulldog was tearing at my pants leg again. "I made the whole thing up," I said. "I swear it. It's fiction." "He must be telling the truth. He must have made it up. He was at Camp Tehacheepachee the whole summer. I have the bills to prove it," said my father. "I don't know. It reads very realistic to me," said Officer Duffy, in pursuit of the facts, just the facts. "I just can't believe this," said my mother, her face still white. "How do you know such things?" She asked me. "What things?" "The things that are in that story," she said in a trembling voice. "You mean about fucking and sucking?" I asked her. "Yes," she said. "How do you know about such things?" "Someone told me." "Who?" she asked. "I promised I wouldn't say," I said. "Someone at camp?" she prodded. "I promised I wouldn't say," I said. "Someone at school?" she asked. "I promised I wouldn't say," I said. And when I make a promise, I keep it. I was not going to break my word to Wally. If fucking and sucking was this terrible a thing, I certainly didn't want to drag Wally into this as well, and get him into a whole lot of trouble. `I won't say," I said. And as far as I was concerned that was the end of the conversation. "Are you going to release my brother, now?" my mother asked. "No. I still believe the composition," said Duffy. "How could a kid make up something like that? It just couldn't happen." "I did make it up," I insisted. "I wrote a fact story first that really was `What I Did on My Summer Vacation', but I thought it was stupid and boring and childish, so I put it away in my desk drawer, and I wrote version number 2. This version, which I thought was more fun and more interesting, and that's the version I handed in. The fiction version. Version number 2. Not the fact version. Version number 1." "You say the real story `What I Did on My Summer Vacation' is now in your house, and in fact in your desk drawer?" asked Duffy, very suspiciously. "Yes," I answered petulantly. He was really starting to become annoying. "I'd like to see this version number 1," said Duffy. "That is. If it really exists." "It exists, all right," I said defiantly. "It's right in my top desk drawer." "Dear?" asked my mother, looking at my father. "Would you mind?" "No. I'll go get it," said my father. "You all wait here. Now you are telling me the truth, aren't you, Marshall?" "Yes," I said, and I crossed my heart. My father took his car keys out of his pocket and left the police station. My mother, and I, and Officer Duffy all sat in the small room facing each other. Nobody saying anything. It was a very uncomfortable situation. Officer Duffy kept staring at me as if I were some strange alien creature from outer space. He even shivered in disgust a couple of times. Finally, after about an hour, my father returned with version number 1 of `What I Did on My Summer Vacation.' He handed it to Officer Duffy, who took it and immediately began to read it. "I still haven't seen version number 2, which created all this fuss," said my father. "I'd really like to see it." "No, you wouldn't," my mother assured him, and patted his hand. "How bad can it be?" asked my father. My mother just looked at him, as if he were some poor deluded fool. And my feelings were hurt. Even if fucking and sucking were illegal, it was just a story, and I thought it was very entertaining and well written. When he finished the last page, Officer Duffy looked at me. "This is really what you did on your summer vacation?" "Yes," I said. "That's the true story." "Swear it," he said. "I swear it," I said. "That's not good enough," he decided. Sulligan," he called. "Yeah?" yelled Sulligan from the next room. "Bring me in a Holy Bible," Office Duffy instructed. A few minutes later, Sulligan brought in a copy of the Holy Bible, apologizing that it had taken him so long to find a copy. Doyle didn't answer him. He walked over to me and said, "Put your right hand on the Holy Bible, and repeat after me `I swear by almighty God that I am telling the truth." "I swear by almighty God that I am telling the truth." "The whole truth." "The whole truth." "And nothing but the truth." "And nothing but the truth." "So help me, God." "So help me, God." That pledge meant nothing to me. I was not religious. But apparently it meant something to Duffy because finally he said, "All right." "All right?" asked my mother, not even daring to hope. "Yeah. All right. I'll release Uncle Chuckie." A few minutes later they released Uncle Chuckie who got in the car and drove home with us, with a puzzled look on his face. He still didn't have the slightest idea what he had done to deserve such treatment. I wasn't going to tell him. And version 2 was back at the police station, so hopefully he would never read it. We got home kind of late, and I hated to get up to go to school the next morning, because I was very tired. But today was the day we were supposed to learn the Three table, and I didn't dare miss class. Miss McKenzie stood in the front of the room and began teaching the Three table. "Repeat after me, class. Three times One is Three." "Three times One is Three." "Three times Two is Six." "Three times Two is Six" About around the time we got to Three times Five, Miss McKenzie's eyes caught mine, and her face froze in a weird half smile. She kept staring at me as if I were some strange alien creature from outer space. She even shivered in disgust a couple of times. "Three times Five equals Fifteen." "Three times Five equals Fifteen." But just as she was starting to say "Three times Six," a buzzer rang. It was the schoolroom intercom. Miss McKenzie walked over to the wall right next to the classroom door, and picked up the little receiver, and put it to her ear. She spoke into the mouthpiece on the wall. "Yes? Yes. All right. Yes, Mr. Arbutton. Right away. Yes. Goodbye." She hung the listening piece back up on the hook. "Marshall," she turned toward me. "Mr. Arbutton would like to see you in his office immediately. I'll write you a hall pass." She sat down at her desk, and wrote out a hall pass and handed it to me. Was there no end to this? Now Mr. Arbutton. My life was ruined. Just ruined. If only I had turned in version number 1. But I had no idea that version number 2 was going to cause such an imbroglio. Dio mio, as they say in Italian, I think. I walked slowly down the empty corridor to the principal's office, with the hall pass dangling in my hand. No one even came to check it. I felt like I was walking the last mile on death row at Alcatraz. When I got to Mr. Arbutton's door, I stood there frozen in fear for a few seconds. Then I knocked. "Come in," called Mr. Arbutton, through the door. I opened the door and went into his office. It was a very nice office. I had never been in it before. It had a nice soft couch, and a television set and everything. Mr. Arbutton was seated behind his desk. It was a big desk. "Lock the door behind you," he told me. I locked the door behind me. He motioned for me to sit in the big armchair across his desk. It was such a big deep chair, that my feet didn't even touch the floor, when I tried to sit back. He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. I looked down. "How are you, Marshall?" he asked me. "Okay," I said. I wasn't but I said okay anyway. "I read your essay, `What I Did on My Summer Vacation.'" "You did?" "Yes." That's what I had figured. I knew that was why I had been called over to his office. Now I was probably going to get expelled. "It's a very interesting story," said Mr. Arbutton. "It is???" I could hardly believe my ears. That was the first nice thing anyone had ever said about it. "Yes. Very interesting. I understand from Officer Duffy down at the police station, that it was not a true story. Is that true?" "That's true. It was not true. It was fiction," I said. "Well. Well. Well." He smiled at me and kept stroking his goateed chin with his thumb and his index finger. "Well. Well. Well." "Well?" I asked, wondering what was coming next. "You're a very talented young man. You write extremely well, I must say." "I do?" I couldn't get over these compliments. It was obvious that Mr. Arbutton was the only really intelligent person in the whole town. Maybe that was why he was the school principal. "Yes. You write so well, that you really had me convinced that everything in the story was absolutely true. That it was a real story." "No," I explained again. "It was fiction." "Yes. Yes. I understand that. Have you ever experienced any of the things that you described in your wonderful composition?" he asked me. "No," I admitted. "It was all out of my imagination." "Well, you really do have a wonderful imagination." "Thank you," I thanked him. "You're very welcome." Then he stopped and looked at me. "You know, you look so uncomfortable in that big chair. Let's go over to the sofa and sit on the sofa. I think you'll be much more comfortable." I pushed myself forward and dangled my feet, and let myself drop till my feet hit the carpet. Then I went over and sat on the couch. It really was much more comfortable. Mr. Arbutton got up from behind his desk, and sat down right beside me on the sofa. It was a big sofa, but he was sitting very close. I figured we were going to have an intimate conversation about my literary aspirations. I was right. "I can't imagine how you would know how wonderful everything feels, when you haven't even felt it. It's such a shame." "What is?" "That you haven't even felt it. That's such a shame. A writer should experience things. A writer should experience everything. That way you could write about what you know, and you would be even a more brilliant writer than you already are?" "I would?" I considered what he was saying. Maybe he was right. It was time I started experiencing things. If Mr. Arbutton thought that that's what I should do, he was probably right, because he was certainly the most intelligent person in the town. "Would you like to experience things?" he asked me. I was certain now. "Yes, I would," I told him. "Have you ever seen a man's big long thick stiff cock, as you called it?" "No. Just a picture." "A picture is no good. You have to see it in real life. Wouldn't you like to see one in real life?" "Yes, I would," I revealed. I could already see that he had a man's big long thick stiff cock inside his pants. It was so obvious. But now he was starting to pull down his zipper. He reached in and brought it out so I could see it in real life. It really was a man's big long thick stiff cock. It was nice." "Would you like to see what it feels like?" "Yes," I told him. "Well, go on. You can put your hand on it. I won't mind." "You won't?" "No. Of course not. We're friends, aren't we?" "Yes," I said, and that made me happier than anything, because Mr. Arbutton, the most intelligent person in the whole town, was my friend. "Well, go ahead, son. You don't have to be shy. You can feel it. Go ahead. Put your hand around it." I did. It was so big and hard, but it was also silky smooth. "Isn't that a beautiful cock, boy?" "Yes," I said. "Well go ahead. Don't be shy. You can stroke it." He put his hand over mine, and we stroked it together. I was getting a little excited. I didn't know why. But it was kind of fun. "I know what you'd really like," Mr. Arbutton said, sagely. "What's that?" I asked. "You'd like to put your mouth on it and see what it tastes like, like you did in the story, wouldn't you?" "I guess so," I admitted. "Well, go ahead. We're friends. Whatever you want to do is okay with me." And he gently put his hand on top of my head and guided my face down until the tip of his big thick long dick was pointing at my lips. I opened my mouth. He guided my head down. It was in my mouth. I tasted it. It tasted like soap. It was nice. "Suck it. Suck it. Suck it," he started moaning, as he forced my head up and down on his dick. "Suck it, boy. Suck my big cock. Suck out my thick hot cum. You want that, boy? You want my thick white hot cum?" "MMMMHHHMMM," I said while he force fucked my mouth around his big thick long cock. And then he forced my face down even further, so that his thick dick was all the way down my throat, just like in the story, but in real life I really couldn't stand it, and I started choking and coughing and trying to lift my head, but he was forcing it down, and now I felt him pulsing inside my mouth and the cum was gushing and gushing and gushing and there was so much, but it didn't go down my throat, because I was choking and coughing, and all of a sudden it started coming out of my nose. I lifted my hand up to my nose, and got a handful of Mr. Arbutton's thick hot white sticky cream as it ran out of my nostrils. So that was what cum looked like. Now I really knew. In real life. And I knew what it tasted like too. And this wasn't even fiction any more. "Did you like that, boy? Did you like sucking the thick hot cum out of my big thick long stiff cock?" "Yes," I said. It had been very instructive. Mr. Arbutton stood up and stuffed his now malleable dick back into his pants. He zipped up. "You'd better get back to class now, Marshall." "But?" "But what?" he asked. "That was sucking. What about fucking?" I asked. I needed to experience fucking as well. "Oh, yes. Fucking. Yes. Yes. We'll definitely get to that, but not today. Why don't you come over here right after school tomorrow afternoon." "But I'll miss the bus." "Don't worry. I'll drive you home." Mr. Arbutton was not only the most intelligent person in town. He was also the nicest person in town. He was going to drive me home. "Okay," I said. "I'll come here after class tomorrow." He smiled at me and ruffled my hair. "Good boy," he said. "And I've definitely decided what I want to write when I grow up." "What is that?" he asked me. He should have known. "From now on, I'm going to research every story I write, and write strictly non-fiction."