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Nifty - Gay - Young Friends - Loving Boys

 
Date: Tue, 21 Dec 2010 08:35:16 -0500
From: jonkent@post.com
Subject: LOVING BOYS YOUNG FRIENDS JON KENT

LOVING BOYS

Short Stories
by Jon Kent


DISCLAIMER

Everyone should accept the laws of his country, reserving the right to
strive democratically to change those he disagrees with. Therefore, if the
laws where you live say that you should NOT be reading stories like these,
you are legally obliged to leave now and read no further. It does not
matter if these stories are fiction, made-up, only written to entertain,
instruct, engage, and inform. If for any reason, the law where you live
says you are NOT allowed to read them, you have to go. So off you go. Live
a healthy and happy life, and come back, if you want to, when your laws say
you can.


INTRODUCTION

For those who choose to read on, consider this.

At what age does the young male realise that he wants to experience sex? In
the modern developed world that realisation seems to be emerging at a
younger and younger age. Puberty itself seems to be occuring at younger and
younger ages. At the same time, youngsters are bombarded with sexual
imagery, sexual invitations, sexual temptation. And some of these young
people are going to become sexually engaged with older people. This is
simply a description of what happens.

At what age does the youngster become an 'older' person himself? Does he
go to sleep an 'innocent' the night before his 16th birthday, and wake up a
predator? And what if he happens to love members of his own sex? Everything
that makes him him drives him towards intimate relationships, including
sexual relationships, with others like himself.


Sex between an adult and a 'minor' is illegal. Each society determines its
own age of consent. Members of a society should accept the consequences of
their own actions. But we should be aware that such relationships will
happen. This is not to suggest we should condone them. It is to suggest
that we should try to understand them. And appreciate that while there is
often lust, there is often love, too.

To what extent are these short stories fictional? For the record, they are
all fictional. All fictional in the sense that they never happened
precisely as described in the stories. Not even autobiographies are 'true'
or accurate in any profound sense. Fiction and autobiography are memory,
and memory by its very nature is reconstructed, reimagined, remembered. So
take away all the 'facts' and what are we left with? We are left with
love. And 'Loving Boys' is an expression of that love. Bring yourself to
each story. Read and remember.

To what extent is RESCUE ME fictional? For the record, it is entirely
fiction; it never happened; for ALL stories are fictional. Even the purest
autiobiography is fictional in the sense that events, people, incidents,
situations are selected, remembered, reconstructed, reimagined.


ALL I WANTED

"C'mere, you little bastard!"

"Fuck you!"

Neil didn't turn to look. He felt a hand brush his shoulder and
ducked. Ducked, twisted, and dived along the aisles. Thank Christ, the
shelves were so close together. No fat bastard was going to catch him. And
catch him for what? A shitty handful of 'Pick 'n Mix' he didn't really want
anyway.

"Come back here, you little..."

"Fat fuckin' chance," and Neil was there. Obligingly the automatic doors
swung open for him, and he was out and away. He ducked into the nearest
alley, and almost tripped over it. "Sorry, missus." 'It' was Elsie, the bag
lady. Flat-out drunk, piss trickling between her legs. Neil stopped. It was
a can of Super Special, and it was there for the taking. Then he remembered
where the can had been, and, with a grimace, turned into a lane, climbed a
low wall, crossed a patch of scrubby burnt grass, nipped through a broken
gate, and was away.

"Fuckin' Jesus H. Christ, it's hot."

The sun slashed down as pitiless as any store floorwalker. His T-shirt
clung to him. He struggled out of it, and stuck it in his belt. It dragged
his jeans even lower, revealing the slogan 'Basic Concept' across the
elastic top of his boxers. He felt the fabric stick to his arse
cheeks. "For fuck's sake, it's up my ass," he grunted, pulling the material
free.

Neil looked down at his skinny chest with its raisin nubs. Sweat trickled
down the narrow groove, slowed at his belly, and filled the little
innie. "Twelve years old, and I look about ten," he complained. "No wonder
they won't let me in. Fuckin' hell, gotta do something."

He wandered down towards the harbour. It might be cooler there. Even the
fuckin' tourists had scattered for shade. The streets were deserted. Like
in a movie where some virus has wiped out the whole population. He was the
only one left on the whole mother-fuckin' planet. No shade. No water. No
food. But he had food, he had supplies. He jammed his hand deep into his
jeans pocket and pulled out a jellied mass. Half a dozen wine gums, his
haul from 'Pick and Mix', like some fuckin' jelly fish. He'd seen them down
at the harbour, poked sticks through them, hacked them about till they were
sloppy pieces of nothing. They didn't seem to mind, didn't seem to feel
anything, the lucky fuckers.

He raised the sticky blob to his lips and sank his teeth into it. With his
free hand he pushed his long dirty-blond hair, almost as sticky as the
gums, behind his ears. He sighed, chewed, walked on, chewing. He might get
his hair cut. God knows it wasn't much use in this heat. And maybe if he
didn't look so girly they might let him in. But half a dozen of the older
boys had long hair. Nobody gave a fuck any more. You hardly ever saw a
skinhead about. Certainly not a younger one. You saw older guys with
cropped hair or shaved heads. But that was because they were going bald, or
pug ugly, or both. With their fat fuckin' arses, and their hairy beer
bellies, boobs big and droopy. He'd seen a few of them on top of his mum
when she'd been too fuckin' drunk, or too fuckin' broke, to care who was
buying in the booze. Too fuckin' drunk to close the bedroom door. And he'd
seen the way some of the men looked at him. He knew what they were -
fuckin' pervs, fuckin' pedos. Despite the heat he felt goose bumps on his
shoulders. He shook away the images like water off a dog's back.

All he wanted to be was let in. At twelve he was too old to play in the
sandpit on the council playground, and too young to be in the
gang. Charlie's gang. Robby's gang. They ruled it together. Two mean mother
fuckers. They were only two years older, maybe three, but that made all the
difference. They smoked, not just ciggies; they stole, not just fuckin'
wine gums; they'd been excluded from school, lots of times; they'd had sex,
real sex, not just with their own hands. And him - stupid little fucker, he
couldn't even cum properly. Just squirt a couple of jets of milky liquid,
and that was it. The feeling was marvellous, wonderful, it rattled his
whole body, but it wasn't really cumming. He'd seen some of the other boys
cum, in the 'Strip 21' card games; they could shoot the real stuff, thick
and gobby, and... He shook away the images like the sweat from his hair. He
was getting hard down there. Fuck 'n hell, thinking about boys shooting
their loads, and getting hard on it. What the fuck was he? Some kind of
perv, some kind of junior pedo?

Could you be a pedo at twelve? That was an interesting thought. But, no, he
wasn't. He'd seen little kids naked on the beach, and that's all he saw,
little naked kids. How the fuck could anybody get a hard-on about them? He
squashed the wine gums flat and let them slide down his throat.

He was at the harbour gates now. They were wide open. Not that the iron
railings ever kept him and his mates out when they wanted a bit of late
night fishing, or a bit of graffiti spraying. He'd tried his hand at
spraying. Charlie'd let him have a go. Charlie liked him, or seemed to, as
much as the gang leaders seemed to like anybody. He wasn't bad at it. The
curves came naturally. But, of course, he was too young to be allowed his
own signature.

Too young. Too fucking young. There it was again. Shit, he could smoke -
not that he liked smoking; he could drink - though it made him feel sick;
and he could cum - well, he'd made a start. He had to do something,
anything, to get into the gang. He knew where they were now, knew what
they'd be doing. They'd be in Robby's place. His mum worked for the
NHS. That meant she had crazy hours, crazy shifts. It was the weekend, so
she'd be on three in the afternoon till eight next morning. What time was
it now? About three thirty, he guessed. Yep, they'd be at Robby's. Sprawled
out on the couch, the carpet, drinking beer, smoking puff, watching a
porno, or maybe playing 'Strip 21'. There wouldn't be any girls. Robby and
Charlie said girls were only good for one thing, and you didn't need a
house for that. The air-raid shelters were good enough for that, thank you
very much.

It wouldn't be cool at Robby's, but it wouldn't be as fuckin' hot as
outside. The windows would be wide open, curtains closed, the living room
gloomy, and half a dozen boys, half stripped, sprawled across couch and
carpet. Fuck, he'd give anything, anything, to be there with them
now. "Dream on, Neil, fuckin' dream on," he told himself.

Maybe if he had something to bring them. He stuck his hand in his
pocket. Nuthin'. Not even a fuckin' wine gum. He knew what they
wanted. Lager. Not beer. Beer was for men, fat, hairy-bellied, big-titted
men. Lager was cool, and the cooler the better. Neil giggled at his
unintentional joke. Then frowned. How the fuck could he get a six-pack, he
couldn't even afford a can. Dream on, dream on.

He walked into the eastern end of the harbour. Was it really a harbour? If
it was, it was a fuckin' small one. Half a dozen small fishing boats
bobbing in the dock seemed to fill the place up. The fish sheds were open
for business, but who the fuck was buying on a day like this? The few
tourists there were were seated on the upper deck of the fish
restaurant. Sitting in the shade, sipping their - "lagers, I fuckin' bet."

Neil found the stand-pipe. Turned it on full blast and stuck his head
underneath it. Warm, tepid, cool, cold, freezin' - fuckin' ace! He soaked
his hair, let the water splash down his chest, down his belly, onto his
Basic Concepts and Zantos jeans. Zantos for fuck's sake; everybody knew
they were Matalan. At least they didn't know his mum had got them at
Relate, or was it Oxfam, or maybe Red Cross? His mum shopped in all the
best places - not.

It came to him all at once.

He knew what he had to do. Knew what he was going to do.

He was going to get lager, a full six-pack, and he knew how he was going
get it.

He was going down to the West Gate. The western end of the harbour.

The western end.

Where the pervs hang out.

Neil glanced at a full-length window to his right, sucked in his breath,
expanded his small chest. His jeans slid lower. He wished he'd some hair
down there. Robby had hair. Charlie had hair, thick, auburn hair, lots of
it. It made him look really sexy. Neil wanted hair. These days he often
checked down there, wishing, hoping, but nuthin', absolutely fuckin'
nuthin'. As bald and shiny as a baby's bum. Just a little would do, peeking
over his Basic Concepts. That would look sexy. The pervs would like
that. He felt himself harden again. "Shit, what the fuck's wrong with me?"
He hitched up his jeans and headed for the Western Dock.

The Western Dock lorry park. There were toilets there. That's where the
pervs hung out. He'd never actually seen a perv, but he knew about them
okay. The boys used to talk about them, laugh at them, and, on the edge of
the circle, he'd heard Robby - or was it Charlie? - say, "They'll give you
anything, well, almost anything for a quick feel." He'd wanted to ask
Robby, or Charlie, how he knew, but that was dangerous territory, so he
kept his mouth shut and salted away the information.

A quick feel for a six pack. That didn't seem a bad deal. He wasn't going
to feel them, o, no, siree, but if they wanted a quick feel of his 'growing
parts' - why the fuck did his mum have to call them that? - well, nobody
would know, he'd get his six pack, and that might be a passport to what he
so desperately wanted, a place in the West Enders.

Neil reached the public toilets. He sat on the kerb a few feet away from
the Men's. He pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned his elbows on his
knees. He looked small and alone. His eyes checked out the lorry park - two
lorries and a white van. Everything was still. Even the seagulls were
stunned by the heat. Out in the estuary the vague outline of a ship
shimmered in the hazy blue. He wondered where it was going, what it would
be like to be on it, going to faraway places with strange-sounding names,
his life changed utterly. He sighed and stretched out his legs, knocking
his cheap-o trainers together in some kind of rhythm.

Then he saw it, cruising round the lorry park. It was blue, maybe electric
blue, though he wasn't sure what made blue 'electric'. What was it - a
Porsche, a BMW? How the fuck would he know? But he knew it was
expensive. Maybe it was just looking for the seafood restaurant, but
something told him it wasn't. It slowed down, stopped, idled, then took off
again in a slow circle round the park. It came towards him, tentatively,
like the driver was unsure, pulled up alongside, idling. A man, not that
old, but he was wearing dark sunglasses so Neil couldn't be sure, leaned
out of the driver's window ---

"Hey, kid, got a minute?"

Something about the voice sounded phony, as if the guy had memorized it
from an American TV show, maybe even from that movie 'Bugsy Malone' with
kids playing... Neil shuffled to his feet, stretched up his arms as if he'd
been half-asleep, sucked in his tummy, felt his jeans slide down his
non-existent hips, his T-shirt ride up, and said "Yeh," unconsciously
matching his accent to the dude in the car.

"I'm looking for West Beach." The guy's accent was English now. "Any
ideas?"

Neil pointed up the road running parallel to the harbour. "Sure, mister. A
couple of miles up the road. That way. You can't miss it."

The guy smiled.

"I could miss anything, believe me." Then he added, "You couldn't show me,
could you? Come with me, I mean. I'd make it worth your while."

There was something in the man's voice. It made him sound he'd be almost
relieved if the boy said no. At the same time there was a note, a note of
what? Hope, longing, desire?

"Guess so, mister. Ain't doing nuthin' anyway. But you got to bring me back
after."

"Sure thing, kid. Hop in." He opened the door and Neil slid onto the
passenger seat. Christ, this was an expensive machine. If Charlie could see
him now. The car purred out of the Western Gate onto West Beach
Road. Despite the heat, the air conditioning was off. "Could be busted,"
thought Neil, settling back nervously, gazing out of his window as the
glittery-eyed houses winked at him.

"Hot today, isn't it? Do you mind?"

The sunglasses were parked on the dashboard. The man one-handedly pulled
off his glowing-white tennis shirt. Neil read the writing on the pocket -
Bermudas Tennis Club. He'd no idea where or what the 'Bermudas' were, but
they sounded as expensive as the car gliding along on air. The driver
slipped his sunglasses back on, and Neil risked a peek.

The guy was young, maybe 25, maybe 30, but not much older. He was
good-looking. No Brad Pitt or any of those Hollywood guys his mum mooned
over, but a cut or two above those fat, hairy fuckers she usually brought
home. He wasn't muscly, but he wasn't a skinny doodle either. That's what
Charlie called him sometimes - 'Skinny Doodle'. He didn't mind that
much. It came from Charlie, and Charlie was never nasty to him, never mean
in the way that Robby could be. And the perv smelled nice. Sort of like his
mum's 'Impulse' but not sickly sweet or anything like that. And he was
tanned, not burned brown like lots of his friends, but nicely tanned. Neil
wasn't that tanned. He was creamy ivory because his light skin burned
easily, so he usually kept a T shirt on.

"Take your T-shirt off. If you want to, I mean. Much cooler this way."

Neil fought with his sweaty shirt, wrestling it over his head, and stuffing
it down the side of the passenger seat. He began to hitch up his jeans but
decided to leave them half down his underpants. He leaned back cradling his
head in his hands and enjoyed the rush of cool air over his face and chest.

"What's say we take the car up to the Slopes? Marvellous view from there."

Neil grunted. He didn't give a fuck about any view but he couldn't figure
how to get down to business.

"We can park, watch the yachts and speedboats. Have a cold drink."

A cold drink.

"I need lager," mumbled Neil.

The man looked sidelong at Neil. He was smiling. "Aren't you a bit young
for lager? I've got beer in the freeze-bag but maybe you'd like a Coke
better. Got that, too."

"It's lager, lager I need," said Neil. He looked at the man. He had brown
eyes, long lashes, a friendly smile. "It's not for me. It's for my mates,"
he explained, without really explaining. "I got to get a six pack. Foster's
or Heineken." He managed to get the explanation out coherently. "Do
anything for a six pack," he mumbled.

"I see," said the man. "Let's park at the Slopes and see what we can do."
He accelerated smoothly. "Hey, by the way, my name's Dan."

There was no reply.

"What's your name? Make one up if you want to."

"Uh, my name... my name's Neil." Shit, why did this guy have to be so nice?
It would be easy with a fat, old perv. His small hand disappeared into the
larger hand and was gently shaken.

"Hey, Neil, I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to
do. Okay? You're a nice kid. I like your company. Hey, here's the Slopes."
He turned the car onto the grass verge of the Slopes that led steeply down
to the pebble beach. A line of brightly-coloured beach huts were strung
across the lower slopes. Between them people, old and young, all shapes and
sizes, could be seen settled on the beach or frolicking in the water. There
were many more young than old, the latter taking shade by the huts. In the
middle distance speedboats blazed parallel to the shore; farther out yachts
glided by as serene as swans on the river.

"Here, use these."

Neil found a pair of binoculars pressed into his hands. He leaned out of
the window and ran them across the scene. Wow - everything leapt with
disturbing clarity into view. His "Wow" was audible and brought a chuckle
from... from... the man. He turned. "Hey, mister, what's your...? Shit,
sorry. Sorry, Dan. Forgot for a moment." Next moment the boy yelped as he
felt a frozen can pressed into his belly.

"Hey, what the... Oh, it's my Coke. Thanks, mister. Thanks, Dan. Fuck me,
it's freezin'." He heard Dan's laugh again, leaned out of the window, and
worked the can open. Then he leaned out of the window, sipping at the Coke,
and training the 'nocs' on whatever took his fancy. "This is the life, this
is the fuckin' life..." Neil felt Dan's fingers run down his spine, and
froze for a moment. "What the fuck. The guy wasn't doing any harm, and,
shit, it felt good." Made him feel wanted. Made him happy to be there, not
alone, not on his own, in company, with a friend.

Time slipped by. It must have. His Coke was finished. His belly was
gurgling happily. Neil turned from the window, laid down the empty can and
the binoculars, and stretched himself backwards in the seat, arms high
above his head. "Christ," he could almost go to sleep. He felt Dan's
fingertips run across his belly, fiddle with his belly button. "Still damn
hot, isn't it? Look how you're sweating. Must be all that Coke." The boy
watched the man's fingertips run across his stomach, across his chest, down
to where his boxers met his skin, trace the line - again, and again, and
again.

Neil felt himself getting hard. He tried to will his stiffy away, but his
penis was having none of that. He could see the outline rising under the
denim. It was so hard it was beginning to ache. He felt it throb. He felt
the man's fingers grasp it gently and work it into a vertical
position. Felt it hot and hard against his pubic area. The man took his
fingers away. Waited. The boy couldn't look at his face. But he cradled his
head on his hands again, stretched back and closed his eyes. He heard the
whispered command - "Lift" - and raised his bottom from the car seat. He
heard the man's whispered "beautiful" - and

fingers were stroking his hard-on, the tips running up and down his
shaft. Other fingers played with his balls. If only he were bigger... He
felt the fingers ease his foreskin back until the skin tightened round the
joiny bit. Fingers, so gentle, so caressing, so unhurried. He felt his
foreskin being pulled forward over the head, then pulled down again - and
again, and again. His bumhole tightened in response - again and again.

Then he felt more. What was that? Warm and wet. Closing over his
erection. His hard-on felt huge. Of course it wasn't huge. But it felt
it. He'd measured it with his clear Perspex ruler. It was almost 4 inches
hard. Was that good for a kid of twelve? He might look young, but he had
the dick of a twelve year old, maybe of a teenager, maybe even - "Uh!" His
bumhole clenched real tight that time. He felt his balls rise. That
happened more and more when he was cumming. He could only squirt a few
milky spurts but there was definitely more of it. He kept his eyes closed
and... "Damn it! Not Charlie again. That couldn't be right. That was perv
stuff." He tried to conjure up one of the older girls in his school, but
all he saw was his mum, face down on the bed, mumbling, "No, not
there. Don't like it there." But he'd closed the door and crept back to the
couch he called bed. "Aw, what the fuck. Charlie wouldn't mind. Or at least
he'd never know." He lay back and surrendered to the dazzling images.

Too much. His bum was bouncing off the seat. He was pushing himself up and
into the man's mouth. Hot lips were tight around his shaft. A finger
tickled that joiny bit between his balls and his bum hole. He pushed
himself up hard, held himself there, and felt himself pump, jet, and squirt
into the wonderful warm wetness that held him so firmly, yet gently. "Uh,
uh, uh..." He heard a squeaky voice and realised it was his. He fell back
against the seat again - blushing. Not because he was ashamed of what he'd
done but because he'd enjoyed it so much. He shouldn't have enjoyed it so
much, shouldn't have enjoyed it at all. It was just business, just a
business deal. But he felt the glow spread from his genitals till it
suffused his whole body. Then he heard the voice again - "Lift" - and he
did, and his boxers and jeans were pulled up. Not all the way but at least
he was decent now. He risked a look at Dan.

Dan was looking straight ahead. His face was expressionless. Then he licked
his lips and smiled. Neil knew everything was okay. He turned at looked
down at the boy. "You're beautiful, did you know that, Neil? You're
beautiful, every bit of you." Neil coloured and lowered his eyes.

"Fuck'nhell," he said under his breath. Dan had a hard-on, a stiffy, and it
was huge. Under his cream-coloured slacks the outline looked like a bit of
garden hose. Not even Charlie or Robert had a cock like that. Not even when
they were hard and jerking. Dan's eyes followed the boy's. He
laughed. "Sorry, Neil, but that's what you do to me. I'd let you feel it
but I'd cum like a geyser, and I need these pants for tonight."

For a moment Neil wondered why Dan wouldn't want to cum like a geezer, and
then blurted out his question. "Don't you like girls, women, I mean? Are
you really a ... " He couldn't bring himself to say the word.

Dan's eyes held his own. "Well, I like women. I like their company. But I
don't love women, well, not in the way you mean. Don't know why. It's just
the way it's been since I can't remember."

"And what about... you know?"

"Men?" said Dan. "Nope, don't love them either. Never have. No, that's not
really true. When I was your age... But, shit, you don't want to hear
ancient history." He was smiling again. "So I guess that makes me a pervert
or a ..." It was Dan's turn to be unable to complete the thought. "But
fuck, look at the time. I have to..."

"Can't. Don't have a watch," interrupted Neil.

"It's nearly 4.30. I've got to get home. Got to get you home, too. And got
to get your six pack."

"Great," said Neil, recalling what the whole deal had been about.

"Where do you live?"

Neil gave him rough directions to Charlie's place, not mentioing it was his
building, too.

"Good. That's not too far. We'll stop off and get your six pack. I'll stick
it in a carrier bag. Keep it there till you get to your mate's. Okay?"

"Okay," confirmed Neil. This was great. They were friends
now. Conspirators. Maybe criminals even. Batman and Robin. No, that was the
wrong side.

Dan swung the car back along West Beach Road.

They got to an off-license. Dan went in, leaving Neil in charge of the car,
bought the six pack - Foster's - and returned. It only took a couple of
minutes to reach his street. Neil felt a wave of disappointment. The
adventure was over. He'd never see Dan again.

"Hey, I was thinking. Can I...?"

Their words weren't simultaneous. Their words weren't identical. But boy
and man meant exactly the same thing.

"Sorry, I can't make tomorrow, Neil. Working." He sensed the boy's
disappointment. "But Friday okay for you?"

"Same place. Same time," chirped the boy.

"Same time. But not same place. Not outside those toilets."

"Where then? Where?"

"Outside the restaurant, the seafood restaurant. And, Neil..."

"Yeh?"

"Make sure you're hungry when you get there. Promise?"

The boy's eyes shone. "Promise."

"Now get that sweet little ass out of here. Go and play with your
mates. And, Neil, you know how to keep a secret, don't you?"

"You bet YOUR sweet ass I do," laughed the boy. And he was out of the car
and scampering to Charlie's, his 'story' how he got the six pack in the
making. He didn't have to look back. He knew Dan would be there on
Friday. And so would he.


***


"And who bought the booze again?" asked Charlie.

"One of my mum's boyfriends. I told yah."

"Pretty neat," smiled the older boy. "You nicked a tenner from one of your
mum's boyfriends, and got another one of those assholes to buy the lager
for you."

"'Course I had to let him have a can," explained Neil smiling at his own
ability to tell the story again with exactly the same detail.

"Bright little fucker, aren't we?" said the older boy, draping his arm
round the younger's shoulder. "It sure made the afternoon."

Neil's chest swelled with pride. Not only was Charlie praising him but he'd
actually dropped an arm round him. Shit, he was gonna do it, he was gonna
get into the West End boys. "And there's more where that came from," he
couldn't resist adding.

The boys were strolling down Albert Street. The sun was sinking fast out
over West Beach. Charlie and Neil lived in the same high rise block a
couple of streets on. A fuckin' dump, all council-owned. Practically nobody
in work, everybody depending on benefits, hanging on by the skin of their
teeth. Sydney Street was almost in sight.

"Charlie," said Neil, furious that his voice was so light, so
high. "Charlie, can I... do you think... could I come out with your guys
tonight? I won't be no trouble honest. Mum's got a new boyfriend, and
he's... he's a fat, ugly bastard, and..."

Charlie looked down into the boy's green eyes. "Christ, the kid was a
looker," he thought. He paused, shrugged, and said, "'Course you can. Got a
hood?"

Neil almost flung an arm round Charlie but held back just in time. "'Course
I have." He tried lowering the pitch of his voice, but only managed to
sound even younger.

"And tell you what," added Charlie, "you can come to our place for your
dinner. Mum's got enough beans to feed Iraq, and she never minds another
kid at the table. But we gotta be quick. We're meeting up at the Odeon at
half nine. Aw, shit, I forgot you were there this afternoon. You know what
we're doin' tonight."

Neil squeezed his legs together. He was gonna pee himself with joy, he just
knew it. But that would fuck things up, and he sure wasn't going to fuck up
the perfect end to a perfect day.


***


The man and the boy lay on their backs on a tartan travelling rug in a
grassy clearing in Birch Wood.

"Maybe he's not gonna do anything," thought Neil. He was comfortable, his
belly full but not straining. The ham and cheese sandwiches were just
great. Ham AND cheese together in brown bread with seeds in it. He could
still pick out a couple of the seeds between his teeth. The Coke made him
burp now and again. And now and again he had to squeeze out a little fart,
hoping Dan didn't hear it. He glanced sideways at Dan. His eyes were still
closed. Maybe he really was asleep. He sure was a good-looking dude. He
even had a dimple in his chin. Charlie had the same kind of dimple. His mum
said men with dimples... but he didn't want to think about her, and her
men. He wanted to lie there in the shade, in the cool, and...

He gazed at his watch. He studied his watch. It was a present from Dan. It
wasn't a very expensive watch. As Dan said, that would be a stupid thing to
give him. But it was a nice watch, a Casio digital. And it was his first
watch, and already he loved it. He turned his attention back to Dan. Was he
going to... were they going to? He reached down to straighten his
stiffy. "Christ, what's wrong with me?" He got hard-ons all the time. Even
when he wasn't thinking of anything sexy, it just popped up, and sometimes
stayed hard until it ached. Wanking helped a bit, but not much. A few
minutes later and...

"Shit, Dan, don't just lie there. You brought me here. You like me. Do
something!" The thoughts raced around inside his head. "You like me. We've
talked for ages. Well, I've done most of the talking. But you ask such good
questions. It's easy with you. Not like home, where mum just gives orders,
and the boyfriends grunt at you. Not like in the Gang where you have to
watch what you say, if you dare say anything. Christ, Dan, don't just lie
there...

"Do something!"

The last words came out as a yelp. Neil half-rolled, half-leapt on Dan,
pinning him down in a wrestling hold. He grabbed the man's wrists and
extended them over his head. He felt the resistance. Good, at least he was
awake. "I gotcha," he growled, leaning his face down close to Dan's. His
eyes were still closed but there was a smile on his lips. Neil knew what
he'd do. He'd drool on him. That's what they did to little kids at
school. Pinned them on their backs, knees on their arms, and drooled on
their faces.

Neil made saliva in his mouth, leaned forward, and... at the last moment he
kissed Dan. He actually kissed him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd
kissed anybody or anybody'd kissed him. And here he was now, kissing a man,
practically a stranger. What would Dan think? He'd think Neil was a little
sissy, a pansy, a poofter. But Dan was pressing his lips against his own,
opening his mouth, letting his big tongue play against his lips. Neil
opened his own lips a fraction, and the big tongue was pushing in, seeking
entry, insistent, relentless. The boy opened his mouth and the big tongue
slid inside, seeming to fill him up, exploring every corner, then
retreating to invite the smaller tongue to invade his own space. Neil
followed, his little pink tongue disappeared into Dan's mouth, their saliva
slopping together. He felt he was being swallowed up, felt Dan could
swallow his tongue, his lips, his mouth, his head, and then gobble him
right down to his skinny ankles.

The boy was grinding down. He wanted to grind his crotch against the man's,
but he was small, far too small, and could only grind against his
chest. "Ah, what the fuck." It gave him that great feeling anyway. Then he
felt his jeans and boxers sliding down, being slid down. "Aw, shit, Dan'll
feel my hard on. He doesn't even have his shirt on. He's bound to feel it."
But that's what the boy wanted, skin against skin. He felt his jeans and
boxers reach his ankles as he continued to grind into the soft/hard warmth
of Dan's chest. He giggled a little because the man's chest hairs tickled
his dick, the foreskin already fully retracted.

Neil began fucking motions on the man's chest, his penis slipping backwards
and forwards along the groove. He wasn't sure if he was doing it
right. He'd seen men going up and down on his mother in this position, so
he must be doing it near right. He was still leaning forward, his mouth
fastened to Dan's. The sloppy circling went on, but sometimes Dan was
kissing his whole face, eyes, nose, ears, everything. He liked the
roughness of Dan's skin against his own. He liked the smell of Dan. He felt
sweat trickle down his back. Knew that drops of sweat were falling from his
long hair that stuck to Dan's skin. He speeded up his fucking motions. Not
intentionally. He wasn't doing anything intentionally. His body had a mind
of its own.

Dan's hands were under the boy's buttocks. Lifting him, raising him,
persuading him forwards. Neil wondered what for. He couldn't keep kissing
Dan like this. Then he realised where his dick was. The tip was right at
the man's mouth. The boy leaned forward and the mouth swallowed him, lips
firm against the hot, hard shaft. But the boy was puzzled. The man wasn't
sucking. Only holding him firmly between his lips. The boy placed his
flattened hands on either side of the man's head, then began the fucking
motion again. Backwards and forwards. In and out. Again and again. And the
man was changing the pressures on his stiffy, sometimes hard, sometimes
soft, but never actually sucking. The boy had to do all the work, and it
was... fuckin' great. Faster, harder, deeper, until the tip of his cock
bounced against the man's the throat. Neil realised he was fucking, really
fucking, really fucking Dan's face, face-fucking.

And the man was... the man was spreading the boy's buttocks, pulling them
gently apart. A shiver of fear ran through the boy. Maybe Dan was going to
fuck him. He'd seen his mum being fucked like this. Sitting astraddle a
man. Riding his cock. And sometimes the words, "No, not in there. I don't
like it in there." It hurt in there. He knew it would hurt in there. But
Dan had his chinos on, and he wouldn't want to mess them up, so, no, he
wasn't going to fuck him. And the air felt nice up there, cool and
nice. And Dan's finger tickling his... his what? What would he call it?
Yeh, his bumhole. Dan was tickling his bumhole. Well, if he enjoyed
that. And Neil rode on, moving his hips backwards and forwards to drive his
prick in and out of Dan's mouth. Wow, he was fucking, actually fucking. If
only Charlie could see him now. The thought of Charlie watching him made
his penis harden even more. His balls were beginning to ache.

The finger tip played with his bumhole, pressed gently against the opening,
tiny, so tiny. But it began to give, just a fraction at a time, but
definitely to give. Then the muscle relaxed. The tip pushed in. But dry, o,
so dry. Then it was gone. A flutter of disappointment. Then the finger was
at the boy's lips. He opened his mouth, sucked it in, sucked on it, the way
his baby sister sucked at his mum's tit. It was a little bitter but not
horrible, far from horrible. Then the finger withdrew, and the tip was back
at his bumhole, pressing again and again, until it broke through and slid
in. Deeper and deeper until it was all the way in. And it didn't hurt -
much; and it felt - good. And the boy began to ride it. Like a little
jockey. Riding the finger up his arse while his stiffy, hard as a milk
bottle, drove in and out of the man's hot, wet mouth.

Oh, let it go on forever.

Forever and forever.

But it couldn't. The boy sensed it couldn't. It was like wanking but not
like wanking. You had some control over wanking. When you're wanking you
can slow up, stop for a while, think about something else, and then start
again. But this was different. This grabbed you, seized you, was in control
of you. Now you're growling. Moaning. Saying dirty things. You know you're
going somewhere, you have to get there, you don't want to get there, but
you do, oh yes, you do, you do, you do.

The boy spurts into the man's throat. The man's middle finger drives deep,
all the way, stays in deep. The boy rocks above him, head thrown back,
mouth open, teeth tight together. And he spurts, little squirts that seem
to empty his entire body. The boy falls forward, his cock still in the
man's mouth, his sweet crotch pressed across the man's face. Limp as a wet
rag.

Gently the man eases the boy out. Rolls him sideways. Lowers him gently
onto the tartan rag. Sees him stretched out. Arm across his eyes. T-shirt
up to his nipples. Jeans and boxers down at his ankles.

The man smiles. Because the boy is still hard. His erection has barely
softened. A drip of cum at the tip of his cock. His balls still tightly
raised. He slides down the boy's body. Kisses the drop away. Then slides
further down to ease up the boy's boxers and jeans. Gently zips him
up. Then lies back to watch the sunlight dappling the trees.

Minutes go by. Five, ten, fifteen...

Neil turned to face Dan, propped himself up on his elbow. He gave him a
quizzical look. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

Neil wasn't sure how to ask the question, but "Don't you want to...?
Shouldn't I...? You know, what I did?"

"Cum, you mean?" said Dan.

"Yeh, that's it. Don't you wanna to cum?"

"Yeh, 'course I do. But I want to enjoy you for a while."

"Enjoy me?"

"Yes. Just being here with you," Dan smiled.

"Oh, well... Dan, can I ask you something - some things?"

"Of course, you can. You can ask me anything."

"Well..." and now the boy's voice is serious. "Why did you put your finger
up my bum? It hurt at first. Then it felt good. But how does it work?"

For the next half hour Dan answered the 101 questions pubescent boys want
to ask in Sex Education classes, but never get the courage to. Patiently he
made sure the boy understood the answers. He was surprised by the boy's
acuteness, his intelligence, the way he pursued and worried a question
until he got what he needed to know.

"So your hole closes up afterwards?" Neil persisted.

"Yes, it does. Just think when you're constipated, Neil, or when you do a
really big shit. Your hole has to open up to let the stuff out, then it has
to close up again. and it does."

"It has to, I guess, or you'd keep on dumping all over the place," laughed
the boy.

"But that doesn't mean you go around shoving any old things up it, just to
test it," said Dan.

"Fuck, I wouldn't do that," protested the boy. "I'm no fuckin'
pervert..... oh, sorry."

Dan laughed.

"Hey, what's the time, loverboy. You've got a watch, haven't you?"

Neil raised his wrist, regarded his watch studiously and announced, "It's
10 minutes and 31 seconds past 5 o'clock."

"Time to be going."

"Aw, do we have to?"

"Yep, we have to. But would you like to...?"

Neil held his breath.

"Go to a movie on Saturday."

"A movie? In a cinema? With you? You bet I would!"

"Okay, it's a deal," grinned Dan. "Meet you at four o'clock. Look in the
paper. You choose the movie."

"Whoopee!"

The boy flung himself against the man.

"Hey, hold off a minute," Dan laughed. "What's that I feel down there. Not
another hard-on?"

Neil grinned and pressed himself against.

"'t's not another hard-on. 'Cos the first one didn't go down."

The cinema was almost empty at four thirty on a Saturday afternoon. "Well,
it would be, wouldn't it?" thought Neil to himself. Snuggled up against Dan
in the posh seats, the expensive seats, a box even, the boy puffed out a
little with pride. "If only Charlie and Robby could see me now," he thought
but then corrected himself. He'd be screwed if Charlie, Robby, or any of
the gang could see him. They'd know immediately that Dan was as perv, and
they'd know immediately that he, Neil, was a whore. He'd heard men use that
words towards his mother. They didn't pronounce it that way; they called
her a 'hoor', but he wasn't dumb, he knew how to spell it. Was that what he
was - a boy-whore? Okay, Dan was nice to him, generous; he'd given him the
lager, the watch, and brought him to the cinema. Funny, he didn't feel like
he was a whore. He'd feel happy with Dan even if the man bought him
nothing, gave him nothing. He just liked being with Dan. And though Dan was
a perv - Neil was honest enough to admit that to himself - that didn't seem
to matter. Dan wanted sex with him, had sex with him, but he liked it,
enjoyed it, wanted it, wanted more of it. Even these thoughts made his dick
go hard. He wished, he wished, he wished Dan would touch him, but Dan
seemed completely involved in the movie, didn't seem interested in sex at
all. But surely that's what they'd come for, to sit in the dark and feel
each other up.

Feel each other up?

That meant him feeling Dan up.

Aw, fuck it, he was bored. Dan wouldn't mind, would he? If he...

Neil slid is small hand into Dan's lap. He ran his fingers where he thought
Dan's prick would be. There was something there all right, something soft
and squelchy. He prodded it with his fingers, tried to find out its
shape. The shape begins to change shape. To harden, lengthen, elongate,
like a lazy snake sliding out into the sunlight. He could run his finger
either side of the shape, the tube, now. Christ, it was big. And though it
felt soft to the touch it was also hard and getting harder.

"Hey, down there, don't bite off more than you can chew," came the whisper.

"Fuck it. I ain't gonna chew it," the boy whispered back, "but I might give
it a good licking," he added, giggling as the joke dawned on him. Dan's
hard-on, his stiffy - it was funny to think of a man having a 'hard-on', a
'stiffy'. That was language for kids. He must remember to ask Dan what
grown-ups called their hard cocks. "Maybe they call them Nigel," he giggled
to himself. The hard flesh bulged against fabric of the man's slack,
pushing the zipper into view. The boy had a hard time working the zipper
down. But finally he was there. Sitting on Dan's right, Neil burrowed his
fingers under Dan's fly. Fuck it, he was wearing boxer shorts. But boxer
shorts were good. Boxer shorts had big openings, so "Here we go", and his
fingers burrowed into the opening.

"Jesus wept," the boy gasped, almost under his breath. It was that big. It
was hot and hard and huge. 'Huge' wasn't a word Neil used very often, but
he couldn't think of a better one. Dan's hard-on was hot and hard and
huge. He could hardly get his fingers round it. And it was hairy! At least
there was a lot of hair at the base of the man's cock and it tickled
against his fingers. Actually it felt nice, and Neil wondered for a moment
if he'd ever be as hairy as that, as 'huge' as that. He could feel it. He
could touch it. He had to see it. He just had to.

The boy worked the man's erection out of his boxer shorts, out of his
flies, until it stood fiercely erect. Gently with his fingers he rolled the
foreskin back down the head until the purple glance was naked, the little
eye already seeping... what had Dan called the fluid? - pre-cum, yes,
pre-cum, that was it. Funny that he didn't make much pre-cum himself, but
he felt Dan's pre-cum run down onto his hand. He guessed he should work
Dan's hard-on as Dan worked his. The shaft felt hard as steel yet curiously
soft, and it seemed to beat beneath his fingertips. He fingered the length
of the tube running along the underside of the shaft. He knew its name. Dan
told him. It was called the urethra. He wasn't sure he could spell the
word, but he knew what it did. It was the canal that carried urine and
sperm out of the body. He was quite proud he'd remembered that. Dan had
explained lots of things, and, unlike school where he only half-listened,
Neil remembered most of them.

He wondered what Dan's pre-cum would taste like. He'd had a little taste of
his own, and his own 'cum', but it hadn't tasted of very much at all. It
wasn't a taste you could dislike but you wouldn't fancy it splashed all
over your chips, a bit slimy for that. He giggled at his own thoughts, and
then turned his attention seriously to the work in hand. What would a
little kiss taste like? Dan had kissed his own hard-on a thousand times; he
seemed to love kissing Neil's cock, almost as much as sucking it. But he
could give Dan's cock a real kiss. The head was so big he could plant his
lips right on it.

Shit, he'd do it. Dan wouldn't mind.

He lowered his head and planted his lips against the man's engorged
glans. He held them there, then flicked out his little tongue and slurped
some of the juice into his mouth. It was sweet! No, it was salty! No, it
was sweet and salty! He ran the tip of his tongue where the head joined the
shaft - a lot of pre-cum was gathered there, and he slurped it in. He
coughed a little as it slid over his throat.

Kissing it was fine. Would Dan mind if he sucked it? It would be like
sucking a huge plum or a small apple. He knew he couldn't the whole cock
in. Not the way Dan did to him. Taking in his cock and his balls at the
same time. He doubted he could get even half way down the shaft, but he'd
have a go. He stretched his mouth wide until his jaws clicked, and then
slid his mouth over the head, and let head and a couple of inches slide
into his mouth and throat. Almost immediately he gagged. His eyes
watered. He slid the thick column of flesh away. He wouldn't suck it this
time; well, just the head, but he'd lick the shaft, and he'd play with
Dan's balls while he did it. Down he went, first pressing the hot, hard
shaft against his cheek. It felt comforting, that was the word
-comforting. He liked the feel, he liked the smell, he liked the taste, he
liked it, loved it. Mmmmm... a hundred kisses and a thousand licks. His
very own "Lollipop Dan".

Neil had no idea how many minutes he'd been down on Dan. He felt his
shoulders drawn gently upwards. Felt himself reluctantly releasing his
'lollipop'. His eyes were glazed as he looked up into Dan's face,
flickering in the changing cinema light.

"What... what?" the boy murmured.

"That's enough, Neil. That's enough for now," came the whisper.

"No, no, I want to..."

"I know. But it's going to get really messy down there. You know what will
happen."

"Yeh, yeh, I know. I know you're gonna cum. You're gonna shoot your load. I
know there'll be a lot of it. Lots more than me. I know. But it's
okay. I'll catch it, all of it, I promise. It'll go straight into my tummy,
honest."

Neil heard Dan laugh, but the laughter was warm, not unkind.

"You won't be able to swallow it all, Neil. Believe me. Then we'll both end
up a right mess. Now cuddle into me. The big film's about to start."

Neil sighed. "Okay, you know best. But was I... was I doing okay?"

"Brilliant, boy. You were doing Fucking Ace!"

Neil cuddled into Dan. "Well, that's okay then." He paused, then added,
"But, Dan... no stopping me next time. Promise?"

"Promise."

"That's all right then. And, Dan?"

"Yes, Neil."

"Where's the fuckin' popcorn?"

***

"Where the fuck you get this stuff?"

"I told you. I nicked it from my mum's... boyfriend."

The word 'boyfriend' stuck in Neil's throat. He knew they weren't really
his mum's 'boyfriends'. The guys who came and went might be somebody's
friend, but they definitely weren't his mum's, or his. A couple of them had
wanted to be his 'uncle', and one of them, a real creep, had wanted to be
his 'daddy', but the idea of 'friends' had never crossed his mind.

"Fuckin' little liar," grinned Charlie. "None of those assholes would give
you the steam of his shit, let alone classy beer like this." The boy took
another gulp and settled deeper into the tatty old sofa. Neil grinned
back. There was a note of laughter in Charlie's snarl; that meant things
were cool, safe. Charlie's front room was empty except for the two
boys. Funny that, they were a wild bunch of 'hardmen' but they all went
home for tea, even Robby had to be home for tea or there'd be hell to
play. Charlie's mum wouldn't be in till six so they had the place to
themselves tho' Neil was only there because, as he'd admitted to himself,
he'd brought half a dozen cans of lager. He was just about finishing his
first, Charlie was on his third.

"Fuckin' five o'clock, and it's still boiling," Charlie growled pushing his
dirty white t-shirt up and over his head till it lay taut and stretched
across his shoulders. "Can hardly breathe in here," he sighed, rubbing is
sweaty belly. Auburn hairs peeped up and out of his boxer shorts, his jeans
being halfways down his skinny hips. Neil blushed but kept looking. Charlie
was tough, no denying that, but there was something incredibly sexy about
him. Maybe the shaggy dark hair, maybe those thick eyebrows, definitely
those eyes so deep brown you couldn't see any pupils. And those shoulders,
broad and wide, Neil felt he could sit behind Charlie's neck, his legs
dangling down the older boy's chest, his little hands leaning on those
shoulders, so strong they could carry the whole fuckin' world.

"C'mere."

"What?"

"I said 'C'mere'. It's not a fuckin' invitation. C'mere."

Neil approached the boy warily.

"Now sit down. No, not there, you little fart. Across my knees, sit
there. No, not facing the tele, facing me. Sit there." Little belches
punctuated the instructions.

Neil sat down, one leg either side of Charlie's legs. Charlie pulled the
boy into him.

"Now where the fuck did you get this beer? And that other stuff you've been
getting. Don't fucking' look away. Look at me."

Neil looked into those fathomless eyes. Shit, Charlie was beautiful. He
wanted to lean forward and... "I told ya'. I been nicking them."

"You been selling this cute little ass to your mum's boyfriends," murmured
Charlie, kneading Neil's buttock with his right hand, sipping his beer from
the can in his right.

"The fuck I have!" protested Neil. "I'll punch your fuckin' mouth if
you..." The boy's reaction was so vehement Charlie held up the can as if to
protect his face. "Hey, hey, cool it, baby," laughed Charlie. "I was only
asking."

"Well, you shouldn't..." He lowered his face. He found his eyes level with
Charlie's upper chest. "Shit, why do his nipples have to be so...?" It
would be so easy to open his mouth, lean forward, take one in his lips. Dan
loved that. "Bet Charlie would, too. Or would he just fuckin' kill me?
Shit, I'm a little fag, a little poof, a queer..."

"Ain't your fault you're so fuckin' cute," murmured Charlie. He pushed back
the hair from Neil's face, tucking it behind the boy's ears. "And you smell
so...so sweet. Your skin, it's like..."

"Could Charlie really be saying this stuff?" thought Neil.

"An' if you ever tell anybody I said this stuff, I'll fuckin' kill ya. Got
it."

"Got it," whispered Neil, unable yet to meet Charlie's eyes.

"But what the fuck? It's fuckin' boilin'. We're bored, and we're passing
the time. Just passing the time. And drinking too much beer. Yeh," he
laughed, and it was a sweet laugh, "let's blame it on the beer." At last
Neil was able to look him in the eye and join in the laughter. "Yeh, let's
blame it on the beer. But I tell you something, Charlie."

"What you gonna tell me, Neil, baby?"

"You tell anyone and," he paused a moment, then... "I'll fuckin' kill ya."

"It's a deal," grinned Charlie, a fuckin' deal."

Charlie's eyes flickered, closed. His head slumped. Bubbles escaped from
his nose. He was drunk, dead drunk.

Neil rescued the can from Charlie's limp hold. He slid from his
knees. Knelt on the sticky, stained carpet. "Holy fuck," he whispered to
himself. "Did that just happen? Does Charlie like me, really like me, that
way?"

He looked at the boy's belly as it rose slightly, fell and rose
again. Looked at the curly auburn hairs, the little ribbing on the skin
from where Charlie's boxers had slid. Noticed the hosepipe that pushed up
beneath Charlie's zip. Neil giggled. That was no hosepipe. He checked the
boy's face, his breathing, then ran his fingertips the length of the
'hosepipe'. That was living flesh, he could feel its heat through the
denim. More pressure, up and down, check its length. Shit, it was
thickening, lengthening. Could you get a hard-on while you were
unconscious? Well, you could get one while you were asleep, he got plenty
of those. But when you were unconscious. Must remember to ask Dan.

'Course he'd seen Charlie's dick before, he'd even seen it hard, even seen
him and Robby jacking off in front of a porno movie. But he'd never seen
them cum, they'd always kicked his sorry little arse out of the place
before they'd shot their loads. While he was doing the thinking, Neil was
edging down the top of Charlie's boxers. "Christ, it's only hair, how can
hair be so fuckin' beautiful?" It was thick, it was auburn, and there was
lots of it. And, shit, that was his cock, or at least the head of
it. Fuck'n hell, it was thick, purplish, like a purplish mushroom. What did
his mum call them? Button mushrooms, that was it. Charlie's knob had a
purple button mushroom on top. And the mushroom had an eye, no, not an eye,
a little mouth. So did his own, of course, but not so... what word was he
looking for? ... not so obvious as this. And the eye was leaking. And the
head was all slimy. He knew what that was, that was pre-cum. Neil felt a
shiver or pride; Dan had taught him so much.

Wonder what it tasted like? Dan's was sweet and salty, more salty than
sweet. Wonder what Charlie's tasted like. Probably tasted of that fuckin'
beer. Neil didn't like that beer, didn't actually like any beer, but you
couldn't say that and be in the gang. And at least the beer had got him
where he was now. Where was? Yeh, he was on his knees, between Charlie's
legs, edging down his boxers to set the shaft popping free. Fuckin' hell,
it was big and thick. The shaft a kind of dirty pink ivory with that tube
-he knew the word, the urethra (thanks, Dan) - running along the
underside. Just a little taste. Just to check things out. The boy lowered
his head, dirty blond hair falling round his face, lips sliding over the
head and first couple of inches of Charlie's sleepy erection.

"Nice, really nice, more sweet than salty," Neil murmured, well, would have
murmured if he hadn't been letting more and more of the warm, firm flesh
slide into his throat. "Wonder if I can get his stuff down to his
knees. See his balls. Suck him off properly. Let's see..."

Shit, those were footsteps on the stairs. Charlie's mum sometimes came home
early, when her bunions were playing her up. "Fuck'n hell." Unceremoniously
he slid from the boy's cock, gulped over whatever was mixed in with his
saliva, yanked up his jeans and boxers, kicked the cans under the couch,
dived to the sink, turned on the tap, and started washing the pile of dirty
plates.

The front door opened. Steps along the lobby. Charlie's mum, fat, sweaty,
carrying two stuffed plastic shopping bags, heaved her way into the
room. Looked around, caught her breath, looked around, caught some more
breath, and...

"What a dump! Oh, Neil, it's you." She managed a weak smile. "It's the
heat, the fuckin' heat. It's like an oven out there, a fuckin' furnace in
here. What a fuckin' dump. What you doing? The washin' up. You're a good
lad, Neil, I always said that. A good boy. Look at that... pissed again, I
bet. Just like his fuckin' father. A useless drunken..."

"I have to go, Mrs. Potter. Be late for my tea. See you later."

"Oh, you going, Neil. Stay if you like. There's a cold beer in the
fridge. Hate drinkin' alone, and that useless fucker..."

By the time she reached "that useless fucker", Neil was halfway down the
stairs, taking them two, three at a time.

"Jesus H. Christ! Charlie likes me, he really likes me." He burped, and the
taste of Charlie filled his throat.

***

"Can I stop now?"

"No, go on."

"But I'm tired."

"No, you're not. You're just lazy."

Neil sighed and bowed his head again. He stuck the end of the pencil
between his lips and frowned in concentration. He read:

"If rat = tar, what does bat = ?"

Well, that was easy enough. He quickly scribbled 'tab' and moved on.

Oh, no, not another bunch of fuckin' dominoes. Count the numbers. Turn the
dominoes around. Work out the spots missing on the last domino. It wasn't
that he found solving the problems difficult, it was just they were so
boring. Well, he'd show Dan a thing or two. He'd race through the lot and
get all of them right this time. He twisted his shoulders, then felt Dan's
big thumbs began to work the little muscles in his shoulder blades. He
sighed. They felt so good, especially through the linen shirt Dan had given
him after their shower. He'd never worn linen before, didn't really know
what it was, but it felt so cool against his skin. In the background he
could hear the washing machine gurgling away. His clothes must be nearly
done by now. Then Dan was going to hang them in the patio. They'd catch the
sea breezes there, Dan said. All his clothes - his T-shirt, his jeans, his
socks, his underpants. He felt colour creep round his neck. He'd been
relieved he'd put on undies fresh that morning. Imagine Dan finding little
skid marks in his underpants. Not that there often were, Neil was pretty
good at keeping himself clean, but it could have happened. Imagine the
shame, the disgrace, the ignominy. 'Ignominy'... he'd found that word in
one of Dan's magazines. He liked it, it had a real ring to it.

Funny thing was he was able to keep ploughing through all the questions on
the papers in front of him. It was like he had two brains, one that was
answering these silly questions, and one that was dealing with real
stuff. Maybe not two brains, maybe one brain split down the middle. He'd
read something like that: the human brain was sort of split down the middle
but joined by a stem, so maybe he was right.

"Shit, they're done. All fuckin' done. Can we play backgammon now?" Dan had
taught the boy backgammon; Neil hadn't won a game yet, but he knew he was
getting closer.

"Nope, not yet," came the voice from behind him. "We have to check these
answers first." Neil flung his head down onto his folded arms, his blond
hair scattering either side of his face. "And stop using the f-word so
much. It doesn't suit you."

"Fuckin' hell," Neil thought. "Dan's just like a teacher sometimes. No,
he's worse than a teacher. He expects everything."

The man slipped the papers out from beneath the boy's head. He took himself
to the couch on the left, sat down, and began to mark Neil's answers,
mostly in silence but with little grunts and 'mmmmmms' now and again. The
boy couldn't resist a sideways peep now and again. He hoped he'd done well,
but if he hadn't, he'd say "What the f...?" He stopped himself then
realised he was only thinking the f-word.

The silence grew heavier. The grunts and 'mmmmmmms' died away. Even the
washing machine joined in with a metallic clunk. The suspense was too
much. Neil sat up, looked at Dan. "Well?" shrilled his treble voice.

"Just adding up," said Dan. "96 - 97 - 98. Yep, that's right, 98 out of a
hundred."

"Is that good?" queried Neil.

"Good? It's brilliant. You're a little genius, a fucking little genius. Now
come here."

Neil leapt from the chair, slid across the highly-polished wood floor, and
threw himself onto of Dan, the papers scattering every where. Their bodies
twisted until the man lay full length on the couch with the boy stretched
out along him. "I told you so - I told you so - I told you so!" Every pause
was punctuated by the boy's lips smacking against the man's. Not even the
Cheshire cat could match their grins. Neil felt himself getting a
hard-on. He ground it into the man's belly. The man kneaded his small
muscly buttocks.

"Can we have sex now, Dan? Please, Dan, let's have sex?"

Dan laughed and swung his arms round the boy. "God, you're insatiable," he
breathed between kisses. "No, we can't. You've already have a shower,
you're smelling as fresh as a daisy, and your clothes will be dry in half
an hour. Now get your sweet little ass off me. Get your stuff out of the
washing machine, and hang it up on the patio. I'll sort out some ice-cream,
and raspberries, and set out the backgammon. Who knows, this might be your
lucky day."

Neil sighed and swung himself off Dan. He stood there looking down. "See,
see! You've got a hard-on, too," he yelped.

"But I know how to control myself," laughed Dan. "That's why I always win
at backgammon."

For a moment Neil saw red. "Well you won't win today, you fuckin' -sorreee!
-" Then the boy burst into laughter, flounced away, stopped, raised the
tail of the borrowed shirt, bent, and waggled his bare bum at Dan. A
magazine, the one with the word 'ignominy' in it, connected full force with
the boy's arse. "Ouch!"

One of the best things about backgammon is that you can chatter while
you're playing. Not like chess, where everything was as silent as a
tomb. Neil liked chattering away, making all sorts of threats, about
throwing three doubles in a row, locking Dan in his tomb, and actually
winning best of five. But this time he couldn't get a word in. Dan was in
one of his serious moods, going on about the importance of the 11-plus,
winning a place at grammar school, increasing his options, changing his
life, blah, blah, fuckin' blah. The man didn't seem to understand. Neil was
not going to grammar school whatever happened. He just imagined explaining
to Charlie and Robby, "Yeh, well, I still wanna be in the gang, but not
week nights 'cos I got so much homework to do." His head'd be ripped off
and his neck shat in before he got to the end of the sentence. Only
poofters went to a grammar school, and that was a fact. He had a little
laugh to himself. He WAS a poofter, so maybe he SHOULD be going to grammar
school. And his mum. "Where the hell would she ever find the money to send
him to grammar school. Single mums on benefits did not send their kids to
grammar school, and that was a F.A.C.T.

"You're throw, Neil."

"Pardon?"

Shit, there he went again - "Pardon?" He'd picked that up from Dan, and on
him it sounded real poofy.

"It's your turn. You're a million miles way. Take a look. You're back in
your T-O-M-B. Neil assessed the position. Shit, how did so many of his men
get trapped? Aw, fuck it, never say die, he wasn't dead yet. He frowned,
narrowing his eyes and wrinkling his little nose. He'd get out of it, just
you wait and see, he'd get out of it.

The man observed the boy, wondering if he'd any idea how beautiful he
looked. Beauty, yes, and brains, too. And kind, and considerate,
good-hearted and generous. Dan sighed. He'd not only fallen in love with
Neil, but he loved him, too, and that made everything so simple, yet so
complicated. He looked down at the boy's head. His hair glistened like
gold, lighter now than in the shower when, plastered to his face, it
highlighted those amazing cheek bones. Dan saw again the kneeling boy's
nose pressed against his hard column of flesh. Saw again the small tongue
flicker out to lick the swollen cockhead. Heard again the boy's silly song:
"My boy lollipop, you make my heart go giddiup," that died away as the
small mouth stretched to close over the swollen head. Saw the boy's cheeks
bulge as his head sank lower to let three or four inches slide into his
throat. Felt small fingers squeeze his scrotum, trace the perineum, and
tickle the hairs round his anus. How could such a small boy be so brave as
to tackle these adult male mysteries?

And later, as he dried the small body with a huge freshly-warmed bath
towel, he listened to the questions, the endless questions:

"When will I start getting hair?" "How do we make cum?" "What really
happened to the dinosaurs?" "What's cum made of?" "What's gravity?" "Why do
you like me so much?" "Does fucking hurt?" "Can we go to the bedroom now?"

"No, we can't. You promised to do some work this afternoon?"

"Aw, fuck, do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Can you sex me up afterwards?"

"No."

"Well, can we play backgammon again?"

"Yes."

"Yes! Yes! Gotcha!"

Dan looked down. Neil was already into the endgame, rolling the dice
-"Another double!" - and flipping off his men until...

"I done it! I done it!"

"Yep, you've done it," corrected Dan.

"Yeh, that's what I said. I've done it. I've won a game."

The boy grew still, reached across the coffee table, and solemnly shook the
man's hand.

"Hey, Dan, I deserve a reward. Can we watch a DVD? That new science fiction
film. Can we, please, please?"

"Mmmmm... what about your mother?"

"Oh, she won't be in till late tonight. Not till 12 at least. She left a
note on the table. I'm to get chips, and watch TV. Honest."

"Cross your heart."

"Look. look, I'm crossing. I'm double-crossing."

"Okay then, sweetheart. Go check your things are dry. We'll go for a drive,
pick up that DVD, and a couple of pizzas. But you're home by 12, not a
minute later. I don't want you turning into a pumpkin."

Neil leapt to his feet, skipped towards the patio, turned, grinned, and
called back, "Hey, Dan, you were right. It IS my lucky day!"


***

Neil gave Dan a peck on the lips and bounced out of the car. He stood
watching till the car was out of sight. Under the lamplight he saw it was
half past eleven but it was still very warm. "Half an hour till mum gets
home," he thought as he whistled his way up the stairs. He fished in his
jeans for his key. Thank God his mum didn't make him wear it on a string
round is neck anymore, that was kids' stuff. As he turned the key, the door
swung open. He was immediately wary.

"Mum, mum, I'm home."

Nothing.

He stepped into the tiny hall. The stench of booze hit him hard. "Mum, it's
me, Neil."

A light in the living room flickered on, kept flickering, the naked bulb
was dying. The boy squinted to see.

"Well, hello, if it isn't baby Neil. Come on in, son. Keep me
company. You're fuckin' mum's no use. Passed out already."

Shit, it was Dave, mum's latest boyfriend. Fat, big beer gut, hairy, even
his back was hairy. Unshaven, a fag dangling from his fat red lips, can of
beer in his hand. "Come on in, baby. Over here, on the couch, near
me. Let's get to know each other."

"Where's my mum?"

"In there." Dave jerked his thumb in the direction of the bedroom
door. "Having a lie down."

"I'd better go in and see she's okay."

"Wouldn't go in there, son. She's having a lie down. Couldn't hold her G&Ts
tonight. Couldn't hold anything as a matter of fact. Not even this." The
man grasped his crotch and squeezed. "Fuck'er. She's left me horny as
fuck. That's women for you, boy. Get you worked up and leave you horny as
fuck. Now you wouldn't do that, would you, baby? Get a man all worked up,
then leave him horny as fuck."

Neil took a step back. His gut told him to turn and run, but he
couldn't. His mum was in the bedroom, she needed him.

"Know what I'm talking about, don't you, boy. Shit, you're a cute little
fucker. Take after your mum, you do. Cuter in fact. You don't have them
saggy boobs and a hole you could slide..." He waggled the can at
Neil. "...this in, front or back." The fat bastard was laughing now, but it
was a mean, nasty laugh. "C'mere, son, don't be scared. I'll take it easy,
at first. C'mere. I'll be your daddy."

Neil made a break for it, tried to dodge round the couch, get to the
bedroom, but the bastard, in spite of his size, was fast, fuckin' fast. His
hand shot out and grabbed the boy by the wrist, hauled him onto the couch,
and buried him beneath his fat hairy body. Neil wretched at the
stench. Felt himself flipped over onto his front, his jeans and boxers
ripped down to his knees. The boy's face was pressed into the cushions, his
jeans and boxers ripped to his knees, an arm jerked his little buttocks
into a flab of hair and flesh. He felt the man's breath on his neck, heard
the whispered words in his ear, "Gonna make you a man, Neil, or a whore,
yeh a fuckin' whore, just like your mammy. Com'on. boy. I'll be your
daddy." The boy's buttocks were wrenched open. Something hot, hard, and
blunted pushed at his most secret place. Tears ran down his face. "Yeh, a
fuckin' whore just like... Oooof!"

The boy felt the rush of air on his neck. Air followed by stinking
vomit. Voices - but everything was garbled - "Bastard. Fat bastard. Fuckin'
pervert. Mutha fucka'..." He felt the weight dragged from him. Turned and
saw...

Charlie and Robbie!

Kicking the shit of Dave. Almost literally. The man was curled up on the
rug. Both boys kicking him hard. Robby going for the head, Charlie going
for his balls. "Get your fuckin ass out of..." Dave was crawling along the
carpet, kicked all the way, kicked out of the door, kicked onto the stairs,
then heaved down the concrete steps. The door slammed shut.

"Christ, Neil, you stink worse than that bastard."

That was Robby.

"My mum, my mum," sobbed Neil, indicating the bedroom.

"Check on Neil's mum," snapped Charlie. "Let's get you in the shower." He
helped the smaller boy to his feet. Supported him to the shower. Stripped
him, steering clear of the yellow, stringy vomit on the boy's neck and
back. Turned on the shower. Stepped back. Pushed Neil, gently, under he
spitting water. "And don't come out till I get you out."

"Fuckin' hell, Charlie," whispered Robby stepping out of the flat's single
bedroom. "That fat bastard's really done a number on Neil's mum. I'm not
going in there again."

Charlie edged past him, stepped into the bedroom, closed the door behind
him. Two minutes, maybe three. He came out holding his mobile phone,
tapping in the numbers, tapping his toes on the patched linoleum. "Yeh,
that's right. You got the street. No. 42. She's bad hurt. Still bleeding, I
think. Yeh, from there. Yeh, I'm sure. I fuckin' looked. Just get an
ambulance." He turned to Robby. "Best you get out of here, Rob. I'll take
care of the rest. Neil? Leave him to me. I'll take care of him. Catch you
tomorrow. At the cafe. Around 12. Now fuck off. The police'll be here any
minute. No, don't argue. Just go."

***

Neil kept his eyes tight shut. He didn't want to open them, was scared to
open them. He didn't know where he was, but he knew where he wasn't. Wasn't
in his own bed, wasn't in mum's bed. But he wasn't alone, there was someone
with him. It wasn't mum, it wasn't Dave. The smells told him that. Not that
the smells were stinky or anything like that. They were nice smells, warm
and musky, but they weren't smells he knew. He tried backtracking, working
out where he was and how he'd got there. He tried hard to remember but
something in him didn't want to remember. A shiver ran up his spine. He'd
had shivers before but this was different. The shivers ran half way up,
paused, warmed up, and then ran on. What the hell could be causing that?
Then he felt the warmth located in the small of his back, just above his
bum. What the...? It was a palm and fingers, wrapped warmly round his
waist, but not all the way round. So it wasn't Dan. Dan could his fingers
round Neil's waist until they all but touched. It wasn't his mum. Her
fingers were skinny, the long painted nails would scratch his tummy
gently. It gave him a hard on. She didn't know that, of course, and he'd
have died if she had, but she didn't know and that made it okay.

Breathing on his face. Yes, that's what it was. Not just breath, but
breathing. Someone was breathing on his face, steadily, rhythmically. He
risked a peep, a one-eyed peep.

Fuckin' hell. It was Charlie. He recognised the long, dark lashes
immediately. One eye took in the boy's face. It was Charlie all right. He
was in bed with Charlie, so close he could feel boy's breath on his face,
so close he could feel the boy stretched out against him. How the fuck'd he
get here, like this? He tried to pull back a bit, take in more, but Charlie
grunted and pulled him tighter. Christ, they were naked. Skin to skin. No,
not totally naked. They had boxers on. But he could feel Charlie's hard-on
press against his own crotch. Not a full stiffy but enough to know... to
know what? He wasn't sure. He felt the column of flesh press against him,
felt he warmth that was almost heat, and felt himself stirring. Fuck no!
Don't get a hard-on, not hear, not now. What if Charlie woke up, felt
Neil's stiffy pressing against his own, what would he think? "He'd think
I'm a little perv, and he'd kill me. That's what he'd do." He closed his
eyes and tried to remember, if only he could remember. Something was wrong,
really wrong. It wasn't this; being in bed with Charlie, even with hot
hard-ons pressing together, that was wrong. Wrong in a right sort of
way. No, something was wrong in a wrong sort of way, but what the fuck was
it?

"What?"

Charlie was mumbling, mumbling in his sleep, but Neil couldn't make out
what he was saying. He did that himself. His mum told him that. He'd
worried about it until she'd explained lots of people do that. But they
never make sense, it's just a load of mixed mumbles. Like being at the
dentist when he gave you gas. Or like with an anesthetic in
hospital. People worried they might give something away in their sleep, a
secret, or something they were ashamed of, but they needn't worry 'cause
nothing they said made sense. It was just mumbling. Anyway, he'd lie here
and listen to Charlie, take a peek now and then, and wait till it all came
back to him.

What was that? "Robby." Yeh, he'd said "Robby" twice, and "Go on,
faster..." And his dick was getting harder. No doubt about that. Neil felt
Charlie's cock, stiff and hard, and fully erect. That was a Dan word
-'erect'... and 'erection'. Charlie had a full-blown erection, and he was
pressing it against his own, not only pressing but grinding his hips so
that his hard-on fenced with the smaller boy's. There was only a threadbare
duvet covering them, and, though it was not quite light, they didn't really
need it, would be more comfortable with out. Neil reached across Charlie's
back, gripped a corner of the duvet - a fuckin' Spider Man duvet! - peeled
it back and flung it off the bed.

Charlie's hand had shifted from Neil's waist. It had shifted up onto the
boy's naked shoulder. With a grunt he rolled on his back. Neil felt the
slightest of downward pressures. Neil looked down. Christ! Charlie's baggy
boxers tented, his erection so stiff it was pushing up the elasticated top
of his boxers. Another slight pressure on the younger boy's shoulders.

Neil slid down the bed. On his face he felt the heat from the boy's
hard-on. Reached out with slim fingers and felt its hardness, its
roundness, inched down its length. Jesus H. Joseph... Charlie was big. Not
as big as Dan, but fuckin' big, and hard, and... blazin'. Neil crooked his
thumb and slid it beneath the top of the boxers, raised the top, then slid
it down the length of Charlie's erection. It wasn't easy, but Charlie's bum
seemed to lift from the bed until Neil could slide the boxers down his hips
and thighs enough to set his hard-on free. Neil slid his fingers and thumb
round the column until their tips met. He couldn't do that with Dan and he
could barely manage it with Charlie. But, of course, Charlie was only
14. He felt his own hard-on throb and ache.

That downward pressure again.

He slid his mouth over Charlie's knob. It wasn't a button mushroom, more a
slippery torpedo, and the skin move down more easily than Dan's, or his
own. God, it was so comforting. Like a baby with its bottle. He couldn't
think of any other way to describe it, or the feeling of hard-softness
filling his mouth, tickling the back of his throat, stretching his lips. He
couldn't understand it. When he wasn't 'hot', dicks didn't look that
inviting. Hell, that's where piss came from, and boys, at least the boys he
knew, kept them none too clean. Even Dan's cock looked a bit silly when he,
Neil, wasn't in the mood.

That's what his mum said, too, when she'd had a drink or two. Not pissed,
not blotto, just... well, happy and sparkly. "God, men," she'd said, "you
can lead them round by the nose, as long as this is where their nose is."
And she'd reached out and tweaked his penis. "You, too, Neil, you'll be the
same, just like the rest of them." Though he'd blushed and wriggled away,
he hadn't felt there was anything dirty about it; it was just his mum
explaining a fact of life, a fact as women saw it. Then she'd grabbed him,
tickled him, cuddled him, and held him tight. Shit, he loved her so
much. So what if she drank too much? What if she got pissed and chose the
wrong men, again and again. She was his mum and he loved her to
bits. That's where she'd be now, blotto and in bed, with some fuckin'
loser. Hopefully not that Dave bloke - fat, hairy, creep bastard.

"Mmmmmm..."

Neil wasn't sure if that was him or Charlie. He felt the boy's penis in his
mouth, thicker, harder, more demanding. He remembered the direction, "Go
on, faster..." Well, he wasn't Robby but... Felt the boy's cock thicken and
swell. Knew that he'd cum soon, squirtin', spurtin', shootin' his
load. This when Dan eased his head back, spurted up his own chest and
belly, rolled from the bed and hurried to the bathroom. What the fuck for?
Dan'd explained cum, semen, was just protein in a fluid, harmless, so why
all the fuss? And it left Neil feeling incomplete, that their business was
unfinished, that he'd lost a part of Dan he needed. He sucked Charlie
faster and harder, worked on the base of his shaft, squeezed and tugged at
the boy's sac. "I want it all, and I want it now..." That was from a Queen
song, one of his mum's favourites.

Charlie was cumin!

The urethra seemed to swell below little fingers, then - spurt, spurt,
spurt, spurt... Wow, Charlie could cum. And his cum was hitting the back of
Neil's throat. And another squirt! He closed his lips tightly round the
head of Charlie's cock. Didn't want cum everywhere. Tried to breathe
through his nose. His cheeks swelled, he managed to gulp some down. Only a
little escaped from the sides of his mouth. And Charlie's crotch, his hips,
his arse... shook like they were in spasm, his bum rising from the bed,
held rigidly above the bed, until with a long sigh, his breath exhaling
like a punctured balloon, he relaxed back into the mattress.

Neil, too, relaxed. Let Charlie's softening cock slide from his
lips. Pulled the boy's boxers neatly back into place. Climbed his body
until he could rest his head in the crook of Charlie's neck.

"Oh, it's you."

That was Charlie's voice.

Neil looked up, to find hazel eyes gazing sleepily into his own.

"Yeh, it's only me," Neil whispered.

Charlie smiled. Turned towards Neil. Pulled him into his chest. Wrapped an
arm round him.

"Go back to sleep," Charlie whispered.

Neil closed his eyes. Felt Charlie's kisses on his eyelids.

"We'll sort it all out in the morning," he whispered. "It'll be all right
when the morning comes."

"Yeh, when the morning comes," breathed Neil, slipping back into the depths
of dreamless sleep.

***

"You sure she's going to be all right?"

"Yes," said Dan, setting the tray of drinks on the patio table. "Mind you,
it'll take a couple of weeks, maybe three, before she's out of
hospital. But I spoke to the doctor and he says she'll be fine. She needs a
lot of rest, and peace and quiet. That's why you're staying with me."

"Or with me," broke in the other boy, adding, "I couldn't have a beer, too,
could I?"

"No, you could not. Come on, drink up that Coke before the ice melts." Dan
turned to Neil. "I know it looked bad. Your mother got hurt, but it's
nothing time and rest won't mend. And she won't be able to rest if she
knows you're sitting here fretting." He turned to Charlie. "And you stop
crunching the ice with your teeth. It's not good for you."

"Oooo... Oooo," piped Charlie. "Listen to nursey, nursey knows best." Even
Neil had to laugh. "How come you know Neil anyways?" There was a
pause. Charlie glanced at the younger boy. "Shit, I get it. You're the
guy's been giving Neil all that stuff. You're Neil's Sugar Daddy." Neil
winced at the word 'daddy'. "Wish I had a fuckin' Sugar Daddy."

"Shhh, Charlie," admonished Neil. "Dan doesn't like fuckin'."

"Bet the hell, he doesn't," laughed Charlie. "Everybody likes fucking,"
then added "couple of poofters," though there was no malice in his voice.

"You should speak," blurted Neil. "What about this morning?"

"This morning. What about this morning?" asked Charlie, then recollecting,
"Oh that? That was just sex."

"So it's okay if it's just sex?" interrupted Dan.

"You bet your sweet ass it is," the older boy retorted. "Better still,
let's bet Neil's sweet ass." He went on. "Know what the problem is? You
grown-ups take it all too seriously. You think sex is - what's the word?
-sacred, yeh, sacred. Or even worse, you think it's dirty. That's the
message they give us. Sex is sacred, your body's a holy temple, but what
they're really saying is sex is dirty, and you shouldn't do it, and you
shouldn't think about it, and you shouldn't play with your privates. Well,
who the fuck do the privates belong to? If my privates belong to me, they
are private, p-r-i-v-a-t-e, so I'll do what I want with them. And..."
Charlie was in full flow now. "if I wanna share my privates with somebody
who wants to share them with me, that's my fuckin' private
business. Pardon, my French." He sipped at his Coke. "Sure I can't have a
beer? Guess not."

"And what do they tell you about homos?" asked Dan.

"Well, homos are cool. Homos have equal rights. Always be nice to a
homo. That's what they say." He put his glass down. "Fuckin' liars. That's
what they are. Two-faced hypocrites. That's what our teachers say, but they
don't really mean it. The lady teachers aren't that bad. They don't seem
much interested in what guys do together. But the men teachers! They won't
even let you ask questions. I mean, the other day Willie..." He turned to
Neil. "You know Willie, don't you? Tall speccy geek in my class." He turned
back to Dan. "...well, Willie put his hand up and said, 'Sir? So it would
be okay if I had wet dreams about Jam...?'" He didn't even get to finish
the fuckin' sentence. The teacher looked right through him and said,
'Right, if there's no more questions let's watch the DVD on AIDS.'
Everybody groaned. We've seen that DVD about twenty times. I know where to
put my dick and not to put my dick. I don't need a fuckin' DVD on it."

"And where do you put your dick?" asked Dan.

Neil saw the glance between boy and man. He didn't understand it. He knew
it meant something but he didn't know what.

"'Scuse, I need a piss," said Charlie, standing up and looking round.

"Up the staircase. Second on the left," said Dan.

When Charlie was halfway up the spiral staircase, Neil turned to Dan.

"There's something I don't understand," he began.

"Go an. Ask."

"Well, you spent some time with mum. Then you spoke to the doctor, the
consultant man. Then you spoke to mum again. And you showed her a
card. Then mum said I could stay with you." The boy's voice trembled. "She
didn't exactly say that, her jaw's a bit wired." He fought back the
tears. "But when you asked her again, in front of me, she nodded. I think
she was smiling, it was hard to tell, but..." A tear ran down his
cheek. "...but I always know when my mum's happy. But what I don't
understand... she doesn't know you. You could a' been anybody. So...?" The
words dried up, he shrugged his shoulders.

"Because I showed her this."

Dan reached inside his jacket pocket, pulled out a card. It looked flashy,
laminated, official. He handed it to Neil. The boy read it. His eyes
widened. He read it again. He whistled. He looked up at Dan. "Wow, have you
got a gun?" Dan laughed, retrieved the card, and slid it into his pants
pocket, "No gun, Neil, I'm just happy to see you." Neil frowned. That last
bit didn't make sense but never mind. He gave a huge sigh of relief, stood
up, stepped over, put both arms round the man's neck, and kissed him on the
lips.

"Homos! Fuckin' homos!" It was Charlie, sliding down the narrow banister,
calling and laughing: "Gotcha!"

Neil turned. He was laughing, too. "Like I got you this morning. Only you
was muttering 'Robbie, Robbie', and moanin'."

"You little fucker!" cried Charlie leaping on both Neil and Dan. "Fight!
Fight!" They were on the Turkish kilims, all three, rolling about,
laughing, tickling, fighting to get on top. Then both boys struggling to
hold Dan down. Then Neil and Charlie on top. Then Charlie's lips on Dan's
lips, a frozen moment, then lips opening, tongues seeking,
searching... Neil rolled away. He explored his feelings. He should be
jealous, he knew that, he should be mad with jealousy, but he wasn't. He
was happy, for them, and happy for himself that he had them, and happy that
his mum was going to get better, and happy that fat bastard... no, he
didn't want to go there. That cunt had... He stopped himself
horrified. He'd thought the word of words, the ugliest word there was, his
mum had taught him that, and he took it back, there and then, he took that
word right back.

"Show me your bedroom."

Where did that whisper come from?

It was from Charlie.

"Only if Neil..."

That was from Dan.

"I'm staying here," said Neil. "You said we could watch 'Toy Story' and I
want to watch it now."

"If you're sure...?" queried Dan.

"'Course I'm sure," said Neil. "Anyways I already had Charlie this
morning," he added laughing. "Now fuck off. I wanna watch the DVD. I ain't
no homo." He gave them the finger, scrambled onto the couch and grabbed the
remote. Didn't even watch as his friend... and his friend climbed the
spiral staircase.

The movie didn't do it. Neil tried to get into it, knew it was funny, tried
to laugh, but it didn't work. He tried to give it all his attention but he
couldn't keep his mind from what was happening upstairs, or what he
imagined was happening upstairs. And, Christ, he had a stiffy like a Coke
bottle. What was wrong with him? Was he a sex maniac or what? He remembered
Charlie's cum squirting onto the back of his throat, the taste came back to
his lips, but that only made things worse. He lasted twenty minutes, maybe
twenty five, be he couldn't last any longer. He got up, kicked off his
trainers, and padded up the spiral staircase in his white socks. What if
Dan had locked the door? He wouldn't do that, would he?

The door was ajar. Neil stepped inside. He thought it would be dark. It
wasn't. The light cotton curtains billowed a little in the breeze. The
double bed faced the door. Neil stood on the thick beige carpet. It took
him a few moments to work out the scene. He gulped, held his breath. Dan
lay stretched full length in the centre of the double bed, his tanned skin
bright against the sea-blue duvet. Legs long, strong and a bit hairy. He
was naked. That was no surprise but Neil had to blow out breath and suck
more in. He couldn't see the top part of Dan's body because Charlie was
riding him. "Like a jockey," thought Neil.

Charlie sat astraddle Dan's thighs, and he was riding them.

Only when Charlie rose high for the fourth time did Neil take in what was
happening. The boy was impaled - not a word Neil really knew but that's
what it was - impaled on a thick column of flesh that disappeared deep
inside him. Neil watched as the boy rose and fell, rising to the head of
the man's cock, then falling to crush his thick pubic hair. Neil couldn't
see Charlie's face; the boy was hunched over the man's chest, his hands
apparently on each side of Dan's head as he did push-ups. The younger boy
giggled a little: "Yeh, looks like Charlie's doing push-ups." He couldn't
just stand there. That was like invading their privacy. He dragged his
T-shirt over his head, not easy as it clung sweatily to him. Undid his
snake belt, let his denims slip to his ankles, stepped out of
them. Hesitated, then pushed down his boxers and kicked them away. Bent
over to pull off his socks, all the time watching what was happening on
Dan's double bed.

Neil looked at his body. Shit, why did he have to look so young? There were
some hairs, little pubic hairs, starting to come in, but they were so blond
against his skin they might as well not've been there. At least he didn't
have knobbly knees. Not like Robbie. And his bum was high and round, like a
split peach, said Dan. And his cock? Well, that wasn't so bad. It was
nothing like Charlie's, and definitely not like Dan's. but he thought it
was respectable for a twelve year old. He'd measured it in secret - a good
four inches... no that wasn't true, but it was nearly four inches. And,
God, it was throbbing now. He looked down, tempted to give it a squeeze,
but scared he'd squirt over Dan's carpet, and it was such an expensive
carpet. He stepped forward, not quite sure what he was going to do,
slightly scared he'd be told to hop it.

He needn't have worried. Dan opened his eyes. His smile said "C'mere."

The boy sat on the edge of the bed. Dan pulled him down. Kissed him,
open-mouthed, his tongue already invading, probing, searching. Then it was
Charlie. Charlie! Pulling Neil's face towards him, kissing him, also
open-mouthed. He felt Charlie's tongue had invaded his head. Felt Dan's
tongue licking the sweat from his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his
nipples. Tiny nipples, but suddenly as hard as dried raisins, Dan nibbling
at them, as his fingers gently eased Neil's foreskin back, back and
forwards, till the slippery stuff made it easy to slide back all the
way. And now both of them, Dan and Charlie, kissing him, hot sweet kisses,
over his eyes, his mouth, his lips, his cheeks, the smaller boy's blond
hair falling over their searching tongues. And the sounds! Not moaning and
groaning, but sighs and whispers, and tiny wet smacks, and still Charlie's
head rising and falling in time with his body, in time with...

Neil eased away, eased down the bed, curious, fascinated, wanting to see,
smell, touch, witness... everything, his face only inches from Charlie's
muscly buttocks that rose and fell until he was pinned on Dan's big,
hard... God, he was big! and thick! Neil had seen it before, but not like
this, when it looked so hard, so swollen, so... He reached forward and
tried to wrap his fingers and thumb round the base as Charlie rose, but he
couldn't make them touch. And Charlie's hole! He must be in pain. His hole
was stretched round Dan's column of flesh, the skin as tight as a drum, so
tight there were no wrinkles. Like Dan's silk scarf when he stretched
it. Charlie's buttocks were pale white but there was a pinky-brown ring
where Dan's cock penetrated. How many inches? Five, six, seven... and that
must be the head, where the skin sort of bunched up round the hole. No
wonder Dan wouldn't... go on, say it... fuck him, even when he hinted he
wouldn't mind if that's what Dan wanted to do. Neil had had big shits
before, specially after he'd been constipated, but he'd never eased out
anything like that before. He ran his fingertips in the cleft of Charlie's
buttocks, right down to the hole itself - the skin was hot, actually hot to
the touch. No wonder Charlie was sweating, the sweat breaking out all over
his hair and neck and back. Maybe he should fetch a towel and wipe his
friend's back. No, he'd use his hands. He climbed up on the bed, knelt
behind Charlie, ran his little palms over the boy's back, then let them run
round to the boy's front. More sweat there. And swollen nipples! He knew
Charlie had big nipples but he'd never guessed they could swell like
that. He heard the boy groan, grabbed his nipples and gave them little tugs
and squeezes. He knew they were - what's the word Dan had told him? -
ergoneous zones - something like that. He ran his hands down the boy's
stomach, then pulled them away as they touched something... that must be
Charlie's cock, and it was big and hard and swollen, too. He wondered
if... He got his fingers and thumb round the boy's erection began to jerk
it gently.

"Fuckin' harder, fuckin' harder..."

Wasn't sure if that was Charlie or Dan, voice not too deep, must be Dan,
began jerking the boy faster, harder, clung on to his back as he rode the
big hard cock to a finish. "Cumin', yeh, fuckin' cumin'..." That was
Charlie. "Yes, yes, now..." That as Dan.

Neil hung on, literally hung on, as the bodies bucked and writhed. He felt
Charlie's cum squirt from the shaft, spurt after spurt, the last spurts
landing on his jerking hand. And felt - or imagined he felt - Dan's cock
rub against his balls as it withdrew from Charlie's arse, plunged to the
hilt, withdraw and plunged again. Felt the general collapse beneath and
against him. Heard mumbled, muttered curses that spoke only of
pleasure. Pressed his face against Charlie's sweaty back and drank the boy
in. Felt oh so protective towards the boy who had protected and rescued
him. Closed his eyes...

and was told to keep his eyes closed. Felt himself lifted and laid on the
silky sea-blue duvet. "Sssshhh... keep your eyes closed, baby."

Neil felt tongues run all over his body. One started at his toes, worked it
way up the inside of his left leg, licked across the space between, licked
down his left leg, sucked on his little toes. That was Dan. No, that was
Charlie. Felt another tongue licked under his neck, across the top of his
chest, into each hairless armpit. That was Charlie. No, that was
Dan. Really had no idea whose tongue was which. It didn't matter. Just let
them go on and on. Felt a tongue lick the underside of his balls while the
other sucked at his belly button. Knew where the tongues were going. Hurry
up, for fuck's sake, hurry up. No... no, take your time. Take forever. But
his cock throbbed, ached, stretched tightly against its own length. A mouth
closed over his cock and balls, gently sucking at everything. The boy felt
his bum raised from the bed, two hands slipped beneath to keep him raised,
felt the hot, wet tongue wiggle into his... Not there, not there, that's
dirty. But it wasn't. It was new, so new, but it wasn't dirty. And when he
felt the tip of the tongue tickle his little hole, he pressed forward to
get more of the feeling. Lips were sucking the length of his hard-on,
fingers gently squeezing at his sac. His head began to roll from side to
side. Too much sensation, too many feelings, too much, too much...more,
more.

The tongue penetrated him now, just the tip, but it was inside. The lips
speeded the length of his throbbing erection. He wanted to hold onto those
feelings forever, but he couldn't, couldn't hold on, and with a squeal he
just let it go!

He felt himself emptying. That's what it was like. Being emptied from the
inside. Turned inside out. Cumming had never been like this. His legs
thrashed on the bed as a hand pressed down on his stomach, a tongue - was
it a finger? - fucked him, touched something deep inside. He was flying
apart, he was fragments, a million splinters... and he was hanging onto
Dan, pressing himself deep against Dan's chest. And he felt Charlie's body,
Charlie chest, and belly, and crotch pressed tightly against his back. He
was being spooned, spooned like a baby, back into that dark and dreamless
place, where everything was all right and everything was good.

The breeze billowed the light cotton curtains over the bed, over the man
and boys who slept naked and entwined on the bed.

The sea-blue duvet lay on the floor.

It wasn't needed.

Not needed at all.

***

The sun-roof was open, and the sea breeze cooled the man and boy who sat
inside.

"Global warming can't be all bad if we keep on getting summers like this,"
laughed the boy. "I'm taking this blazer off," he said. Blazer off and
neatly folded on a rear set, he fingered the man's light-coloured
jacket. "Mmmm... linen," he murmured. "You always have had a thing about
linen. Suits you."

"Like that blazer suits you," the man replied. "You look good in
burgundy. I can always spot you in that blazer; at least in this part of
town. And I ask myself 'What's a grammar school boy doing in this part of
town?' But then I know the answer."

"Hey, don't knock this part of town, even if it is the 'wrong side of the
tracks'." Neil's wry expression showed his affection for the 'wrong side of
the tracks'. "It used to be home for me, and for mum. So don't knock it."
The affection remained in his voice, deeper now, but still the voice of a
boy, a young man.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not knocking it," soothed Dan unnecessarily. "If
it wasn't here, I wouldn't have found you. It was round about here, wasn't
it?"

"Not quite," laughed the boy. "It was down by the Western Docks. This was
where you brought me, West Beach, after you... after you picked me up."

"Hey, you wanted to be picked up."

"Did not."

"Did, too."

"Yeh, but not for what you wanted. I needed beer, lager, for Charlie, for
Robbie, for the guys. God, Dan, I was nearly shitting myself."

"So was I?"

"Were you?"

"You bet," came the reply. "I'd never done anything like that before. Been
tempted but never done it. And you, you were so... young. It was like I was
watching myself going through with it, like an out-of-body experience."

"More like an out-of-your-mind experience," laughed Neil.

"I took my shirt off," said Dan.

"So did I. It was boiling hot. Then you said 'Let's drive up to the
Slopes.' And I thought, "Oh, no, here we go."

"And off we went."

Man and boy laughed together.

Neil grew serious. "But why me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't mean the sex stuff. I can understand that. It's not me, but I
can understand it. No, I mean, why did you stand by me, stand by my mum,
you know, when all the trouble happened? Hairy Dave and all that. Why
didn't you just walk away? God, you took terrible risks. I mean, you're a
cop, a detective, CID, for God's sake."

"Youth Division," interjected Dan.

"Youth Division, Smooch Division," muttered Neil. "I know you used your
influence. How the fuck would me and mum've got rehoused in the West End?
And you got her that job in the shoe shop. She's the manageress now. Even
the Social Worker said 'You must have friends in high places. And grammar
school. How did you talk mum into entering me for grammar school."

"She didn't need much talking into," smiled Dan. "She's a smart lady, and
she loves you to bits."

"Then you disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Well, not disappeared. But the sex stuff stopped. Even when I showed you I
wanted it... Shit, I hated you for that. Then I didn't. The pressure was
gone. You were a friend of the family. Some family, I know, just me and
mum. But you know what I mean. And I know you had other boys. Charlie told
me. But he was nice about it. Are you and Charlie still...?"

"No." Dan smiled again. "Charlie and Robby. Don't you know? They're
practically engaged." He laughed and added, "They both want to be police
cadets. And, know something, they'll make it, too. Charlie told me he can't
go round fucking a superior officer, not even if it's me, especially if
it's me."

"And what about you? Don't say if you don't want to. Anyone special in your
life."

Neil beamed.

"His name's Jamie. He's in my tutor group, and some of my classes. He's
smart, maybe smarter than me..." Neil grinned. "...but he can't play chess
for shit. Never had the right teacher."

"Hey. c'mere." The man reached for the boy, took him in his arms. For long
moments they held each other, then parted.

Neil sighed. "I guess we couldn't keep that summer forever."

"Nope, only memories last forever," said Dan, then added, "but we've got
memories, and that summer, forever."

"Let's go home," said Neil. "I wanna get changed into civies. But can we
come back here later, around half past nine?"

"Sure. What for?"

"I wanna watch the sun go down, with you. I bet we see the green ray, 'le
rayon vert', together."

"The green ray? What's that?" asked Dan.

"I'll tell you on the way home," replied Neil.

"And one more thing."

"Yep?"

"Can I have a can of lager at last?"

"Nope... but you can share mine."



YOU'LL NEVER KNOW

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I whispered.

"Yeh, there is," he said.

"Nothing," I repeated.

"Yeh, there is. You don't really like me."

"Well, maybe this'll sound a bit weird," I began.

I was with Jack. He was on my bed, naked. Come to think of it, I was naked,
too. It was also the first time we'd been on my bed naked. In fact, it was
probably the first time Jack had been on any bed naked - at least with
another naked boy beside him.

"Go on. tell me. Am I doing something wrong? Tell me how to do it right."

Jack was eight years old. I was twelve years old. So I guess it was up to
me to show him how to do things right. He was only eight but he was a quick
learner. "What is it?" he insisted. "Tell me. Do you really like me?"

What was not to like? Jack was cute. No, that's not the right word. Jack
was handsome. No, that's not it either. Jack was beautiful. Can't think of
any other word. Long blond hair. Mine is long but 'dirty blond', I think
you call it. Jack had big brown eyes. Mine are grey on cloudy days, blue on
sunny days. Jack's nose is short and straight. Mine is short and a little
bit upturned. Jack has a strong little body. Mine is long and skinny.

"Well?" he insisted, his fingers playing with my balls.

"I like you. I really like you. It's just that..." - how could I put it and
not sound weird - "do you think you could maybe stick your finger up my
bum? I know it sounds a bit weird, and I wouldn't ask if it wasn't..."

"Which finger?" Jack asked, as if he were asking me what flavour of fruit
gum I wanted.

"Mmmm, it doesn't matter. You choose," I said, glancing at his
fingers. "Well, maybe the middle one."

Jack wriggled down the bed. "Open up." I felt the tip of his finger pushing
at my hole. I felt him push harder, and harder. I watched him as he brought
his finger to his mouth, slip it between his little pink lips, and give it
a serious sucking. For a moment I wondered if sucking Jack's middle finger
would feel as sweet as sucking his cock. No, it couldn't be as sweet as
that.

He went back to his work. A push here, a twist there, and he was in, up to
the knuckle, and then all the way in. He started wiggling his finger
around, the tip reaching to explore the greasy walls of my anus.

"Does that feel nice?" he asked.

"Great," I grunted. "Do you think you could try two fingers?"

"Yep," Jack said. "Then it's my turn. Deal or no deal?" he giggled.

As I said, Jack may be only eight years old but he is a fast learner.

"Deal," I grunted.

I was happy. Feeling guilty but happy. O, not guilty because of what we
were doing on the bed. Guilty because of Uncle Nigel. I was on the bed
enjoying myself when I should have been thinking of Uncle Nigel. Though in
a way I was. Since it was Uncle Nigel who'd told me I was a fast learner,
too. He wouldn't be telling me that again.

Uncle Nigel fell off the roof. Mum said he'd been trying to climb through
the dormer window after losing his keys. He was probably drunk. Anybody
could have told him he'd never get through that dormer window in the
attic. I used to stand there, naked, peeking through the dormer window,
from the inside, I mean. Uncle Nigel used to stand behind me, naked, with
his finger up my jacksie. He'd teach me the names of the different birds
while he was wiggling his finger up there. To loosen me up. Then he'd take
his finger out, reach it round to my mouth, and I'd suck on it for a
bit. Some of you might not know the word 'jacksie'. It means arse,
backside, ass, batty, back crack. Like if I was holding a big cucumber, I
might say, "You wouldn't like this up your jacksie, would you?" Well, maybe
you would. I wouldn't. I don't really like vegetables. Jacksie is Cockney
Rhyming Slang. It's made up of Jack and Danny, and the Danny bit rhymes
with Fanny though of course jacksie is not the same as fanny. I googled
that. You can find out anything in the world by googling it. Anyway...

Uncle Nigel fell off the roof. He broke his leg. He also broke his neck,
which was more serious. Not that it was fatal. What killed him was not
being able to move or even cry out for help. That was last Wednesday
night. Remember? The lowest temperature for a January in the past 50
years. That's what my Dad told me. When the milkman found Uncle Nigel, he
was stiff, all over, and frosted. It's not as cold as that now and I guess
they've got a digger to dig the hole for Uncle Nigel. A hole. I think Uncle
Nigel would like that, going into a deep hole, I mean. But it's hard to
feel sad when I'm lying on the bed, naked, with Jack, naked, and he's got
two fingers up my jacksie. Wait a minute. It's not two now. It's
three. That reminds me a lot of Uncle Nigel, but I still can't feel sad. Is
there something wrong with me?

Uncle Nigel wasn't the first to see me naked - apart from my mum, I
mean. That was Alfie. Alfie and I have been friends since... since ever I
remember, I guess. We grew up about five minutes away from each other, and
we're still growing up at the same distance. Alfie has got long hair, too,
but his hair is just down to his collar. Jack's hair is half way down his
back, and mine is right down my back. Anyways, Alfie was the first person
not related to me to see my penis, erect, I mean. We were same age as Jack,
eight years old.

"My dick's bigger than yours," said Alfie.

"They look the same to me."

"No, they're not. Press them together," suggested Alfie.

He was right. His dick was bigger but not by much. And mine was definitely
fatter than his.

"My pee hole is bigger than yours," claimed Alfie, adding, "Let's check and
see."

We peeled back our foreskins and pressed the little mouths together. It
looked like they were kissing.

"Seem the same to me," I said.

"Guess so," said Alfie, "but I've seen a much bigger dick than ours."

"You have?" I asked.

"My dad's," said Alfie proudly.

"You've seen your dad's dick, standing up?" I was impressed.

"Yep," he said. "Mum was having a drink out of it."

"Your mum was drinking pee out of your dad's dick?" I gasped.

"Don't be stupid," Alfie laughed. "It wasn't pee she wanted. It was man's
milk."

"What the fuck is man's milk?" I asked.

"Shit, Charlie, you know fuck all."

He paused and gave me his 'Alfie's thinking' look.

"Lie down," he said. "There's nobody around. Father O'Malley won't be here
for ages. Lie down."

I sat down on the thick blue carpet in the vestiary, then stretched myself
onto my back. I could feel Alfie undoing my snake-belt, then scrabbling
down my grey shorts, followed by my less-than-white undies. It felt weird
lying there with my shorts and underpants around my knees. But that's what
Alfie told me to do, and we hardly ever argued about anything. I felt his
fingers move up and down my penis which was as hard as a milk bottle. At
first he couldn't get the foreskin to go far back, but as he moved the skin
back and forwards, the head seemed to get slippery and the skin slid back
and forwards easily.

So what?

I'll tell you fucking so what. I could feel my skin start to tingle, not
just the skin of my dick, but the skin of my tummy, my chest, my neck, my
face. At the same time there was a pressure building. I'm not sure where
the pressure came from, but it made me clench the cheeks of my arse. You
know when you're desperate for a shit but there's no place to have one, not
even any bushes, and you clutch the muscles of your bum really tight. It
was a bit like that. But not the same. because the tighter it felt, the
better it felt. And my bum began to lift off the carpet of its own
accord. I mean I didn't make any effort but my hips and my arse started to
rise and fall. Then Alfie stopped.

"Keep doing that," I hissed.

"Wait a minute," he whispered. "Try this." He ran his fingers round the
slippery head of my cock, and then brought his fingers to my lips. "Go
on. Lick my fingers," he instructed. I licked his fingers, ran my tongue
round them. "That's not pee," I whispered.

"I know it isn't," whispered Alfie. "It's man juice, man milk. Well, it's
not really man milk, not yet. We're too young to make real man juice yet,
but it's there for something."

"For what?" I asked.

"Get up," Alfie told me. He took my place. He pushed down his shorts and
his underpants, gleaming white. He stretched out on the blue carpet. I'd
been on my back. Alfie was on his front. I noticed he had freckles on his
bum. He reached round and pulled the cheeks of his bum apart. I peered
in. I knew where his hole was 'cos the skin was slightly browner than the
skin around it. If he had freckles there, I couldn't see them.

"Put it in there," he whispered.

"Put what in there," I asked.

"Your prick," he instructed. "Shove your prick up my jacksie."

"What for?" I asked.

"'Cos it will feel nice."

"It won't fit," I said.

"Yes it will," he said.

"No way," I said.

"Wanna bet?"

"How much?"

"50p."

"Okay," I said.

"Deal?" he said.

"Deal," I said.

I think I would have lost the bet. I wouldn't have minded that much. Alfie
was right. I only got the head in, but it started to feel nice, very
nice. I'm not sure why it felt so nice but I guessed it would feel even
nicer the deeper I got inside Alfie's jacksie, when...

"Hey, cut that out, you little fuckers. This is a fuckin' church."

We both twisted round. It was one of the cleaning ladies. The old one with
more wrinkles than a prune and a wart on her nose. She looked like Oliver
Cromwell in my history book. "Get the fuck out of here, you little
perverts." I'd no idea what a 'pervert' was until I googled it, but I knew
it wasn't a compliment.

We scrambled to our feet, yanked up our underpants and shorts, and
high-tailed it out of there. Thank fuck we were in shorts. When we finally
got into the graveyard, we stopped, panting, breathless, but we couldn't
stop laughing.

"Do you think she saw what we were doing?" I finally got out between gasps.

"Who the fuck cares?" laughed Alfie.

"But she'll probably tell Father O'Malley," I protested.

"Who the fuck cares?" repeated Alfie. "Father O'Malley's a fuckin'
pervert." Then he added, "For Christ's sake, Charlie, you don't know very
much, do you?"

It was only when I got home and googled'pervert' that I had any idea what
Alfie was on about. When I figured it out, I realized I had a major
problem. It was Thursday. I had confession on Friday, and I had Father
O'Malley. I made a deal with God. I promised I wouldn't put my cock in
Alfie's jacksie if He (God) didn't snitch to Father O'Malley on me. I even
kept my promise, for a few weeks at least, but I'm not sure if God kept
His. That's the problem with God; He can check on us any time He likes but
there's no way we can check on Him.

Uncle Nigel's funeral was embarrassing, at least it was for me. Sitting in
the church, I got a stiffy and I couldn't get rid of it. My flannels made
it worse. You dress up for a funeral. I don't know why. I mean the guest of
honour is past caring what you wear, but mum said we had to dress up to
show respect to Uncle Nigel. He was her brother so I guess that makes
sense. Dressing up meant wearing my grey flannel trousers, my school
trousers. They're made of a light cloth that's so thin that everything
shows through, especially a hard on. Not like our good old
corduroys. They're easy to bunch up, and they're so thick you wouldn't even
know you had a prick, let alone a stiff one.

What made it worse was all the pictures of Uncle Nigel that came into my
mind, pictures of me and him. Me, naked, sitting in his lap while he,
naked, showed me porno on the net while he played with my hard on. "You
like having a hard-on, don't you?" he'd whisper in my ear. Even at eight
years old, I thought that was a pretty stupid question. Of course I liked
having a hard-on. What normal eight-year-old boy wouldn't? And I knew Uncle
Nigel liked having a hard-on. I could see it standing up between my legs,
making my own three-incher look tiny by comparison. Pictures. Playing
ride-my-little-pony on Uncle Nigel's big double bed. Him, naked, stretched
out on his back. Me, naked, straddled across his hips with his big stiffy
jammed in the crack of my backside. Me, holding onto his shoulders, my
sweaty hair falling into his face, as I rode up and down so that his big
cock rubbed between my bum cheeks. That would end up with a real mess. Not
my fault. I couldn't cum yet. I learned that word from Uncle Nigel. To
'cum' doesn't mean to get some place like when you spell it 'come'. 'Cum'
means when your man-juice, or boy-juice, squirts out of your hard cock and
goes everywhere. Uncle Nigel used to fire his cum between my bum cheeks or
right up my sweaty back until I was big enough to take it you know
where. Then we'd go to the bathroom and do other stuff until I got that
great feeling.

Having a hard-on in church that was hard to hide was bad enough. All them
pictures in my mind was even worse. But worst of all was realising I was
sort of happy Uncle Nigel was gone. I'm not saying that Uncle Nigel's
falling off the roof, breaking his neck, and dying of exposure was a good
thing, but when I thought about it in a certain way, I had to admit it
solved a problem. I didn't mind spending time with Uncle Nigel but I wasn't
really happy when he started sharing me with his friend 'Aftershave'
Dan. When Dan came along it was back to the basement. That's where Uncle
Nigel taught me there was nothing to be ashamed of in having no clothes
on. That's where he taught me to enjoy my body, and to enjoy his. That's
where he taught me how to find stuff on the net, and how to masturbate,
which is the official word for making yourself, or someone else,
cum. That's where he took pictures and vids of me, of him, doing stuff so
we could look at them afterwards and do more stuff. Uncle Nigel was an ace
photographer. He'll be missed at weddings, funerals, and such. I wasn't
long after Uncle Nigel won me over that we moved to his bedroom, but when
Dan arrived it was back to the basement. Don't get me wrong. The basement
wasn't a dump. It had a sort of bed thing you could raise to different
angles and heights, and it had its own walk-in shower room, and it had its
own mini-cinema screen. But I didn't like it. If I was going to take a
shower, I liked to take it in my uncle's bedroom.

Uncle Nigel joked he didn't like stinky boys in his bed, so I'd take a
shower in the bathroom next to his bedroom. I'd come back to his bedroom
wrapped in a huge beach towel. Sometimes he'd have me take off the towel
before climbing onto his bed, but usually he'd unwrap my body, slowly, as
if he were opening a Christmas present. I'd lie on my right side, he on his
left facing me. He always decided what would be done, when and how. He'd
pull me to him. I could feel his hard cock pressing against my tummy. He'd
kiss me and tell me how special I was. I felt special. I felt I'd been
singled out. Of all the boys he'd picked out me. He'd run his hand through
my hair, down my back until he reached my bum, then he'd pull me harder
against him. One hand would stroke my bum while the other drifted round to
my front. His fingers would hold my stiffy. "You enjoy this, don't you?"
he'd whisper. "Tell me you like it," he'd say.

"I like it," I'd whisper back.

There were lots of times like that until Dan came along. Then things
changed. I wonder if Uncle Nigel regretted sharing me with Dan. I couldn't
ask him then. I can't ask him now.

That night - it must have been a Thursday because I'd been to the Cubs. On
Thursdays, after the Cubs, I always went to Uncle Nigel's. I stayed there
until mum picked me up at nine o'clock. Mum was glad I always had a shower
at her brother's because that saved having one at home before bedtime. That
night Uncle Nigel and Dan were in the living room. "This is a friend of
mine. His name's Dan. He just got here. He needs a shower. You can take
your shower with him in the basement shower. Let's go down." The smell of
Dan's aftershave nearly knocked me over but I didn't argue. I never argued
with Uncle Nigel. When you're nine you don't argue with the grownups, do
you? They know best, don't they? I'd taken showers with my uncle before. He
washed my back and I washed his. Then we did the more private bits. The
bits Uncle Nigel said were beautiful, too. It's a little weird having a
grown man kneeling in front of you, caressing and kissing your penis and
testicles, and whispering how beautiful they are. When he asked me to take
a shower with Dan, I nodded yes because I knew that was the right answer. I
knew the answer 'no' was not the right answer.

By the time I got my clothes off, Dan was in the shower waiting for me. He
was a bit older than my uncle and a lot hairier. His dick hung down from
its bush of hair like a big curvy banana. Dan turned the water on and began
soaping me. The soap got in my eyes but I could feel his prick growing
against my balls, my dick, my belly. It grew till it passed my belly
button. I thought it was going to reach my nipples. Uncle Nigel had his
movie camera ready and began taking pictures, Dan turning me every which
way as if I was a rag doll. Then I felt his big stubby finger poking at my
bum hole. I clenched it a bit but he kept stroking the little opening,
stroking and pushing into the second knuckle. "Turn him round," said Uncle
Nigel. "Bend him over. Finger fuck him. I want close-ups of this."

I guess that was the beginning of the end. I'd trusted Uncle Nigel. I'd
trusted him to protect me. But he didn't.

"Get him on the table," said my uncle. When I got the soap out of my eyes,
I was on the table, stretched out, face down, bum up. Uncle Nigel was
pushing his prick into my jacksie. Dan was feeding me his thick penis, the
head like a fat mushroom. I was choking. The head of his dick was huge and
my mouth was full of soapy bubbles. I was coughing and spluttering. It
didn't make any difference. They kept fucking me at both ends. They were
laughing, tell each other how good it was, what a great fuck I was. "You
got any more like this one," I heard Dan ask. "Yeh, got a couple," answered
my uncle, "and one of them's even younger than Charlie. Don't you just love
the Cubs?"

Later that night, when I was lying in my bed, I kept asking myself if it
had all been a bad dream. In the end I told myself that's what had happened
- a bad dream. But my jaws were aching, my bumhole on fire. I knew it
wasn't any dream. And if you ask me when the beginning of the end started,
that was it.

It was two days after Uncle Nigel's funeral that Oscar punched me in the
face. It was a bit of a surprise because Oscar and me are friends, not
close mates, not like me and Alfie, and not really friends, but not
enemies, and that makes all the difference, so it was a surprise when he
punched me in the face, in my own bedroom, too. He'd even tried to comfort
me about Uncle Nigel. What he actually said was, "I know he'd want you to
be happy for him," which didn't seem to make any sense at all, so I didn't
say anything back. What Oscar said came into my head while they were
lowering Uncle Nigel into his hole, and in a way I was glad it did because
it took my mind of the erection I was trying to hide. It's funny in life
some things go down while other things stay up. But anyway I was glad what
Oscar said came into my mind 'cos it took my mind off my hard-on, and even
better it got that fuckin' stupid song out of my head.

The song in question was Katrina and the Waves' 'Walking on Sunshine'. I
heard it the morning of the funeral while I was taking a bath, and it stuck
in my head all day. If there's a song you don't want stuck in your head
during a funeral it's 'Walking on Sunshine'. Shit, it's back in my head
again. Even in the church when we were plodding through 'Abide With Me' and
'The Old Rugged Cross', Katrina and the Waves kept breaking through and I
sat there humming '...and don't it make you feel good?' My mum gave me a
couple of queer looks, the last thing I wanted, with the hymn sheet
cunningly placed over my lap and stomach rather than up in front of my
face. Anyways, it was a surprise when Oscar punched me in the nose in my
own bedroom. I thought he'd come around to get a note of the homework.

We were up in my bedroom. I was reaching for my Planner to find the
homework note. There was a tap on my shoulder. I turned round. Kapow!
Oscar's fist connected with my nose. Down I went. When I looked up at him
from this fresh perspective - one hand cupping the blood dribbling from a
nostril - I saw Oscar's lovely features contorted by rage and anger. I say
'lovely' because that's the best word. Oscar is lovely. Tall, slim, blond
hair, dark eyelashes, nice nose, flawless (one of my big sister's words)
skin, and long legs. Also I'd never seen Oscar angry, even though we'd been
in the same class for two years. Nor had I ever heard what he said next.

"You piece of shit," he said.

"I think you've broken my nose," I burbled.

"I should break your fucking neck, you piece of shit."

It seemed Oscar was keen to establish I was a piece of shit. I admit I'm
not always fragrant but for the life of me I couldn't think what I'd done
to deserve the tag from Oscar.

"I don't know what it is you think I've done, Oscar," I spluttered, "but
whatever it is you think I've done, I promise you I didn't do it. And even
if I did it, I didn't mean it."

"You fucked my little brother."

Ooops.

Oscar's little brother is Jack, ah yes but, no but...

"I haven't... not yet anyway."

Fuck it. Why can't I keep my big mouth shut? Where did that 'not yet
anyway' come from? Talk about signing your own death warrant. I closed my
bloody nostril, closed my eyes, and waited for the kicking I richly
deserved. Not for fucking Jack 'cos I hadn't done that - yet - but for
making such a stupid mistake. Wasn't I a good Catholic boy? I'd had lots of
practice in confessing just enough to get by and here I was spilling the
lot. Talk about throwing out the baby with the bathwater. I'd just thrown
out the fuckin' bath as well. Sorry for the expletives (bad words) but
fuckin' Katrina is back in my fuckin' head... "I'm walking on sunshine and
don't it feel gooood?"

I waited for a kicking that seemed as inevitable as three Hail Marys and an
Act of Contrition when...

"It's me you should be fucking, not my little brother.. Jack's just a
spoiled brat. He always gets his own way."

Doth mine ears deceive me? Is that light at the end of the tunnel, and not
the 3.45 from Victoria thundering towards me?

I opened my eyes and looked up. Oscar was reaching his hand down to me. I
took it and let him pull me to my feet. "You're nose is bleeding," he
said. Statement of the Fucking Obvious but none the less welcome for
that. He stepped in, gently moved my hand away, and - I'm not making this
up. - started licking the blood away. For once the word 'awesome' was
appropriate. I stood there and let him lick away. I could feel Katrina
subside as my prick swelled within my boxer shorts. It wasn't that long
after breakfast. I was still trying to get dressed. It was a Saturday
morning. And there he was kissing me. Then we were kissing each other. All
the way. With blood and spit all mixed together. I discovered Oscar not
only has long legs but a freakishly long tongue, what you might call a
'tonsils tickler'. Ever the optimist, I pressed myself against him and
discovered he was as hard as me. After around one zillion years, I pushed
him back, gasping,

"Why didn't you ask?" I asked.

"'Cos I'm so fuckin' shy," he whispered.

I did a quickfire calculation. Saturday morning. Mum and Big Sis out
shopping. Dad off to the Bookies. House empty. Mine all mine.

"Well, I'm not," I said.

I backed Oscar towards my bed, then shoved so he fell backwards onto the
bed. Then I lowered myself onto him, and we started frenching again. I slid
down his body and pushed his jumper and t-shirt up. What amazing skin! Now
I really understood what 'flawless' means. Skin like creamy ivory. And
another surprise. His nipples. My nipples are little starfish, and they
don't go hard when they get teased, tweaked or sucked like it says they
should in porno stories. And they're not really sensitive. But Oscar's
nipples were plump, sort of sticky out. Not weird or anything. Just a bit
like plump raspberries. I ran my lips and tongue up and down his body from
his nipples to his little belly button, an innie for the record. It was
great but a bit frustrating because I couldn't reach everything, so I
yanked at his jumper and t-shirt till he got the message. He half sat up
and I yanked them over his head. I tossed them across the room. He fell
flat on the bed again. I was happy to see he didn't close his eyes. I
yanked off my t-shirt and pressed myself against him. Back to the
frenching. That didn't last long because I wanted all of him, every last
inch. I slid down his body again and worked open the belt and the zip on
his jeans. I heard him kicking off his trainers. Oscar raised his bum from
the bed, and I worked down his briefs (M&S) and his jeans in one go, and
tossed them across the room, and...

Fuckin' hell. Oscar was big. Down there, I mean. His dick must have been
seven inches, if not a little more. It was thick, too. And creamy, and
ivory, at least until the head where it got red and purplish. The head was
already sticking out of the foreskin, which is a good sign 'cos tight
foreskins are very boring. There were a couple of little blue veins that
started at the bottom of the shaft and ran round it till they sort of
petered out as they reached the head. The pipe thing - is it called the
'urethra'? - was thicker than mine and looked like it could pump out a
flood of cum. There were a few wisps of blond hair above Oscar's dick but
nothing on his balls. Can you get a dick that big before you get through
puberty? (Make a mental note to google this).

"You now," whispered Oscar.

It only took me seconds to wriggle out of my t-shirt and boxers. No time to
get my socks off. I slid back up Oscar's bed, kissing and licking as I
went. I avoided his hard-on 'cos I had the feeling if I made any
mouth-contact with it he'd shoot his load all over us. I wanted to take
time, to make it last, to get him out of his head, so that he'd be up for
anything, literally speaking. I didn't know if Oscar knew anything about
fucking. It's not that easy, not when you're twelve years old. It can be
incredibly tight down there. It takes work to get it loosened, to get it
slick and greasy, to get it to relax, to open up. I'm not as big as Oscar
down there but I knew it was gonna hurt him if I went in without preparing
him first. And my fingers and my tongue are not as long as Oscar's but I
knew what I was aiming at - his prostate. It might be tiny, it might be
hard to find, but I knew where to look, I knew what it was for, what it
could do, and I was gonna get it to do it, but first I wanted to explore
every inch of his body, and I mean every inch. What had he said? "It's me
you should be fucking, not my little brother." He was nearly right. I knew
what I should be doing. Fucking both of them.

You're probably thinking I know about stuff like the prostate because of
Uncle Nigel. That's partly true but you've got to give credit to
Dr. Watson, too. It was Dr. Watson who introduced me to my prostate, and I
was only seven when he did it.

Mum took me to the doctor's that day and left me there. It wasn't child
neglect because we'd had the same family doctor for years. In fact, it was
Doctor O'Reilly who delivered me so I wasn't bothered about waiting in the
waiting room. Then my number came up. Confidently I knocked at the doctor's
door. "Come in," said a voice I didn't recognise, but I did recognise it
wasn't the voice of Dr. O'Reilly whose Irish was thicker than Father
O'Malley's.

"Ah, young man, what can I do for you?"

There are some questions that aren't really questions so I didn't make any
kind of answer. "Let's see," said the doctor. "It's Charlie, isn't it?" I
nodded. He'd got that right. "Charlie Anderson." He'd got that right,
too. I nodded again. He scanned a sheet in his hand. "Well, Charlie, this
won't take long," and "By the way, where's your mother?" That question
needed an answer. "Shopping," I said. "No problem," he said, and "Let's get
on with it, shall we?" I nodded again.

What a nice man. His voice was warm, sensitive, reassuring. A man I could
trust.

"Well, if you just like to drop your shorts, we can get started," he said.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Your shorts. Just drop them. Don't be shy. I've done this lots of times,"
he added.

"Mum said you'd just want to have a look," I said.

"Yes, I do, Charlie," he said, "but I can't really have a good look if
you've got your shorts on. Don't worry. It's just normal procedure."

Like everybody else, I'd learned 'doctor knows best', so I undid my
snake-belt and pushed my shorts down to my knees.

"Ankles," instructed Dr. Watson, "push them all the way down to your
ankles. Underpants, too. Ah, I see you like Spiderman. Lots of boys your
age seem to like Spiderman. Let's do this standing up, shall we. Turn round
and lean against that wall with your legs apart."

Doctor knows best. I shuffled to the wall, leaned against it, and spread my
legs. I couldn't resist turning round to have a peek. Dr. Watson was
slipping on a single latex glove. "Now, Charlie, this might be a little
uncomfortable at first," he said, "but you'll seen get used to it. Be a
brave little boy and think of Spiderman."

"Jesus, Mary!" I blurted, "What are you going to do?"

It was the doctor's turned to look bemused. "What do you mean what am I
going to do? I'm going to stick my finger up your back passage?"

"What? What for?"

"To check your prostate?"

"Why? What for?"

"Because that's what your mother asked me to do. It's right here in the
notes."

The doctor was beginning to sound a little exasperated. Doctors know best,
but mothers know even better. So, like a good boy, I turned round and faced
the wall, leaned against it, and stuck my bum out.

"Good boy," said the doctor. "Just think about Star Trek." Whatever
happened to Spiderman? "Just think of the space shuttle coming in to dock."
Frankly, the idea of a space shuttle docking up my jacksie was horrible,
but I just faced the wall, prepared for whatever.

The good doctor inserted a latexed middle finger - I presumed it was his
middle finger. That's easier to write than to experience when you're seven
years old. But he was gentle. It still hurt but he took his time and he was
gentle. He wiggled the tip of his finger at my opening until something
started to give. Then the tip was inside. Docking complete? Not by a long
shot. He wriggled and jiggled and wiggled about until the first knuckle was
in, then the second, then the whole finger until it felt like it really was
a space shuttle up my arse. Suddenly to my amazement my little penis shot
straight up and out, hard as a brick. And it felt good! I had a raging
hard-on of the kind I'd only ever seen on our dog when he's really up for
it and humping at someone's leg, usually mine.

I felt Doctor Watson's other hand reach round, his finger felt my little
hard-on and gave it a tweak or two. "That's a nice healthy erection you've
got there, Charlie," he said. "Thanks," I said. I wasn't sure what an
'erection' was but I'm a polite boy so I said thanks. He slid his finger
out, slipped off the glove, turned me round and helped me slip up my
things. "I'm not sure why your mum wanted your prostate gland
examined. It's a bit unusual at your age but you're really never too young
to start."

"My prostrate gland," I echoed.

Dr. Watson laughed. "No, not prostrate - prostate. Sit down. Have an orange
juice. I'll explain it to you." And explain it he did, with diagrams and
all. I couldn't understand half of what he was telling me, but the half I
did understand was really interesting. When he was finished, he took up his
folder, my folder really, saying "I'll just make a note of that. Then you
can be on your way."

"Right, it's Charlie, isn't it? No Charles, just Charlie."

I nodded.

"And Andersen. That's A-n-d-e-r-s-e-n, isn't it?"

"No," I said. "It's an 'o'. It's not an 'e'."

"Pardon," he said.

"My name is 'Anderson'," I said. "It's A-n-d-e-r-s-O-n."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

My faith in Dr. Watson was shaken.

One of the first things you learn when you go to school is how to spell
your own name, and I'd never heard my name spelled with an 'e'. As far as I
knew, it had always been spelled with an 'o' as the second last letter.

"Just a minute, Charlie," said the doctor looking even more bemused here
than before. You are Charlie Andersen of..." and he rattled off an address
I'd never heard in my life.

"No, I'm not. My address is..." and I rattled off my address with the
confidence I could rattle off my own name.

"Bugger of hell," said Dr. Watson, sounding for a moment just like my dad
when the tele plays up. "If you're not Charlie Andersen with an 'e', what
are you here for?"

I pointed at my throat.

"Tonsils," I said, proud that I'd remembered the word mum had drilled into
me on the way to the doctor's.

"Fuckin' shit," said Dr. Watson, using another of my dad's expressions.

"Come here," he said. "Open up," he said. "Wider," he said. "Wider," he
added. I was glad he wasn't talking about my bumhole. He shined a little
torch down my throat. He removed the torch. "Close it," he said. I closed
it. "Nothing wrong. Come back when you're eleven," he said.

As I was sitting in the waiting room, waiting for my mother, I heard the
receptionist call out, "Mr. Andersen... Dr. Watson will see you now." An
elderly gentleman got up and sort of stumbled towards the door. As he
passed me, I thought to myself, "I know your address, I know where you
live."

So it was my tonsils that should have been checked, and they were, and I
didn't go back when I was eleven, and here I was at twelve years old with
Oscar's seven-inch dick tickling my tonsils. God, he was big down
there. For a while I bobbed up and down on Oscar's stiffy and it was great
sliding my lips up and down that creamy-skinned shaft, kissing the little
mouth at the top, then sliding down again as far as I could go. I tickled
his hairless balls with one set of fingers while the other hand played with
his nipples. Like I said, his nipples were like reddish brown raspberries
and although I couldn't see them I could feel them grow and harden under my
fingertips. I wanted to get my lips round them but my mouth was otherwise
engaged. I wanted this to last forever. Of course it couldn't but I wanted
to make it last as long as I could. I wanted to get Oscar so wound up, so
excited, so aroused that he wouldn't care what I wanted to do. So when I
felt his dick harden even more between my lips, and felt his balls tighten,
I backed off a little, slowed down, and let his excitement die down a
little. Uncle Harry had been a good teacher, and of course there's no
better teacher than experience.

I maneuvered Oscar - never releasing him from my mouth until he was sitting
straddled across my tummy, leaning forward across my chest, thrusting his
cock in and out of my mouth. He seemed a little shy at first, probably
because I was able to look at him. His eyes were closed, head thrown back,
his blond hair bouncing on his shoulders like one of those shampoo ads on
the tele, sweat building up on his face and shoulders. I kept one hand
round the base of his cock because, as his excitement increased, he was
thrusting harder, deeper, staying there longer. Now and then I choked so I
eased him back out before he made my tonsils black and blue. I've no idea
if you can bruise someone's tonsils but if you can Oscar was on the way to
doing it. I didn't fancy going back to Dr. Watson for another check up
unless it was to have my prostate tickled again.

The fingers of my other hand were working on Oscar's bumhole. Never forget
the bigger picture. I don't think he'd any idea my fingertips were playing
with his opening, at least not consciously, but I guess he was too far gone
to care. God, he was tight, but then so was his little brother Jack, and
Jack was only eight. Not that I'd fucked Jack. I'm not a perv! I'd played
with Jack's anus a few times - he liked that as much as me - but I hadn't
fucked him. And I had no plans to. If it happened, it happened. I'd just
let nature take its course. But to be honest I was more aroused by the idea
of Jack fucking me.

I wasn't sure how many times I could take Oscar to the edge and bring him
back in time, but his thrusting was so hard, so deep, so insistent I knew
he couldn't hold out much longer. I pushed him backwards until his hard
cock slid out of my throat and mouth. The horny fucker fought against me
but I managed it and pulled him down so we could french again. This time it
was Oscar taking the lead! Fucking hell, he flattened our sweaty bodies
together, mashed his lips against mine, and jammed his tongue down my
throat. For a moment I wondered if his tongue was seven inches, too!

Oscar let me wrestle him onto his front. I wondered if he was wondering
about what would happen next. I slid down his body and yanked his legs
apart. Before he could protest, I jammed my head between his bum cheeks and
started sucking on his bum hole. It wasn't easy. The hole was tiny but I
managed to purse my lips against it and tickle the opening with the tip of
my tongue. Oscar turned his head: "What the fu...?" I raised my face for a
moment and grinned: "You'll love this," I whispered. I yanked his hips off
the bed till he was more or less in the doggy position and rammed my face
and lips between his buttocks again. I reached round and played with his
cock. It was hard, wet and slippery. I wanked him gently, careful not to
have him shoot his load and lose that 'Whatever it is, I love it'
feeling. My fingertips and tongue managed to get the flesh round his anus
squishy. I put more and more pressure on the external sphincter muscle
until I felt it give a little. A musky smell broke through, not unpleasant,
just pure boy, pure Oscar. The tip of my tongue wiggled in. I took my other
hand away from Oscar. His fingers took the place of mine. Using both
thumbs, I gently pried his bum hole open, faintly brownish skin gave way to
pink flesh.

The idea of opening someone's bumhole seems weird, strange, dirty, but I'm
actually doing it - if it's someone I've got the hots for -it's incredibly
erotic (I think that's the right word.) Not sure why. Maybe because it's a
sort of surrender. I know when Uncle Nigel and Dan were opening me up it
was like a total surrender, like they were taking the inside out of me,
eating me from within, which of course they were doing sometimes. So I
shouldn't have been that surprised when Oscar's hands and fingers came
round to help hold himself open. I got my middle finger in. I heard him
"Oooof," but he didn't protest. I sawed my finger in and out trying to go
deeper and deeper. There was a sort of protest when one finger became two
but he returned one hand to his prick and got on with that. I began to
stretch my middle and index fingers apart and watched the flesh round his
hole become more and more elastic. Now and again I'd jam my face back in,
harden my tongue and drive it in like a spear. When two fingers became
three, Oscar grunted then groaned.

"Want me to stop?" I asked.

"Don't you fuckin' dare," I heard his muffled voice call back. Thank God,
Oscar is shy.

I steadied myself on my knees. Oscar steadied himself in the doggy
position. I pressed the head of my cock against his hole. His flesh was
firm. It didn't seem possible, but I'm patient as well as polite. I
increased the pressure. Suddenly the external muscle gave way and the head
was in. I felt his entrance grip my cock like tight elastic. I heard Oscar
yelp. I waited, giving his anus time to get used to the intruder. Then
gently I rocked backwards and forwards until about an inch of the head and
shaft was inside him. I felt Oscar pushing back. I felt myself slide in,
centimetre by centimeter. I don't know if there's an internal sphincter
muscle. I'm just guessing at the anatomy. But there was more serious
resistance, more pushing and thrusting until I suddenly felt something give
and I was all the way in. I haven't got Oscar's seven inches but I've got
five of my own, and I knew I was all the way in. I held onto his hips and
began rocking back and forward. I could feel the skin at the entrance to
his anus gripping the length of my cock as I thrust in, pulled almost all
the way out, and then thrust in again.

The next bit is embarrassing but what's the point of telling a story unless
you tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth? I think I managed ten
or twelve thrusts before I couldn't held back any more. I rammed my cock in
as deep as I could go and felt the semen race up my cock and fire spurt
after spurt into Oscar's bowels. I say spurt after spurt but there were
probably only three or four real spurts (I'm only twelve for God's sake so
don't expect miracles.) but my hips went on hammering my lap into Oscar's
buttocks. I pulled myself out, still hard, but, as I said, I'm a polite boy
who's brought up to consider others. I flipped Oscar onto his back. He
actually toppled onto his back without much help from me, and I dived on
his cock, this time running my lips up and down his shaft as tight and as
fast as I could while jamming two fingers back up his hot, greasy anus. I
don't think Oscar held out more than a few seconds. He rammed my face down
onto his lap, his hips bucked, and he drove his cock into me as deep and
hard as he could. Lucky for me, he came after three or four thrusts, and it
was his turn to spurt and squirt into me. His whole body was shaking. I
managed to get his cock out of throat, pulled myself up his body, and
pressed my mouth against his, lips open. Mouths open we shared Oscar's cum.

I felt like wriggling down there again and getting some of my own cum out
of his bottom, but I didn't want him to think I was gross. All that stuff
would come later. For now I was content to hold Oscar tight against me,
kiss him and listen to his whimpering. Brave boy that he was, he didn't
whimper long, and I was surprised to feel his cock stiff against me. Don't
know why I was surprised. Perpetual hard-ons are what you can expect from
twelve-year-old boys. It would be nice if our first fuck finished on that
romantic note but it didn't, not quite.

Oscar went into the bathroom. I bet he was looking at his bumhole, wanting
to see if any damage had been done, wanting to make sure it had closed up
again. I know 'cos that's what I would have done, that's what I did
when... but this is about Oscar.

"What the fuck?" I heard him yelp through the door.

"What's up?" I yelped through my side of the door.

The door swung up. Oscar stepped out, still naked, still with a hard-on but
holding mum's hand-mirror.

"Look at that."

I looked.

It was a big fat hickey on the side of his neck. For a moment I thought
about denying it but it was fresh and raw.

"Oh, shit," I said, staring at it. "I'm sorry."

"You will be fuckin' sorry," Oscar whispered.

"I didn't mean to," I offered.

"So fuckin' what?" he said. "What's my mum gonna say when she sees it?"

"Mmmmmm..." That was me thinking, but nothing... until...

"Hey, maybe she'll be proud of you. I mean, her big boy growing up and all
that sort of stuff." I was cooking with gas now. "Hey, make sure your dad
sees it first, accidental-like. Bet he'll be proud of it, of you, of his
'little man'." Sometimes my dad called me his 'little man', which to me
sounded incredibly stupid, but there's no accounting for parents.

"Mmmmm..." I was Oscar's turn to think. "You're right. He'll think it was
Sally, across our road. He thinks she's a right slut anyways. I'll sort of
drop hints." He glanced down at himself. My glance followed his. His cock
was still hard. It jutted way above his belly button. "I can't go home like
this," he murmured. He stepped forward, put his hands on my shoulders and
pressed down. I dropped to my knees. Oscar, like Jack, was a fast
learner. Must run in the family. Twelve-year-old boys, perpetual hard-ons.

Twelve years old.

It's confession time. I'm not twelve years old. I'm fourteen years
old. What I've been trying to describe is how things were when I was eight,
nine, twelve years old, but I'm not twelve years old now. I'm fourteen
years old. I guess you already guessed that. I mean, most twelve-year-old
can't write the way I've been writing even though, I have to say, I was
pretty good at writing even when I was only twelve. But I couldn't write
this stuff when I was twelve. I could do it, but I couldn't write it this
way. So you'll have to forgive me, and if you want to stop reading now,
I'll understand. But if you want to know about the stuff that happened
after me and Oscar (Oscar and I) got together you should read on. But I
have to warn you... it starts to get a bit sexy from now on. Not that my
life was nothing but sex, far from it, the whole of life was there and it
had to be lived. Like the time when Alfie was going to kill me because I
blew his eyebrows off. That definitely wasn't sex.

"And don't forget to light the oven," said mum closing the door behind
her. I made a mental note not to forget to light the oven and I would've
done it if Alfie hadn't come prancing naked into the kitchen just as the
door closed.

"For fuck's sake, Alfie," I whispered. "What if mum's forgotten something?
What if she comes back?" Alfie gave me his special idiot grin. He does this
by turning his back, bending over and pulling his buttocks as far apart as
he can. All thought of mum, the oven and the chicken therein disappeared. I
sprang an instant boner. Alfie skipped off up the stairs to my bedroom. I
followed as fast as I could, which isn't very fast when my jeans were
already at my feet.

Alfie was already on the bed, on his back, both legs swung over his chest,
his feet touching his ears, his hands still holding himself wide open. I
hobbled to bed, tripped and fell face first between his bum cheeks. Father
O'Malley is right. There is a God, and God is good. I burrowed my nose into
his hole. You'll have gathered by now I'm a bit anal. I started to slobber
as my tongue run up down the tiny mouth, as I tried to fasten my lips
against it, as I speared his hole with the tip of my mouth.

"Fuck me," I heard Alfie whisper. It probably wasn't a whisper but my ears
were jammed between his buttocks so came as a muffled whisper to me. I
stood up, stepped back, tripped over my jeans and fell flat on my
arse. "Hurry the fuck up," called Alfie, trying to stifle his giggles.

"Oh, shit," I said. "I forgot to light the oven."

"I'll do it," said Alfie. "You get your clothes off," and he clambered off
the bed and headed, naked, downstairs.

"Oooof!"

That wasn't me. That wasn't Alfie. That was the oven. It didn't go 'Boom!'
or 'Bang!' as you might expect. It went 'Oooof!'

Shit!

I'd turned on the gas but I'd forgotten to light it. I dragged my jeans up
over my sorry arse and hobbled downstairs.

Alfie was standing there. His face was sooty black. His eyes were wide
open. He was blinking. He was rubbing his chest where the chicken had hit
him. He didn't seem to be hurt, and for the first time I could remember he
was speechless. I helped him into the kitchen, grabbed a sponge and started
to clean him up. It was only 'soot'. He would be fine. Well, most of him
would be, but I suddenly realised he was missing... his left eyebrow! It
was gone. For a mad moment I wanted to rush into the kitchen and find
it. There were a few singed wisps left. But why only the one eyebrow? Why
only the left? Father O'Malley was right. Life is full of little mysteries
that are beyond us, like what happened before the Big Bang.

"Houston, we have a problem," I murmured. That was our secret code. We used
it when we wanted to tell each other something secret. "We're fucked." I
added, "Better come into the bathroom and see." Alfie didn't move. Post
explosion, he was temporarily deaf. I ushered him into the bathroom, stood
him in front of the mirror, and pointed at space where his left eyebrow
should have been.

"What the fuck?"

Knowing Alfie couldn't hear himself, let alone me, I mouthed and
hand-signaled to him what had happened. There was nothing for it. We
trooped upstairs and waited for Alfie's hearing to return. We had sex while
we were waiting, but I have to admit the original spark had gone and it was
rather like going through the motions. Still, it cleared our heads and
helped us think. First I tried drawing on an eyebrow using mum's mascara
pencil, not bad, but not completely convincing, something was missing. We
decided to try making a falsie. I trimmed a bit of his hair - he had lots
hanging on his shoulders - got hold of some double-sided sticky tape and
stuck individual hairs on it, which wasn't as easy as it sounds. I stuck
the fake eyebrow on and sat back to admire my handwork.

"Perfect," I said.

"What?" he said.

"Perfect!" I yelled.

"What?" he said.

Oh, fuck. I mouthed the word 'perfect'. I could still taste his semen.

"Are they even?" he asked.

"Even Stevens," I mouthed, which, come to think of it, made no sense then,
and makes even less sense now.

"Let's have a deco," he said, reaching for my hand-mirror.

He studied his new eyebrow from every possible angle before announcing,
"This is going to be great."

I'd no idea what the fuck was so great about a false eyebrow, but if Alfie
was content I was relieved. I was puzzled by his next announcement: "I'm
going to take it off at night." I couldn't resist asking why. He gave me
the look that suggested I was a complete idiot and said, "In case I swallow
it, of course." There's no arguing with logic like that. We realized not
only was Alfie's hearing coming back but we were ravenous. Our thoughts
turned to the chicken, or what was left of it. At least we could salvage
the drumsticks.

So you see life was not always a bowl of cherries or even a bowl of
drumsticks. And while I take responsibility for nearly killing Alfie, I
refuse to take responsibility for killing his cat, who, ridiculous as it
seems, went by the name of Kit-e-Kat, or Pussy for short. I like cats as
much as the next boy, which is to say not very much. That's because dogs
need a master but cats need a servant, and what fuckin' self-respecting boy
is going to be servant to Pussy? And if I did have a cat, which I didn't
and I won't, I definitely wouldn't have it if I lived on the tenth floor of
an exclusive high-rise building which is where Alfie, his family and Pussy
lived. And to make things even worse, Pussy was a jumper. I say 'jumper'
because Pussy liked to jump, and I say 'was' because Pussy is an ex-cat.

Pussy jumped. She jumped around the furniture, and her favourite jump was
from the sofa to the sideboard. Don't ask me why, ask Pussy, which is no
longer possible because... Who knows why - as Father O'Malley says,
etc. etc. - Pussy decided to use the sofa as a springboard, apparently
forgetting the furniture had been rearranged, so that when she thought she
was heading for the sideboard, she was in fact heading for the living room
window, an open tenth-floor window leading directly to the courtyard
below. Pussy might have landed on her feet - we'll never know - because she
splatted the concrete so hard it was impossible to figure out where her
feet were or had been. Cats have nine lives, so I guess Pussy used one life
for each floor she passed and had nothing in reserve as she flew past the
tenth. Way to go, Pussy!

So what was my part in her demise? Only that I'd opened the window. Only
that I nearly caught her but didn't. All I remember, apart from a flash of
fur, is Alfie flying past me. His head out of the window. And screams of
"My Pussy! My Pussy!" I defy anyone not to laugh but when I got control of
myself I tried my best to help.

"You can't blame yourself," I told Alfie. "It was an accident, a freak
accident. And even if Pussy was planning to jump out of the window, how
could you know about that?" I handed Alfie what was left of Pussy, wrapped
up in a plastic carrier bag, M&S.

"I'm not blaming Pussy," hissed Alfie. "I'm fuckin' blaming you. You opened
that fuckin' window. You, you, you."

"Shit, Alfie," I countered. "How the fuck could I know your cat was
planning to kill herself? I'm not a fuckin' mind reader. I'm not that
fuckin' Derek Brown off the tele. Who knows what's on a cat's mind? I'd no
idea Pussy was planning pussy-cide. Who the fuck could know a thing like
that?"

Alfie looked at me sadly.

"It's happened before," he sighed

What do you say to something like that?

I racked my brains, and at last managed to come up with something
appropriate.

"Wanna fuck me?" I asked.

Alfie mused.

"Naw, I'm still feeling too upset," then added,

"But you can fuck me."

Twelve sailed into thirteen like Spring sails into Summer. A whole year had
gone by, and I'd been able to keep away from men since Uncle Nigel had been
parked in that deep, dark hole up the cemetery. I'm not saying I wasn't
tempted but we're all tempted by things we know aren't right for us. I
think I'd have been able to keep away from men if they'd been able to keep
away from me. Sometimes I think I must give out those sex pheromones. Those
chemical signals that trigger reactions, and bring other males like dogs to
bitch in heat. But I was surprised when the next man in my life turned out
to be Alfie's dad!

It happened on a school day. We'd won a football match against Archbishop's
4-2. It always feel good to fuck a Church of England school. Alfie asked me
to take his kit home. He was going to round to Jack's to try out a new Xbox
game. Can't stand that stuff myself. Alfie gave me his key, his mum and Dad
would be at work till six. I wandered round there, let myself in and
plonked Alfie's kit in the hallway.

"That you, Alfie?" called a voice from the bathroom. It was Alfie's dad,
Dave. What was he doing home at four in the afternoon?

"No, sir, it's only me, sir. It's Charlie," I called back. "Just bringing
Alfie's football stuff. He's gone round to Jack's. They're playing on
Jack's Xbox."

The bathroom door opened. Alfie's dad stepped out. He was naked! No, he
wasn't naked, but he had only a bathtowel wrapped round his hips. Christ,
he was built, which shouldn't surprise me because Alfie's dad is a
builder. When I say builder, I mean he owned his own building company. Who
did he look like? Got it! He looked like a young Sean Connery, not like he
looks now, but when he was in them early Bond movies. Dark brown
eyes. Shock of dark hair. Dark hair on his chest, too. I wondered if...

"What's up, doc?" he asked. If he glanced down at my football shorts, he'd
see what was up. We didn't live that far from the school and the football
fields, so I hadn't bothered to change. 'Cept for my boots, of course.

"Alfie's not here," I said, sounding stupid as I stated the bleedin'
obvious. "He's gone round to Jack's. They're playing on Jack's Xbox. I'm
bringing Alfie's... stuff," I stuttered, distracted by the shapes under the
bathtowel.

"Tell that to the Marines," laughed Dave (He liked us to call him Dave.)
"If my son isn't giving his mate a blowjob by now, he's not the boy I think
he is."

I wonder if my mouth fell open, if my flabber was gasted. Adults aren't
supposed to talk about blowjobs to kids. Kids my age aren't even meant to
know about blowjobs. They're definitely not meant to be giving each other
blowjobs. They're meant to be playing on Xboxes and shit like that.

"Sorry, Charlie," laughed Dave, "you might not even know what a blow job
is. I just figured Alfie would have shown you by now."

I was indignant. "'Course I know what a blowjob is," I protested. "In fact,
if you really want to know..."

"Whoa, whoa," grinned Dave. "I was only joking. But can't stand here like
this dripping on Alfie's mum's carpet. C'mere and keep me company while I
towel myself off."

I followed Dave into the big double-bed room. "Park yourself on the bed." I
tried to park myself, winced, groaned, adjusted my hard-on and got myself
settled.

"What's up, doc?" asked Dave, facing away from me while he toweled his
back, buttocks and legs, not realising that his magnificent arse would get
me worked up as quickly as any other part of his gorgeous anatomy. He
pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, but not before I'd caught as glimpse
of a small trunk swinging between his legs.

"Get a kick of two then," he asked seeing me rub at a a bit of black and
blue on my legs.

"Yeh, those fuckers from the Archbishops are supposed to be Christians but
they're even rougher than us. One of them kicked me in the shins, and
another kicked me in the back," I rubbed the tender area, "while I was on
the floor. Mother fu..."

"Fucker...," Dave finished for me. "Here, turn over and let me sort it
out." I was glad to have an excuse to lay on my belly. My hard-on was
already starting to ache. I felt fingers pulling my football strip up to my
neck. I felt fingers, hands, palms caressing my back, working their way
down to a bruised area above my right hip.

"How old you now, Charlie?" asked Alfie's father.

"Thirteen," I whispered out of the comfortable trance I was sliding into.

"Old enough is big enough," whispered Dave, then added, "Hey, if you guys
are experimenting with each other, it's capital 'N' for normal. At your age
your hormones are telling you to 'Go for it, go for it, go for it, baby. So
fuck the world and go for it." The man's voice was husky, his touch was
like feathers on my bare skin, this was the perfect way to relax after a
match. He pulled up strip upwards. I raised my head so he worked it over my
head. My face hit the pillow again.

Fingers roamed my back, dug into tender flesh, kneaded the cheeks of my
bum. I couldn't remember being kicked there, but Dave was the man, and the
man knew what he was doing. My legs, thighs, calves, up and down, up and
down. His breath on my neck, behind my ears, on my cheeks. Then my
feet. When did my socks come off? Who cares? My toes. My feet. My happy
feet. Up we go - calves, thighs, brush my balls. Up we go. My armpits. If I
wasn't so comfortable, I'd blush a bit because I'd grown a few hairs in my
armpits, nothing much, but definitely there.

"Feel good, baby?"

"Mmmmmm....."

"Roll over. Let me do your chest."

I did what I was told. I was lost in a world of sensation as the man's big
hands and fingers played over my chest, my hips my belly. I raised my bum
from the bed in invitation and felt my football shorts and underpants slide
down to my legs, my knees, my ankles, off and away. A thumb and finger made
a circle round my brick-hard dick and moved the skin backwards and
forward. I tried to stifle a groan. I failed and it was met with a throaty
chuckle. I knew I couldn't hold out long.

"Climb on, baby," I heard Dave say from far way. I'm not sure how we
managed it but my body was stretched out along his. His prick felt huge
jammed into my belly. I wondered if he could feel mine at all. One hand
stroked my hair, the other brought my face to his. He smothered my face
with kisses, pushed his tongue against my lips until I opened wide and
allowed him entry. I was being devoured, swallowed whole, eaten alive, and
it was what I wanted. Unashamedly I kissed, licked and sucked at him. Felt
shame when I remembered Uncle Nigel. Shame came and went. Dave pushed my
head back so he could look at my face. His eyes were huge. He licked my
eyebrows. Licked my eyelashes. Ran the tip of his tongue up and down my
nose. I giggled, tried to stop him, couldn't. Dave's eyes were
smiling. "Like it, baby," he murmured. I could only nod. "Lots more to
come," he murmured.

"Down you go," he whispered. "Do whatever you feel like doing."

The man pressed my slim shoulders. I slid down his body. His nipples looked
hot, hard, swollen. I fastened my lips round a nipple and sucked like a
starving infant. It was Dave's turn to groan. I chewed the right nipple,
the left, slid farther down and fastened my mouth onto his belly button,
struggling for a moment to find it in the swirls of dark brown hair. Took
my time. Feasted. Slid father down, push his drawn-up knees apart,
inspected his swollen erection. The head was huge and purple, like a
swollen plum. Slippery with pre-cum. I forced the foreskin further
back. Slobbered on the head. Ran my lips up and down the shaft. Snuffled in
the thick, dark hair.

Further down. Suck on the loose skin of one ball, then the other. Got
underneath his balls. Pushed at his shins with my elbow until he drew his
legs up towards his body. Got under his balls. Ran the tip of my tongue
along the perineum to reach his anus. Hair - thicker, darker, in
swirls. Found his opening and slobbered it as Dave clutched at my hair.

I knew what I had to do, wanted to do. For a moment I thought he was going
to stop me, but he placed the head of my hard-on against his arsehole and
held me as I pushed. I slid in. He was tight, but he wasn't Alfie, he
wasn't Oscar, and he definitely wasn't Jack. I was in all the way but far
from the bottom. I could feel his big hands clutching my buttocks, forcing
me to go faster, harder, deeper until my hips took control and thrust and
thrust like the mindless animal I was happy to be. If I could have reached
his face, I would have kissed him like crazy at the same time but I could
only reach his chest so I chewed on the hair I found between my lips and
teeth.

I was fucking, fucking, fucking - a man, a man, man.

And was loving every thrust.

Wherever you are, Uncle Nigel, thanks.

I came, I came, I came. Didn't know I was going to cum until I did. Felt
like I was being turned inside out. Emptying myself totally into this
man. Wanted to disappear inside him. Squirting not only my semen but
everything that was me into him. Then blackness. Did I pass out? Not
sure. But when I came to, I was in Dave's arms again, cuddled, snuggled,
held tight against his hairy chest, while he whispered into my
ear. Couldn't understand much of it - "Baby, baby, baby..." That's what I
was - a man's baby, his boy, his little man.

Giggling.

But it wasn't coming from me. It wasn't coming from Dave. It was coming
from the other side of the room. Weakly, I raised my head and focused my
eyes.

Alfie!

Alfie was standing at the door, grinning, a mini-me of his Dad.

He was in tight-whities, but not for long. He took them off as he hobbled
towards the bed. Fell onto the bed on the other side of his dad.

"Sorry, I'm a bit late," he laughed. "Had to play some of the fuckin' Xbox
with Jack. Hope I didn't miss any of the action."

To his Dad, "Hi, Dad."

"Hi, baby."

To me, "Hi, Charlie. Let me show you what Dad really likes."

That afternoon I found out what Alfie's dad really liked, and I found out a
whole lot more. I found out how Dave the builder made a lot of his money. I
found out why he was away from home most weekends, and why Alfie had
started to go along with him.

"It's not dangerous," Alfie told me, a little breathlessly. "Dad makes the
rules so none of the men is allowed to hurt you. They're not even allowed
to fuck a boy. Well, they are but that's pretty expensive and they're not
allowed to damage you. Like Dad says, damaged goods is useless goods," he
laughed. "I mean, Dad's never let any of them fuck me though I got to say
that lots have begged." I heard the note of pride in my best friend's
voice. "But sucking off a big dick never hurt anybody, 'less you start to
choke on it, of course." Another laugh.

"How's about it? Dad lets me have fifty quid a time. I don't get the
money. He puts it in a special bank account. I've seen it. It's in my
name. Mum doesn't know a thing about it. It's men's business, says Dad. You
could come along and just see what happens first time. We could do stuff
together. The punters - that's Dad's word for them - pay lots and lots to
see what sort of stuff. You know, boys on boys. Come on. What about it?"

"Do you know any of the other boys?" I asked. "Would I know them?"

"Defo no," said Alfie. "I don't know where Dad gets them from. We travel to
other towns for the shows. Dad says never shit in your own backyard 'cos
you'll end up stepping into it. So there's no worry 'bout walking into
school and seeing the guy you fucked the night before." Another laugh.

"You've fucked one of them?" I asked.

"Yeh. 'Course I have. Last weekend I fucked two, and got sucked off two
times as well. I was fuckin' knackered. That's why I missed school on
Monday morning. Dad let me have a long lie-in."

I lay back and thought about it while Alfie suckled my hard-on.

"Let's do it," I said.

"Grfff... mmmm..." Alfie's head came up. His eyes were a bit bleary.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Leave that alone for a minute," I said.

"I said I'll come along. Tell your Dad. Tell Dave. But I ain't doing
anything if I don't want to."

"Deal," grinned Alfie.

I pushed the top of his head.

"Now get down there. And stick a finger up my bum. You know I like that."

"Grfff... mmmm...." came the reply.

I can't remember the name of the first town. There's been so many of
them. They all look alike. Even the places where we give the shows look
pretty much the same. Don't get the idea the places are dirty and
dingy. They aren't. They are usually in the host's living room, specially
done up for the show. And these guys, the punters, have got money, lots of
it. They are businessmen, and doctors, and lawyers. One old fucker was even
a High Court judge. I'm not sure what that is, but Dave, Alfie's dad, says
that's really high up. And there is usually food, 'nibbles', and lots of
booze, but not much beer, it's all wine and whisky, and even
champagne. These guys know how to live.

There's usually about ten men and about six or eight boys. I was shocked at
first because some of the boys seemed so young, even younger than Jack, but
they never got treated badly or roughly. In fact, the men were nicer to
them than to me and Alfie. Some of the men liked to be called 'Daddy',
which sounded sort of silly to me, but I soon got used to it, though it
felt really strange to be sitting in man's lap, me naked and him in a suit,
and him asking "Who's my little man?" and me whispering "I am." Sometimes I
wanted to burst out laughing but Dave warned me that these guys didn't like
being laughed at, and I went along with what Dave said. Grammar school boys
are fast learners.

All the guys had money but some of them were really old, like more than 50
years old or even 60. Some of them had grey hair, even their chests and
pubes. I never really get used to see some little tyke sitting in an old
guy's lap - both naked - the man slobbering over the kid while the kid
bounced up and down on the old guy's prick. I mean with the man's prick
inside him. They must get used to it, the kids I mean. After all, Jack got
used to it, and I remember once when he was with Alfie and Oscar and me, we
tried to... but that's not part of what I'm talking about now.

Alfie and I make our best money when we put on a show for the
guys. Sometimes they all crowd into the bedroom and watch Alfie and me
doing our thing on the bed. If you pay a bit extra, you can sit on the edge
of the bed and feel us up while we're fucking. One guy paid an extra fifty
quid just for getting to feed my hard-on into Alfie's bumhole - as if my
prick couldn't find its way in their on its own (LOL - laughs out loud).

Another time a guy paid an extra fifty quid just to watch me taking a shit!

I mean all I did was sit on the toilet and take a dump. It wasn't that easy
'cos I had to get be naked and get my feet up on the toilet pan so he could
watch the turds slide out my hole. I had to hold them in while he kneeled
on the floor to get a real close up! I think he thought he was a movie
director or something like that. Then he asked to wipe my ass - actually he
asked to lick it clean, but Dave saw my face and told him no, but he could
wipe it with toilet paper. He took ages over that. It's hard not to laugh,
bent over the toilet bowl while some guy is wiping your hole ever so slowly
and carefully. He stayed in the toilet after I left but I don't want to
imagine what he was doing in there.

The big climax is always the same. We boys pile onto the bed, or on the
carpet, and do whatever comes into our heads. Sometimes we take directions
from the punters.

Last weekend I ended up fucking some kid, about Jack's age, on the carpet
while another kid was licking my hole out. I looked back and couldn't
believe how young this kid was. I lost my hard-on for a minute or so. I
mean, you have to draw the line somewhere, but, as Dave says, business is
business, and the parents of these kids get well-paid and nobody gets
hurt. I leave the grown-ups to work things out. They're the ones who know
best, aren't they?

Anyways, like I said, I'm 14 now, and Dave says my 'career' is nearly
over. The punters don't like you so much if you've got hair where you
should have it at my age. Don't worry, Alfie and I are going to be Dave's
assistants. Like we're going into the movie business, or at least the vids
business. Not that you're going to see them on YouTube (LOL) though I bet
they'd get millions of viewers. But Dave says that's where the real money
is - videoing the shows and selling them all over the world on the
Net. Isn't the Net fucking fabulous? I'm even thinking about getting this
story published on the Net. There's a great site called... sorry, I'm
getting off track again.

But if you're reading this, it means I did get it published.

And last thing.

Next time you're watching those kids, keep an eye out for those anal
shots. The fingers and the cock you see might even be mine (LOL). As they
say:

You never can tell.

Love and peace, Charlie xx


THE BEAUTIFUL GAME

1 Sweet Summer Sweat

Sprawled out on the lawn, stripped to the waist, the two brothers were
taking a breather from some late summer afternoon soccer. A trickle of
sweat ran down the younger boy's chest to gather in his belly button. He
ignored it as he turned to face his brother. You don't mean it," he
said. "You must be joking." Propped on his elbow, he gazed quizzically at
his sleepy-eyed brother.

"No, I'm not. I'm really looking forward to school starting again."

"Maybe the sun's getting to you," frowned Jude. "Mum said we shouldn't
spend too much time out here." Jude's frown deepened, he blushed and looked
away as he realised he could see up the left leg of Robert's shorts. It
wasn't that he could really see anything but that shadowy curve could only
be his brother's balls, and if that's where his balls were, his... Jude
wiggled his finger in his ear as if something had suddenly caught his
attention. He couldn't resist looking again. Fortunately, Robert's
long-lashed eyes were closed.

"I really am," Robert added. "I've got a good chance of being captain of
Year 9. That would be something, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would, agreed Jude, his voice slightly shaky as he realised Robert
was wearing no underpants. Although his brother was only two years old,
that meant all the difference. His brother probably had hair down there,
maybe a lot of it." Jude had seen the drawings. They showed them the
drawings last July, at the end of Year 6. They'd be going up to the senior
school the secondary school, the school on the hill. That's where the big
boys went, with their big bodies, their big muscles, and hair down there
and up there. Jude closed his legs together. He felt a hard-on coming
on. He knew the word, 'hard-on', his brother used it, so he knew what it
meant. He liked having a hard-on though he wasn't quite sure what to do
with it.

"And what if you were captain of the Year 7 side," continued Robert. "That
really would be something. You're not a bad player, Jude, but you don't
take it seriously enough."

Jude sighed and edged slightly to the right. "That's Robert all over," he
thought. "Nothing but football. That's all he'd wanted to do right through
the holidays, play football. Even today, in the middle of a heatwave, he'd
dragged Jude out into the backgarden. And it wasn't just a kick-about. Oh
no, it was far more serious. Dribbling, heading, trapping the ball, and
shootie-in at the home-made wooden goal they'd built last June.

"Think you've got a chance of being captain?" asked Jude, squinting
slightly and praying Robert wouldn't open his eyes. His penis was hard now,
and surreptitiously he tugged it into the vertical, feeling it hot against
his lower tummy. He wondered what size his brother's was. He hadn't seen it
for a couple of years. It wasn't that Robert was shy or anything like
that. No, it was more because of his own damn shyness. Even on holiday,
sharing a hotel bedroom, Jude would turn away when his brother was dressing
or undressing. He'd glimpsed it a couple of times and there was no doubt it
was bigger than his, fatter than his, but that was only to be
expected. Robert was 13, he was eleven. He'd catch up some day.

"... and his fucking favourites."

Jude was jolted back to reality by the swear word. It wasn't that he didn't
know the swear words, but here, in the back garden, the kitchen window was
only yards away, and his mother could hear the proverbial pin drop.

"I said I've got fat chance of being captain as long as Hunter is coaching
the team. Bet you he picks Jack Driver again. Fucking cocksuckers, both of
them."

Jude was genuinely horrified this time, not so much by the swear words
themselves, but what the second word implied. Cocksuckers. Did that word
mean what it suggested it meant? Cocksuckers. A cock sucker. A person who
sucks cocks, a person who sucks another person's cock, a man who sucks a
man's cock, a boy who sucks a boy's cock, a man who sucks a boy's cock, a
boy who sucks a man's cock. Did things like that really happen? And did you
suck it when it was hard or soft? It would be easy enough for a man to suck
a boy's cock, hard or soft, but could a boy really take in a man's cock? He
knew men's cocks were big; he'd seen the diagrams in school. He even knew
what a condom was. He blushed again. He'd get lost in a condom. But surely
a boy would choke on a man's cock. He'd heard the word 'muthafucka' but
that didn't shock him nearly so much. He knew mothers had to get
fucked. That's how babies were made. But cocksucker was something else.

Cocksucking was something else, and with a shiver he realised what the
something else was. It was what he wanted to do. Robert lay on his back,
his legs wide open. And that skin, real skin that Jude could see up the leg
of his shorts. He wondered what it would be like. To kiss Robert's
chest. To run his lips down his belly button. To suck up the sweat. To edge
down his shorts - no underpants - and to let his brother's...

"You're not listening to a fucking word, I'm saying." Robert was upon his
elbow. "I said Hunter will probably pick Jack Driver again. He picked him
in Year 7. He picked him in Year 8. So why not pick him in Year 9? Anyway,
me and Mr. Hunter don't get on that well. Thinks I'm too cheeky or
something. But it's not that." Robert was riled now. He squeezed his legs
together, parted them, then squeezed them together again. It was a habit
he'd always had. "He keeps playing me left midfield and I'm right-footed
for God's sake."

"You're two-footed," Jude chipped in, glad to get back in the conversation,
glad to be distracted from those rhythmic legs, glad that the damp on the
front of his shorts would be taken for sweat.

"Not really," said Robert. "I practise lots and lots, but I can't really
cross with my left, well, not when I'm on the run anyway. "But what about
you? Don't like admitting it, but you're a bloody good player. You've got
really good reflexes, and you're brave, or stupid enough to be a
goalkeeper. You just don't take it seriously enough. You should. Specially
now you're coming up the hill. They take sport dead seriously at the
Academy. Nobody'll stuff your head down the loo if you're in a football
team." Robert caught Jude's shiver and laughed. "Hey, stop
worrying. There's not much bullying at college, and nobody's gonna mess
with my brother or they'll feel my foot up their arse." He paused, then,
"but I'd better warn you about..."

Jude never discovered what Robert was going to warn him about. His elder
brother's face disappeared into a bundle of black-and-white fur as Scoot,
the family collie, jumped him, licking his face furiously. "Aw, shit, now
I'll smell like doggie doo," protested Robert as the five-year-old family
pet continued its romantic assault. "Get this fucker off me," he yelled,
pushing the excited dog away. "Scoot, get Jude, get Jude," howled Robert.

Scoot got the message, turned and hurled himself at the younger brother,
this time fastening himself round the boy's right leg and humping
furiously. "Aw, fuck," screamed Jude, no longer giving a shit who might be
at the kitchen window. He tried to shake free of the canine sex-machine but
only served to rouse the beast even further. Scoot humped his naked leg
with grim determination while Robert drowned in his own laughter. "You'd
better get used to it," shouted Robert. "Don't forget the Academy is an all
boys' school."

Robert's laughter was cut short by a half bucket of cold water hitting him
on the back of the head. The second half was reserved for Scoot whose
romantic involvement ended as suddenly as it had begun.

"Will you two, no, you three stop that nonsense and get cleaned up. It's
nearly four o'clock. We have to be at Grandma's by four thirty, and you two
look like something even the cat wouldn't drag in." Her tone of voice told
the boys their mother wasn't joking. "Upstairs, both of you, shower, and
ready in twenty minutes. Or else." Details of the 'or else' weren't
necessary. The boys leapt up simultaneously and sprinted for the back
door. Only 20 minutes, and one shower. Someone wasn't going to be ready on
time.

That someone would have been Robert. The stairs were narrow but Jude was
the nimbler. He was into the bathroom, door banged and locked behind him
before Robert made the landing. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Jude, open the
door. We've only got 20 minutes and there won't be enough water for
two. Come on, open up." Silence. The sound of the shower. "Open up,
Jude. My Play Station all weekend. And you can use my new racquet." No
response. "And my I-pod." The door edged open, Robert slipped in, just in
time to see the shower door close on his brother's pink buttocks. He ripped
off his trainers, tore off his socks, threw off his shorts, pulled open the
door and stepped into the shower room.

Jude was facing the wall, water bouncing from his shoulders. "Budge over,
give us a bit of room," called Robert, using his body to edge his younger
brother towards the white-and-blue-tiled wall. He felt his groin contact
his brother's bottom. "Oh, what the fuck?" he thought, "he'll get used to
that at college." Then Robert called out, "Where's the soap? Are you hiding
the soap?" No response. He leaned over Jude and fumbled for the soap. "Come
on, hand it over."

"I'm using it," came the muffled reply.

"Give it here. I'll do my front and your back at the same time." Ignoring
his brother's protests, he grabbed the soap and started doing his front and
Jude's back. Soapy fingers on soapy skin. There was something very sensuous
about it though that's not the word that came to Robert's mind. His hand
and the bar of soap worked its way down to his brother's bum. "Bubbles on a
bubble," he grinned to himself. For a moment his fingers edged into the
boy's crack, then drew back. "Blimey, what the fuck am I?" he asked
himself. "Some kind of perv?" He didn't wait for an answer but turned Jude
round to hand him the soap bar.

"Crikey, Jude," he laughed, "you've got a stiffy." The younger brother's
eyes stung but that might have been from the soap.

"So've you?" retorted Jude, his voice cracking a little.

"Shit, so I have," laughed Robert. "Must be the hot water." He took a
closer look at his brother. "Hey, Jude, that's not bad for a
little'un. You've got a good four inches there, but your balls haven't
dropped yet, have they?"

Jude ignored the question but took it as licence to gaze at his older
brother. Wow, Robbie was big. It must be at least six inches long, and it
was a lot thicker than his. And hair. Yes, he had hair, of it, but only at
the bottom of his belly. The rest of him was smooth as porcelain. And
Robert's balls had dropped. They actually hung down. He felt a terrible
urge to reach out, to grasp and hold that soapy shaft. More. To drop to his
knees at suck that soapy cock. Tears filled his eyes. Where were those
thoughts coming from? Was he a perv, was that what he was? He wasn't sure
what a perv was. They'd been warned about pervs in school, but pervs were
DOMs, dirty old men that hung around the school gates. Jude wasn't sure why
the DOMs hung around the school gates, and to tell truth he'd never seen
any of them, but he surely didn't want to be one.

"Come on, hurry up," laughed Robert. "The water's turning cold. That'll
kill our hard-ons quicker than anything. Even Scoot couldn't keep it up in
temperatures like this."

Out of the shower the boys bundled, across the landing and into their
bedroom. They grabbed fresh towels and rubbed down vigorously. The mood was
so good that the stiffies didn't seem to matter anymore though Robert
twanged his a couple of times "for luck".

They dressed and swept downstairs. As they went, Robert whispered to Jude,
"Yup, that's quite a dick you've got their brother. Hope you know what to
with it."

Jude had no idea what to do with it but he had the feeling he was going to
learn.


2 A Save In Time

Robert dribbled the ball along the village lane towards The Green, Jude
trailing behind with Scoot. The sun poured down like and honey and now
school on Monday didn't seem such a great idea after all, but nothing could
spoil the boys' mood as they whistled and skipped along the lane.

At The Green, half a dozen boys from Robert's class at the Academy were
playing cricket. "C'mon, you lot," called Robert, "cricket season's
over. It's time for the beautiful game." With this he hoofed the ball into
the middle of the square. There were cries of delight as the boys grabbed
the stumps, made two goals and began to argue sides. "Eight of us, that's
four a side," said Jack Driver, his hand set for paper, scissors and
stones. "Nine of us," corrected Robert, indicating Jude behind him. "Ten if
you include Scoot. Jude can play in goal, he's not half bad."

"No way," protested Tommy Mitchell, "I'm in goal. I need the practice. I'll
be in goal for the team this year."

"Yeh," laughed Jack. "We'll stick little Jude behind Tommy's goal. He can
fetch the balls that Will slices wide."

"Never mind me," said Jude. "I'm not going to be anybody's ball
boy. Anyway, I'm off to see Uncle Adam. Go fetch your own balls." The boys
laughed at Jude's unintended joke, and before the matter could be pursued,
he was off down the lane, Scoot prancing behind him, chasing butterflies,
real and imagined.

Upset at first to be left out of the game, Jude was soon smiling again. He
picked up a stick and threw it for Scoot to chase. As they neared Uncle
Adam's cottage, a mischievous grin crept over his face. A stream ran by the
cottage. Jude flung the stick over the stream and watched as Scoot leapt to
catch it, coming down in the stream with an almighty splash. He emerged
sopping wet from the stream, laid the stick before Jude's feet, poised to
shake the water from his coat. Before he could, Jude grabbed the stick and
flung it over the garden wall. It landed on the lawn, right next to the
blue-striped canvas deckchair in which Uncle Adam lay snoozing, his pipe
smouldering at his feet.

Scoot leapt the low wall in a single bound, fetched the stick and stood
there shaking himself and the water all over the sleeping man. "What the
H...?" came the cry as Uncle Adam leapt to his feet. He took in the scene
in a single glance, spotted Jude and had him on the grass in the blink of
an eye. Jude, dressed only in his shorts, socks and trainers, was easy meat
for some serious tickling, and wriggled helplessly under his uncle's
fingers. Scoot joined in the fun, circling man and boy, sprinkling both
with what was left of the stream water.

"Stop... stop..." giggled Jude, "too much, too much." He fought gallantly
at first but was soon out breath. He lay sprawled below Uncle Adam, who
knelt either side of his hips, his strong bare arms stretching Jude's
childish arms above his head. "I give in, I give in," gasped Jude who lay
there, puzzled.

Puzzled because he wanted to give in, but he didn't want his uncle to let
him up. The smells were intoxicating. The smells of tobacco smoke, of rum
(his uncle's favourite), of the freshly-mown grass beneath him, and of his
own and his uncle's sweat combined to make him light-headed. No, he didn't
want to get up. And not least because he had a damn hard-on again. This was
embarrassing, ridiculous and embarrassing. He was wearing his blue satin
soccer shorts, and, copy-catting Robert, he'd left off his underpants. He
could feel his erection pressing against the thin fabric. What was wrong
with him? He must be a perv. But he was far too young to be a perv, so what
was it?

Uncle Adam hung over his nephew. He looked down at the boy beneath
him. Skinny, in the way that many eleven-year-olds are. The heaving
chest. The tiny starfish nipples. The butterfly shoulders. The long
neck. The sun-tanned skin. The up-turned nose, splattered with
freckles. The slightly full pink lips. The dimple, the cheek bones. The
blue, artless eyes. Lashes that would be wasted on any boy less
attractive. The shock of blond hair with its reddish tints, just like his
sister, the boy's mother. The boy, eyes closed, was panting, breathing
through his mouth, showing the tiny white teeth of childhood. He didn't
want to let him go, didn't want to release him, wanted to stay this close,
forever, or at least for now. Or at least until his erection subsided. Had
the boy noticed? Was that why his eyes were closed? Adam was glad to be
wearing his baggy gardening shorts. Could he lower himself onto the boy?
Feel his hardness pressed against the boy's...

"Hey, Adam, I've got to go..." The cry tailed away as the figure emerging
from the cottage realised its owner was no longer alone.

Adam rolled away from Jude who flipped over onto his front. Man and boy,
uncle and nephew, lay there waiting for the young man striding across the
small, manicured lawn.

"Young man or older boy?" Jude wasn't much good at ages. "Hi, there," said
the stranger. "Sorry to butt in, but I've got to go. That was dad on the
phone. He's got tickets for the match, the cricket," he clarified, "over at
St. Lawrence. Should be good, it's the last of the season. I've cleaned up
the bathroom. Thanks for the shower, Adam... or should I say Mr. Clarke?"

"No need for formalities here," smiled Adam standing up. He was followed by
Jude who stood there, a bit bashful, brushing the grass from his
shorts. Uncle Adam did the introductions. "Jude, this is Toby
Laughton. He's a prefect at the Academy. He does odd jobs for me at
weekends." Jude nodded at Toby's wide-eyed smile. "Toby, this is my nephew,
Jude. I think you already know my other nephew, Robbie, Robert Morton. Jude
is coming up to the Academy next week."

Toby extended his hand. Jude took it. It felt cool and dry. He blushed as
he realised how squarely Toby was looking at him. "Are all the men in your
family as good-looking as you two?" This odd question seemed to be
addressed to Uncle Adam, but Jude felt it was aimed at him, too. Before he
could think of a reply, if he ever could, his uncle interrupted with a
gentle "Naughty." Toby released him with a laugh that burbled like the
stream. "I'd better be on my way. Better not keep the old man
waiting. Thanks for the job, sir. Hope you've got something for me next
weekend." He turned to Jude. "See you at school, young man."

Jude's chest swelled at the 'young man', his eyes following the tall,
elegant figure of Toby Laughton as he loped off down the lane. "He's
nice. I like him," the boy told his uncle. "So do I. So do I," agreed the
man.

"Now, young man, to what do I owe this pleasure?" asked Uncle Adam,
resuming his place in the canvas deck chair. Jude told him about the footie
down on The Green. Disappointment must have sounded in his voice for his
uncle said, "Listen, young man, it's not how old you are that matters, it's
how good you are. I've seen you in goal, you're good, damn good. Now, leave
Scoot here, get your bottom down to The Green and show them what you can
do. After the game, come back with Robbie, and we'll have ginger cake and
lemonade. Now, skedaddle!" He slapped the boy's bum and off sped Jude,
taking the garden wall at a single leap. He'd do it, he'd show them.

Jude's luck was in. He reached The Green to find Ritchie Martin had turned
up, and one side, his brother's, was a player short. "Right, Jude, get your
sweet ass in that goal. We're two-nil down, so we can't afford to let any
more in."

Jude got between the sticks and shook his 'sweet ass' for luck. he laughed
to himself. Sweet ass! Robert must have picked that up from Uncle
Adam. Sweet ass, indeed. How lucky he was. To have such a fun family. He
settled down determined to let nothing past him.

"Your brother's not half bad," said Tommy Mitchell to Robert after a few
minutes' play. Their side had swept the ball downfield giving the boys a
chance for a quick chat. "We've been practising a lot this summer, in the
garden, we erected a couple of goalposts."

"Bet it's a nice erection," murmured Tommy.

Robert laughed. "Not as nice as yours, Tommy. Remember that party at Jack's
when we...?" Tommy didn't have time to remember. He cut Robert short with,
"Look, Jack's bound to score." The ball had been played perfectly into
Jack's path, and he hit it with great power. The ball was flashing just
under the crossbar. Shouts of goal went up. Then Jude appeared to fly
across the goal. Up to his right, he clung on to the ball at full
stretch. A truly spectacular save.

"Brilliant save, Jude!" shouted Tommy, one goal keeper recognising a wonder
save by another goalie. Jude continued to impress the older boys throughout
the game with his bravery and clean-handling of the ball. "He's a natural,"
said Tommy.

"Takes after our Uncle Adam?"

"What d'you mean?" asked Tommy.

"Our Uncle Adam played professional football. He was goalkeeper for..."
Robert mentioned a Premiership team and Tommy whistled his approval. "Might
have played for England 'cept for the injury."

"Injury? Football injury?"

"No, skiing injury. Did his knee in. Uncle Adam always claims a tree ran
out and ambushed him." Tommy joined in his friend's laughter. "Rotten luck
really, but he still coaches Jude now and again."

"Maybe I can come along sometimes. Wouldn't mind a few tips myself."

"Hey, look out, the ball's heading this way." Robert moved forward to
intercept and tackle.

The game continued for another twenty minutes or so. Then by unspoken
collective agreement the boys collapsed on the thick grass under the elm
trees. Jude was thrilled to find himself treated as just one of the
lads. His goal-keeping had earned him his spurs - though spurs aren't much
use to a goalkeeper, he smiled to himself.

As he lay there on the grass listening to the jokes and insults flying
around him, Jude became more and more aware that all the boys were
shirtless in the warm afternoon sun. He couldn't help comparing their
well-built bodies to his own scrawny thing, but at least he was tanned a
golden brown, and not all of them could claim that. His penis was hard
again, but this time he didn't give a shit. He even laughed at the naughty
phrases that slipped into his thoughts - hard-ons, and stiffies, and not
giving a shit. If this was what life was going to be like at secondary
school, roll on Monday!


3 O SUCH A PERFECT DAY

"No hard feelings?"

"'Course not," said Robert, towelling his shoulders and back. "You've done
a really good job last couple of years so it's just natural Mr. Hunter
chose you again, I suppose." Mr. Hunter's decision to name Jack Driver
captain of the Year 9 soccer team came as no surprise, but it wasn't easy
for Robert to hide his disappointment. After all, he really liked Jack and
it wasn't his fault Mr. Hunter had a crush on him. He was bloody
good-looking.

Robert checked Jack was towelling his hair and glanced down at his friend's
penis. It wasn't quite as long as his own but it could be a little bit
thicker. Of course, he'd learned you couldn't guess the length of someone's
dick when it was 'flaccid' - he'd learned that word in the summer, he liked
it - but it gave you some idea. He'd learned that from Tommy
Mitchell. Tommy knew lots of sex stuff and he didn't take it too
seriously. He'd introduced Robert to some 'fun stuff' at the end of last
term but he'd laughed when Robert protested it was 'gay'.

"Call it 'gay' if you have to," Tommy had laughed. "I don't call it
anything. It's just something I like doing, and I like doing it with you."

The conversation took place on Tommy's parents' double bed, one afternoon,
after school. The boys were helping each other with homework - Tommy was
crap at French, Robert was crap at Maths, so they did each other's
homework. To boys that made perfect sense. Afterwards, they were fooling
around in the living room, playing grab-your-nuts, but when Robert had
grabbed at Tommy's, he found himself clutching a serious hard-on. What was
worse, or better, he'd held on a fraction too long. Then, red-faced, he'd
let go.

"You don't have to let go," whispered Tommy, suddenly a bit husky. "You
don't even have to grab, just feel all you want." By the time Robert's
fingers were round the boy's erection, his own penis was up and hard,
helped by his friend's gentle manipulation.

Robert risked looking at Tommy. He had a skin-colour that looked tanned all
year round. His eyes were luminous black, almost as black as his
brushed-back hair. His teeth shone against the colour of his skin. Robert
found it difficult to look at Tommy; his gaze must be a dead
give-away. "Tommy Mitchell is beautiful," he thought. Beautiful wasn't a
word you used about boys, but he couldn't think of any other word that
suited Tommy. And he knew it wasn't just Tommy's face. He'd seen him in the
school showers often enough, watched the water run from his golden skin,
and felt his penis harden in response.

They'd lain on the bed, comparing genitals, comparing pubic hair, comparing
the few strands of hair in their armpits. Then Tommy had kissed him.

Kissed him!

Robert had felt faint, especially when Tommy's tongue pushed into his
mouth, especially when Tommy had invited Robert's tongue into his own
mouth. They'd exchanged saliva, lots of it. "Why wasn't that disgusting?"
Robert had asked himself afterwards. "Why was that so exciting, why did it
feel so good, so right?"

Then Tommy had licked Robert's body, yes, licked his body. Starting at his
neck, he'd licked down to his chest, across his chest, all over his
chest. He licked Robert's nipples for ages, even tried to nip them with his
teeth. And all the time Robert's penis had hardened until it ached, until
he felt he was going to 'cum' (another new and wonderful word) without
anything touching his erection, not even himself. And Tommy hadn't stopped
at his chest, he'd slid down to his belly, probing his belly button, then
licking his pubic hairs until they were sopping wet. And then further down
still... and he wouldn't, not that, not there, surely he wouldn't, but he
did. "He's sucking my cock," thought Robert, and even the idea was
thrilling. But not as thrilling as the feelings that ran through his legs,
his belly, his bum, until he was shaking and shuddering - until, until...

"What do I do?" thought Robert frantically. "Do I tell him? But he must
know. He must feel it. It's throbbing so hard, he must feel it. Will he
choke? Will he swallow it? Is it okay to swallow it? Oh...oh...oh..." The
boy whimpered as his body shuddered and shook, as he pushed himself as
deeply as he could into the warm wet wonder of his friend's mouth, his
friend's throat. His head rolled from side to side on the pillow. Tommy was
squeezing his balls. Tommy was stroking his... "Aw, shit, how did his
finger get there?"

"Fucking hell, Robert. You've got a real hard-on. Do you need any help with
that?"

"Who is that? Fuckin' shit, it's Jack."

At least he was laughing.

"Penny for them," said Jack, wrapping his blue-striped towel round his
waist. "Lucky it's just us two in here. Who the hell were you dreaming
about?"

Robert could hardly say "Tommy Mitchell," so he joined in Jack's laughter
and swung his towel round his growing parts. "Sorry 'bout that," he smiled.

"What's to be sorry 'bout?" said Jack. "Nothing to be ashamed of there. I'd
stay and help but Mr. Hunter promised me a lift home. I'd better shift ass
or I'll be late, and you know Mr. Hunter, he likes all his boys to come on
time."

Jack stepped out of the cubicle and headed for the changing room. "Catch
you tomorrow at training," he called back. "Take your time, but don't do
anything I wouldn't do."

Robert laughed to himself and finished off towelling. Yes, he was
disappointed about the captaincy but he couldn't help liking Jack. And what
was that he'd said? "Do you need any help with that?" Was that a serious
offer? Robert hoped it was, and his penis began to stiffen in agreement.

Dressed, Robert flung his kit-bag over his shoulder and wandered out to
watch Jude who was playing in the 'B' team goal. It was unusual for a Year
7 kid to be playing with the Year 9s but as this was only a practice Jude
had jumped at the invitation. When his older brother arrived on the scene,
Jude was seeing a bit more of the ball than he might have wished. One side
was markedly stronger than the other, and they swarmed round his penalty
area likes wasps around a jam jar. "At least Jude'll be too busy to feel
nervous or worry about any mistakes he makes."

Jude was lucky to get away with one slip when he fumbled a fiercely-driven
shot, but the attacker, a tall, slim Asian lad called Taz, somehow poked
the ball the wrong side of the post. Jude's next slip was more expensive. A
corner came in from the left, up went Jude, but, bounced in a shoulder
charge, the boy let the ball squirm through his fingers and Taz was on hand
to nod it firmly into the net. Robert wished he could explain what was
going on to his brother.

The clue was Mr. Hunter. He was standing on the touchline with Jack
Driver. They, too, had hung around to watch a bit of the 'B' match. And it
was Mr. Hunter who'd put Jude in the weaker side. He was not only looking
for a goalkeeper for the Year 7s, he was looking for a captain, too, and he
wanted to see what young Jude Morton was like under pressure. And the truth
was that Jude was good, very good. It was true he'd made a couple of
mistakes but he'd also pulled off some pretty classy saves and, what was
more important, his head hadn't gone down at all. He looked as bright and
alert as ever.

"Young Morton is pretty good," said Jack as if reading his manager's mind.

"Yep, he's got lots of potential," said Mr. Hunter without taking his eyes
from the eleven-year-old who'd just plucked another corner from Taz's head.

"And you always find the boys with potential," grinned Jack.

"Don't get cheeky with me, young man," warned the teacher-manager, but the
chuckle in his voice told Jack he'd got the joke. "Anyway, I've seen
enough. What time is it?"

"Ten past four, sir."

"What time do you have to be home?"

"I promised six o'clock but I can..."

"Nope. If you promised six o'clock, six o'clock it shall be. That gives us
about an hour and half. Come on, let's go and check out your potential."

Jack's eyes shone. His laughter bubbled in the afternoon air. As they
crossed the playing fields, he turned for a last look at young Jude
Morton. "Mmmmm," he murmured, "there's a lot of potential in the Morton
boys."

If Jack and Mr. Hunter had stayed a few minutes more, they would have seen
a marvellous double save from young Jude. First he parried an awkward
'daisy cutter' headed for the left-hand corner of his net. As the ball
skidded out of the area, Taz pounced on it before anyone else and belted it
towards the empty net. He could hardly believe it when the keeper recovered
in time to block the shot with his legs and scoop the ball over the cross
bar.

"How the hell did you keep that one out, shrimp?" Taz grinned, helping the
kid to his feet. "I'd've put our corner shop on that one."

"Just lucky, I guess. The ball hit my legs," he blushed modestly. But as
Uncle Adam had shown him, even the best goalies sometimes have to make
saves with their feet.

A shrill blast on the whistle ended the game.

"Coming for a shower," suggested Taz. "You've earned one."

Jude looked at the Asian boy's brown skin, big brown eyes, and jet black
hair. He looked at his long fingers and wondered how long... "Wish I
could," he said, "but Robbie and I have to get round to my uncle's. We
promised to do the garden. Then we can stay the evening. We're going to
watch some matches on DVD. Uncle Addy'll make steak and chips. We might
even get a sip of his beer though I don't really like the stuff." Jude
realised he was gabbling on, but he didn't want to stop. And it looked like
Taz wanted to listen. The younger boy realised he was blushing and turned
away with a rather abrupt "Go to go. Robbie's waiting." He moved away with
a wave of his hand, but he was glad to hear a call follow him - "See you
later, Jude, see you later." Jude found himself wishing he really was going
to see the handsome Asian boy, later.

That night Jude lay in bed unable to sleep. Not that he wanted to fall
asleep. Over and Over again he played the events of the day in his
mind. The joy of that wonder save. The agony of the fumble that led to a
goal. He closed his eyes and imagined himself playing for the Academy. In
the goalkeeper's jersey. Let others score fabulous goals or make
never-say-die tackles, for Jude nothing could match playing in goal. He
squirmed round a little and got himself into the ready-for-sleep
position. Usually he didn't even have to do that. Usually he fell sound
asleep that moment his head touched the pillow. But tonight there was so
much to remember.

And on to his private screen came Taz Gurpreet.

Taz who'd been so friendly, so kind, so ready to say "Well done, kid," and
mean it. Taz Gurpreet with those huge brown eyes, thick black hair, long
smooth legs that went right up to his... "I wish I'd time for that shower,"
thought Jude. "I mean, he did give me an invitation. I know he's 13 and I'm
only 11, but they did let me play for them."

Jude tried half-heartedly to push the dangerous images away. He wondered
what Taz would look like naked with the water bouncing from his brown
shoulders. He remembered the time in the shower with Robbie. He wondered if
the Asian boy's penis was the same as his brother's, the same as his
own. Of course, it would be browner, but he guessed that would only make it
prettier.

Cocksucker!

The word jumped into his head. He felt it on his lips. What would it be
like to feel a cock on his lips, between his lips, what would it feel like,
taste like? He couldn't help it, he knew it was wrong, but he slid his
right hand inside his underpants and squeezed his penis. It was half hard
already. He slid the skin back, ran his fingers over the head, it was wet,
no, not wet, a little oozy, a little creamy. He brought his finger up to
his nose and sniffed them. Nothing much. Maybe a little pissy, but apart
from that nothing much. Still, he had to taste and slid two fingers into
his mouth. He couldn't identify the taste, a bit tangy, but he liked it. He
wondered if Taz would taste like that. Did older boys taste the same?

Jude froze. The bed was moving ever so lightly. It didn't take much to move
the boys' bunk bed and he expected it was only Robert changing
position. No, the movement continued, and now it was a gentle, rhythmic
rocking. He strained his ears to listen and caught the sounds - sort of
sloppy, almost like little wet farts, and definitely rhythmical. What the
hell could it be? He lay absolutely still. Whatever Robert was doing down
there, it was shaking the bunk beds. There was a sudden flutter and Jude
risked a peep over the edge. Robert's white sheet lay bundled on the
floor. Nights were still warm, so Robert must now be lying practically
naked on the bed. He felt another distinct movement as if Robert had raised
himself from the bed. Then he heard the faint snap of elastic. It could
only be one thing. Robert had pushed his underpants to his knees. The
rhythmic movement picked up speed.

"I'm not that stupid," thought Jude. "I know what he's doing. He's playing
with himself." The boy wasn't quite sure what 'playing with yourself'
involved, but he knew it had something to do with sex. And sex these days
was on his mind almost as much as soccer. Making as little movement as he
could, Jude eased his sheet aside, raised his bum, and slid down his
underpants to his knees. The bunk beds were fairly rocking now, so he
guessed Robert wouldn't notice much. His hand slid to his own penis - no,
dick was a better word - and his fingers squeezed the shaft into full
erection. He continued squeezing for a few moments, but that didn't seem
quite right. That couldn't make those rhythmic sounds.

"Mmmmm... what else? Maybe..." The boy's fingers wound round his
foreskin. He manipulated the skin down, up and over the head. That felt
better. His free hand cupped the little sac that held his balls. The sac
didn't hang down like Robert's but he could feel the nuts inside move
around a bit. He realised he was moving his foreskin down, up and over the
head of his dick faster and harder than before. He hadn't intended to do
that, it just happened. He could hear Robert's breathing now. Fast and
shallow. In time with the rocking of the bed. In time with the sloppy,
farty sounds. He wondered what his brother was thinking about.

Immediately the images of Taz returned. He and Taz were in the shower. They
were standing close together, facing each other, and Taz's dick as long and
thick as Robert's. And the hair above his dick was thick and black. And
Taz... Taz was 'playing with himself', smiling at him, and playing with
himself. Jude realised he was playing with himself, too. In the shower, in
his bed. And he couldn't take his eyes away from Taz. And something was
happening...

The bed was rocking now. It was Robert below and Jude above. And Jude knew
what his brother was feeling because he was feeling it, too. This
incredible excitement that didn't have a name. This feeling that was not
only in his dick, his balls, his bottom, but all over him, so he felt his
chest was on fire, his tummy fluttering, his legs locking as if he were
going to be struck by cramp. He was desperate to stop, and even more
desperate that it might stop, and...

"Oh... oh... oh..."

Something terrible, something awful, something amazing was happening. He
was squirting himself onto his belly. He knew it wasn't pee. Pee wasn't
like that at all. This was something different. This really was part of
himself. And his dick jumped in his hand, and the head strained forward
like Scoot trying to get off his leash. And the boy's bum rose from the
bed, his hips strained towards the ceiling, and his first orgasm spat its
seed onto his smooth, childish tummy.

Jude lay there, desperate not to make a sound. He wondered what had
happened to Robert, but all he heard was a grunt, and a shift of the bed as
his brother turned to face the wall. He risked a little movement. His
fingers slid onto his belly. There was wetness, a creamy wetness. He
scooped it up with his fingers, brought it to his nose, sniffed it, then
licked it from his fingers. Practically no taste at all.

Once more he wondered if older boys tasted different. If Robert tasted
different. If Jack tasted different. If Taz... then he knew it. He wanted
to taste it from Taz, and he wanted to taste it where it came from, even if
he had to be a ... cocksucker! ... to do it.

Jude sighed and turned to face the wall. Life was getting to be so
complicated, but he'd leave all that for another time. He smiled to
himself, and thought, as he feel asleep, "After all, tomorrow's another
day."


4 ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

"Great save!" shouted Robert as his younger brother pushed one of his best
shots onto the post. "That's the third time you've stopped a certain goal."
Jude beamed. "Let's take a breather and then I'll take some corners and you
come out for them."

Jude grinned and stretched himself out on the baked grass of the back
garden. He appreciated the praise from someone who played in a school
football team, even if that person was only his brother. The boy lay on the
grass posing for imaginary sports photographers, basking in the applause
that thundered round the tiny stadium. If only he were playing this
afternoon, but that was the final selection for Year 9 and he hardly
expected to be asked to play with them. Still, he'd shown what he could do
in the practice matches, and, who knows, maybe he'd caught the eye of
Mr. Hunter. He wouldn't really mind if he weren't captain of the Year 7
team, making the team would be enough. He dreamed about that nearly every
night though last night... No, no, he didn't want another damned stiffy,
not here, not now.

"I'm going in to get some lemonade," called Robert. "Back in a jiff."

The eleven-year-old lay there in the morning sun, telling himself that he
would make goal-keeper, just knew he would. In a couple of weeks he'd be
wearing the green goal-keeper's jersey with the No 1 stitched in black on
the back. He remembered something Taz had said: "You've got what it takes,
kid." Images of Taz came flooding back. Taz, naked, in the shower. He felt
a familiar stirring beneath his shorts. "Aw, shit, not now," sighed Jude
though all he wanted to do was reach for himself as the images grew more
and more sexy.

"Hey, Jude, come in here. Hurry up. It's important." Jude looked up to see
Robert shouting from the back door. "Hurry up. It's Mr. Hunter. He's on the
phone."

Stiffy or no stiffy, Jude didn't intend to keep Mr. Hunter waiting. He
sprinted for the back door and grabbed the mobile from his brother's
hand. "Y-Y-Yes, it's Jude Morton here." He heard the chuckle in the man's
reply. "Hey, calm down, boy, it's only a football match."

Only a football match!

What football match?

"I need you this afternoon," explained Mr. Hunter. "Tommy Mitchell's gone
and twisted his ankle. I don't want to risk him. How would you like to play
for a Year 9 side? You did well enough in the practice games. But if you
think you're too small, I'll understand. It's asking a lot, I know."

"No, no, it isn't," stammered Jude. "I really want to play honestly I do."
He jumped as Robert goosed him from behind. He covered the phone, turned
and hissed at his brother. "Fuck off, Robbie. This is serious."

"You still there, Jude?"

"Yes, yes, sorry, sir, it was Robbie, my brother, you know, he was..." Jude
realised he couldn't finish the sentence. "He was...?" prompted
Mr. Hunter. "Well, he was... congratulating me," gasped the boy.

Mr. Hunter laughed. "Well, he probably won't be congratulating you this
afternoon. He'll be playing for the other side, the 'A' team, and I'll bet
he wants to stick a few past you." There was a pause. "Anyway, I'll see
both of you at the school grounds at two o'clock sharp. And, Jude, you'll
be wearing the Year 7 goalie's strip. This is your chance to make it your
own. Don't fluff it."

"Don't worry, sir, I'm no fluffer. I'm the real thing."

Jude couldn't understand the burst of laughter from the other end, but he
was too excited to be concerned.

"Two o'clock then."

"Yes, sir, two o'clock on the dot."

Jude listened to the click of the phone before turning to Robert. "I'm
playing, I'm really playing this afternoon. Come on, let's get out there
and practise some more. Come on, Robbie, we've only got..." He glanced at
the kitchen clock. "...four hours."

Robert laughed. "You'll have to practise on your own. I'm off round to
Tommy's. He'll be a bit miserable about that ankle, so I'll go round and
cheer him up." His younger brother frowned for a moment, then - "Okay, you
do that. I'm going round to Uncle Addy's. He'll give me a few tips for this
afternoon. But be back here at 1. I'm not going to the school grounds on my
own. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Scouts' honour?"

"Oh, fuck off."

Luckily Mum, who'd gone shopping, had taken Scoot with her, so Jude was
able to hurry across The Green and down Honeysuckle Lane without
sacrificing precious minutes to any of Scott's doggy business. He took the
back garden wall in a jump and hurried into the cottage through the back
door.

As quiet as a mouse, he crept through the kitchen, utilities room, his
uncle's study, and the living room. He wanted to surprise his uncle, but of
his mum's brother there was no sign. "Bet he's upstairs having a nap," Jude
whispered to himself. "Hope that gammy knee isn't bothering him. I want
some practice in the garden." He slipped off his trainers and climbed the
spiral staircase to the cottage bedrooms.

Bang - bang - bang.

"What the hell's that?" Maybe his Uncle Addy was doing a bit of D-I-Y.

Bang - bang - bang.

"Harder, fucking harder."

That was his uncle's voice. What on earth was he doing?

Jude stepped up to his uncle's bedroom. The door was half open. He stood to
one side and peeked in. At first he couldn't make head or tails of what was
going on. There were people on Uncle Adam's double bed. Well, there seemed
to be at least two people because he counted four legs. And the legs
were...fucking naked! And so were the people. What the hell were they doing
- wrestling? It was a big double bed, he'd wrestled on it with Robbie lots
of times, but never naked, and never at this time in the morning.

Bang - bang - bang.

"That's it, Toby. Get it all the way in."

Jude was stunned. One of the naked bodies was Toby Laughton. Not that he
recognised him. All he could see was a bum, the muscles in the buttocks
contracting and relaxing, as whoever it belonged to rammed himself
into... the person below him. But the person below him was, was his Uncle
Adam. The voice was a bit strangled but it was definitely his Uncle
Addy. Yes, it must be. Because the person on the bottom was wearing his
uncle's socks. His legs were locked round the waist of the person on
top. It was his uncle's voice, his uncle's socks, so it must be his uncle.

The boy suddenly put the jigsaw together. The person on top was fucking the
person beneath him. That must be it. They'd been told about fucking in
junior school though they'd never used the actual word. He'd even seen
fucking, lots of it - the school rabbits, the gerbils, the guinea
pigs. That didn't quite fit what he was looking it. Because fuckers were
males and females, boys and girls, gentlemen and ladies. But those fuckers,
just like humans, had a penis and a vag... a vagi... something or
other. But on the double bed was different.

On his uncle's bed were two boys. Well, one boy and one man. So where could
the boy be putting his penis?

At that exact moment eleven-year-old Jude Morton found out.

Toby Laughton raised his buttocks high until his thick, hard erection was
held in Adam Daley's rectum only by its head. The sixteen-year-old held
himself up on the flat of his hands, then plunged himself in fast and
deep. He rose again, paused, then plunged himself to the hilt, his thick
pubic hair flattened against the man's buttocks. Bang - bang - bang. The
tempo was slower now but the man's head bounced against the headboard, and
the headboard bounced against the back wall.

By stepping to the left a little, Jude could see it all in fine detail. He
wondered if it hurt. He wondered why they were both sopping wet - had they
had a shower before climbing on the bed to fuck? Because no doubt
about. That's what they were doing - his Uncle Addy and an Academy prefect
- fucking on a double bed and... and what? Were they getting the same
feelings as he'd had last night? Would that stuff come out of Toby's dick?
God, the boy had big balls. He could see them swing in their sac. Is that
where the white stuff was kept? And where would it go when...?

At that exact moment, give or take a few seconds, eleven-year-old Jude
Morton found out.

Toby pulled his dick - "Fuck 'n hell, it must be eight inches! - out of his
uncle's arse, and jerked it hard and fast. It began to spurt. Spurt the
white stuff. Not just three little squirts like him, but four, five, six
big streamy spurts that splattered onto his uncle's back. Spurt! Spurt!
Spurt! Spurt! Spurt! The spurts slackened and Toby worked the rest out onto
the bare back of the man beneath him. Then the boy collapsed onto the man's
back in an audible Squelch!

That was enough for Jude. He sensed one, or both, would look round. He
backed away, turned and tip-toed down the stairs. In the kitchen he slipped
on his trainers. Quietly closed the backdoor behind him, then sprinted
across the garden, down the lane, across The Green, over the wall and into
his own garden.

What the fuck was he going to do?

It took him five minutes to figure things out. He'd wait half an hour, no,
an hour, because maybe they would have a shower now, maybe it was Uncle
Addy's turn to fuck Toby, they'd need some time. Then he'd phone his uncle,
give him the good news, and beg him to come to the match. He knew it
wouldn't take much begging. He loved his uncle and his uncle loved him and
they both loved football and they were both goal-keepers. Yes, that's what
he'd do.

Meanwhile, he had some time to kill. He smiled to himself and slipped a
hand inside his shorts, inside his underpants. He was slippery down there
already. Then he began to play the movie in his mind: 'Toby and Adam Fuck
For Fun'... but no sooner had it begun than the lead characters changed,
and they were Taz Gurpreet and - himself.

Had Jude been in Tommy Mitchell's bedroom at that moment, he would have had
no need of make-believe.

Robert lay poised above Tommy's stomach stroking the satin skin, circling
his friend's belly button with a finger-tip, running his fingers down to
the boy's boxers shorts, edging them lower to touch that wondrous, silky
black pubic hair.

"How come your skin's like this?"

"Like what?" asked Tommy edging his ankle to a more comfortable position.

"Brown. Tanned, I mean. Not tanned really 'cos it's this colour all winter,
too." His fingers traced the outline of Tommy's penis; it was no longer
flaccid.

Tommy laughed. "Go ahead, Robbie. You can play with it if you like. 'Cos I
like! And my skin? Well, that from my great granddad He came from
Jamaica. I never knew him, of course, but mum told me a bit about our
history. I must have inherited some his genes, I guess."

"I bet you inherited this from him, too," said Robert squeezing his
friend's semi-hard-on between finger and thumb. "But it means your dead
lucky. You don't have to lie out in the garden all summer just to get a bit
of a tan. And it makes you look so..."

"So what?"

"Aw, shit, Tommy," blushed Robert. "Beautiful. It makes you look so
beautiful. Damn, I sound really gay."

"What's wrong with being gay?" asked Tommy raising his bottom from the
bed. Robert needed no more encouragement. Using his thumbs on either side
of the boy's waist, he edged the boxer shorts to his knees. Released from
its cotton confines, Tommy's prick sprang to attention. Robert stroked it
in wonder. How could five inches of hard flesh mean so much?

"People hate gays, especially boys," said Robert.

"No, they don't," said Tommy. "They don't hate them. They're scared of
them, especially boys. They're scared 'cos they have the same feelings,
too. Not all of them but lots more than you think. Come on, Rob, you've
done biology. You know what happens in puberty. We all get flooded with
that hormone. What's it called - testosterone, or something? And the brain
tells the body, "Go get some! Never mind what it is - just go and get
some."

"Some what?"

"Some sex, you dumb ass. Yes, like that, just like that. Push the skin
down, but not too hard. And touch that place just under the head. Yeh,
there. That's it, right there." Tommy laughed. "I'd tell you to push a
finger up my bum, but you're such a prude, Robert Morton." He paused then
went on. "Puberty's a bit like an atom bomb. It just goes off in your body,
and you're... you're horny most of the time. That's why we all sit in
classes squeezing our dicks. That's why we wank ourselves silly."

"That's true," said Robert. "Don't you dare tell. Don't you dare tease
him. But I think Jude, my brother, had his first wank last night. He
must've thought I was sleeping. He started slow but then he really went for
it."

"And what were you doing while he was wanking?" asked Tommy.

Robert blushed. "Thinking about you. Wanking, too."

It was Tommy's turn to laugh. "And what were you thinking? What were you
doing? Go on. Don't be shy. Just do it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"I was doing this," said Robert. He leaned over Tommy's stomach. he pressed
his nose into the silky black pubic hair. He breathed in deeply. Then,
gently pulling the foreskin back, he kissed the head of Tommy's dick. He
marvelled at its wondrous colours. The golden brown of the shaft. The
purple engorged head with its tiny little slit. The two blue veins that ran
intertwined the length of the shaft. The urethra that carried a million
little Tommys. The curve of his scrotum. His balls that seemed the size and
shape of walnuts. The little hairs on either side of the ball sac. The
scents and smells - soap, piss, semen - that filled his nose, his brain,
his life with such intoxication he could hardly think, hardly breathe. From
light years away, he heard a whisper, "Do it, Robbie. You know you want
to."

And, oh, he did.

The boy's mouth closed over the boy's cockhead. He let the shaft slide into
his mouth. His lips ran down the shaft until the cockhead pressed against
the roof of his throat. He slid back, then forward again. Gently at first
he applied pressure to the shaft. Gently at first he squeezed the side of
the shaft with his lips. Later he would marvel. He'd never had a lesson
before but he knew what to do. Gently he squeezed Tommy's scrotum in time
with his sucking. His sucking! He, Robert, was a cocksucker! That hateful
word, but now he knew how it really felt, and it felt good. It felt good
and right, as if he were born to do it. Let the world go take a flying
fuck. He was sucking cock and he was loving it. Loving it as he loved Tommy
Mitchell.

He felt a shiver run down his back. Prickles at the back of his neck.

"I love you Tommy Mitchell. Yes, I really do. And I love everything about
you. There's nothing about you I don't love. And whatever makes you feel
good makes me feel good, too."

Holding Tommy's hard-on with his right hand, sucking it to the root,
releasing it to the tip, then going down on him again, Robert let his left
hand slide below Tommy's scrotum. The boy raised his bottom from the
bed. Robert's fingers slipped into the hollow, into the crack of the boy's
buttocks, his fingers seeking that dark and private place. The tip of his
middle finger found its centre. He pressed at the spot. It felt hot and
moist. As he sucked, he pushed insistently at this tiny spot that had
become the centre of the universe. Suck and push, suck and push.

That voice from far away again. "Wait a minute." He felt his hand being
removed, brought to Tommy's lips, and his middle finger sucked into the
boy's hot, wet mouth. Tommy sucked, he sucked, all was for the best in the
best of all possible worlds. Then his hand was lowered and his middle
finger again found the spot. He pushed and pushed - and then the universe
was his, it opened and flowered for him, and his finger sank in as far as
his hand. Once again he knew what to do. He even guessed what he was
doing. He was finger-fucking his best friend. He was sucking his cock and
finger-fucking his arse. Robert Morton was sucking Tommy Mitchell off, and
finger-fucking him at the same. And he was good at it! he knew he was good
at it. But he could be even better, even better for Tommy.

And this time the voice was closer, this time the voice wrapped itself
round him. "Aw fuck, that's it right there. What the fuck's that? Deeper,
Robbie. And harder. And faster. Yes, yes. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck
meeeeeeeeeeeee!"

"I wish we could smoke," sighed Tommy.

"What the fuck for?" asked Robert.

The boys stretched out on the single bed, sharing the pillow, back against
the headboard, Tommy idly playing with Robert's left nipple. "'Cos that's
what you're mean to do after some good sex. Just lie back and have a ciggy,
relax, chill out."

"But I don't smoke. And neither do you?"

Tommy laughed. "Of course I don't, dummy. I was only imagining."

"Was the sex... good?" asked Robert.

"Good?!" said Tommy. "Look at the sheets. I was gripping them so tight, I
nearly tore one of them. It was a lot better than good. It was... awesome."
Tommy sometimes used words like 'awesome' that nobody else used, but then
he went to America a couple of weeks every year, to Florida, where he had
some relatives. To a place called Fort Lauderdale or something like
that. Robert wondered if there was a real fort there. He wondered what
America was like, especially Florida. He knew there was lots of interesting
stuff there, like Cape Kennedy, and Disneyland, and stuff like that. He
wondered what American boys were like. Did some of them do gay stuff? Would
they like to do gay stuff with him?

"Hey, beautiful dreamer," interrupted Tommy, "sure you wouldn't like some
before you go?" He leaned down and kissed his friend's nipple. "Wish I
could come to the match but I've got to stay off this fuckin' ankle for a
couple of days. But I can still..."

"No, better not," said Robert. "I've heard it drains your energy, and I
want to be at my best this afternoon. But...later?" The question in his
voice made Tommy laugh and ruffle his hair. "Yeh, later, sweetheart, but
not too much later. Look what you've gone and done again." He looked down
the bed. Robert's eyes followed. The thin cotton sheet was tented. "Aw,
shit," said Robert, "I'd like to just stay and..."

"Get off my fuckin' bed. Get your sorry ass outta here. And you'd better
grab a hat-trick this afternoon or it won't be my finger up your arse,
it'll be..." He reached down and waggled his erection.

Robert blushed and swung himself reluctantly from the bed. Then plucking up
courage, he turned and leaned over Tommy, and kissed him full on the
lips. Tommy pulled him down, and...

"You will come, won't you, Uncle Addy? You will be watching?" asked Jude
for the fourth or fifth time.

"You just try and stop me, young man. I'll be there at one thirty sharp, in
case you want a word or two before the match. Now let me go. I've got a bit
of work to do here, but I promise you I'll be there at 1.30. And, hey, is
it okay if I bring a guest?"

"A guest?"

"Yes. It's Toby Laughton. He's been doing some odd jobs round the house
today, a bit of drilling and such, and he's staying for lunch. You met him
the other day. He thinks you're a hot little goalie, and I know he'd love
to see you play in a real match. Okay, then?"

Jude was dazzled.

Toby Laughton. A school prefect taking an interest in him. He blushed as he
recalled the last time he'd seen Toby. Well, he'd actually seen Toby's
clenching buttocks and long, stiff prick, but that made no difference. Toby
Laughton thought he was a hot little number. Could life get any better than
this?


5 A KIND OF MAGIC

Jude stood, hands on hips, dejected that his side, the underdogs, had
thrown away a two-goal lead. He frowned at Robert's little dance of
celebration. Sometimes it was difficult to love his own brother, especially
when he'd been lobbed from outside the penalty area. He had to credit
Robert with catching him off his line, and the lob had been inch-perfect,
but no goalie likes to be made to look silly, and he had looked a little
silly. "Well, you won't catch me out twice," he whispered under his
breath. "Not if I can help it."

Five minutes later, Jude had the chance to redeem himself but not quite in
the way he intended. He watched Robert flick the ball past the left back
and cut into the penalty area. He knew exactly what his brother would do
next because he'd seen him practice it a hundred times in the back
garden. Robert dragged the ball along the 18-yard line. Jude knew he'd
feint to the left, then turn to the right and slide it into the far corner.

"Not this time, you won't," he thought, homing across his path like a
missile. Robert sensed the danger and put on an extra burst of speed taking
him clear of the on-coming goalie. He steadied himself, raised his right
foot - and that's when Jude hit him full tilt. It looked more like a rugby
tackle than anything else, and Robert was sent sprawling in the penalty
area. Around the ground came the inevitable cry: "Penalty!"

Then Jude noticed Robert was lying still, eyes closed, hardly
breathing. "Oh, no, what have I done?" thought the younger Morton
scrambling over to the prone centre forward. He bent over his brother
whispering, "Robert, Robert." Within seconds, both boys were surrounded by
a bunch of players and the referee. Tears sprang to Jude's eyes. But the
tears disappeared in a flash when Robert suddenly opened his eyes, sat up
and shouted, "Penalty, ref. That's was a bloody penalty!" Everyone burst
out laughing, even the referee, who could have booked Robert for
time-wasting, or play-acting, or bringing the game into disrepute, or
whatever.

"'Fraid so, young man. Penalty it is." This was addressed to Jude whose
face was bright red. "I'll get you, I'll get you," he whispered to his
brother. "I'm going to save this penalty if it's the last thing I do."

"Who's taking the penalty?" asked the ref.

"Guess that'll be me," said a voice.

Taz Gurpreet stepped forward. Robert threw him the ball. Jude groaned. He
knew how hard Taz could hit a dead ball. For a moment, his only plan was to
get out of the way of the ball, then he thought, "Don't be such a wimp. You
know he's going to aim it for the top right hand corner. That's his
favourite spot. Just be on your toes and get up for it." In his heart, Jude
knew he had little chance of reaching the ball, but he'd give it his
best. That's what Uncle Addy had taught the boys, "You can only give it
your best. But nothing less than your best will do." He glanced to his
left. Uncle Adam stood on the touchline, holding Scoot on a leash. Beside
him stood Toby Laughton. he blushed to remember the last time he'd seen
them, then shrugged his shoulders, and got on with the job. There could
only be a couple of minutes of the match left. If he saved this penalty,
the 'B' side would come away with a draw, and he would have played his
part.

He watched Taz place the ball on the penalty spot. It would be easier if he
wasn't so good-looking. Stop that! get on with it.

He watched Taz look at the ball, turn, take a few steps back, turn, run up
to the ball and - belt it!

What a save!

What a wonderful save?

The ball was knocked out of its flight and rose to fly well over the bar.

What a fuckin' save!

But it wasn't Jude who'd saved it.

It was Scoot!

Excited by all the shouting, worried to see Robert flat on his back,
nervous because Jude looked so anxious, Scoot had jerked the lead from
Uncle Adam's grip, sprinted across the pitch, and flung himself at the
football. He'd done it lots of times in the back garden. He usually got
petted for doing it. And he made it! The ball hit his body and flew over
the bar... while Scoot flew into the back of the net!

The dog was back on his feet in a tick. Barking with excitement, he bowled
the startled Jude over, leapt on him, and started licking his face all
over. Only a few minutes ago, he'd been lying happily at the side of the
pitch nuzzling and licking his balls. And here he was now, licking
excitedly at his young master.

"Get him off. Get him off me," yelled the boy, more embarrassed than
angry. Round him he heard gales of laughter. Then he felt his hand taken
and he was pulled to his feet. He shook himself and looked up. It was Taz!
"That's the funniest thing I've ever seen," laughed Taz. And suddenly Jude
saw the funny side of it, too, and joined in the laughter.

The referee stepped forward, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Great save," he said, then with a blast on his whistle, he announced the
match was over. It had ended in a 2-2 draw, and everybody was happy.

Jude, however, couldn't keep a slight frown from his face.

"What's up?" asked Taz.

"I got lobbed twice in that game. A good goalkeeper doesn't get lobbed
twice."

"Hey," said Taz, "don't be so hard on yourself. You're only 11. We're all
13 or 14. Of course, we're going to try and lob you. Even your own brother
will try and lob you." The handsome young Asian paused for a moment. "Hey,
tell you what. If Robert says it's okay, I'll give you some practice. My
dad isn't picking me up for an hour. I want to practise my shooting, so
having a goalkeeper will be great." He smiled. "Especially if it's you."

"Great idea," beamed Jude. "Hold on. I'll run and ask Robert and Uncle Adam
if it's okay, but I'm sure it will be."

Jude was away and back within two minutes. "Yes, yes," he panted. "Robert's
going round to Tommy Mitchell's to tell him how the match went. Uncle Adam
and Toby have a bit of something or other to do. Then Uncle Addy'll collect
me at," he looked at his watch, "at 5 o'clock sharp. That's about right,
isn't it?"

"Spot on," said Taz. "Let's get started. We want to have time for a shower
afterwards, don't we?"

Jude's frown returned for a moment. "Oh, I didn't bring a towel. I thought
I'd be going right home now."

"No prob," smiled Taz. "I always bring a spare. In fact, I always bring a
couple of spares."

Jude's face lit up. "Great. I'm a bit pongy already, so I'll be really
pongy by the end of our practice. Let's get on with it."

And get on with it they did.

Jude was pleased Taz took the practice seriously. Taz had wonderful ball
control and could lob it within an inch of wherever he chose. Time after
time, he lobbed it towards the top corner of the goal, and time after time
Jude had to rise like a dolphin to touch it away. After half an hour, the
sweat was running freely from both boys, and Jude was loving it. But he was
still relieved when he heard Taz say, "Enough's enough, and that's
enough. Come on, last one in the shower's a rotten egg."

The boys ran fast towards the pavilion, and the school's showers, tearing
off clothing as soon as they were inside the single-storey building with
its wooden benches three-quarters of the way around, and the open cubicles
at the far end. It wasn't until Jude was standing naked under a hot shower,
the water bouncing off his head and shoulders, Taz only inches away, that
he realised the situation.

Everyone else had gone home. The pavilion was self-locking. When they left,
all they had to do was pull the door shut behind them. Jude looked at
Taz. The Asian boy was facing away, long and lean, soaping his chest, his
armpits, his arms. The younger boy gulped. His penis began to stiffen. He
thought of horrible things, dead cats and half-chewed sparrows, and things
that Scoot dragged into the kitchen, but nothing helped. He was hard, he
was erect, he was terrified. What would Taz think of him if he turned and
saw his shame? Taz wasn't helping as he bent over to soap his legs and
feet. Jude couldn't take his eyes from the boy's muscular buttocks; they
were round, like ping pong balls, but brown instead of white.

Then Taz must have been soaping his dick and balls. Standing up, he opened
his legs wide, and, truth to tell, he was a bit bow-legged, and the crack
of his buttocks opened just enough for Jude to see...

He was hairy, Taz was a little hairy back there. Not much but it was
definitely there. Jude was shocked, not because Taz was a little hairy but
because it reminded him how hairy Toby Laughton was back there. He must
have shut it out of his mind. But now, as he remembered Toby thrusting
himself deep inside Uncle Addy, he saw how hairy Toby was back there. Of
course, Toby had hairy legs but the hair sorted of petered out at the top
of his legs. But it began again - hairy between the buttocks. Was Uncle
Addy like that? What about Robert? No, they'd been in the shower, and he
hadn't seen trace of a single hair. But would the hair come later? Would he
get hairy like that? He didn't know what to think about it, it was too
much, too grown-up, too... sexy. Jude had to admit it to himself, there was
something really sexy about bums, even if they were hairy, maybe because
they were hairy.

"Hey, do me a favour, Jude, will you? Do my lower back. Can't really reach
it." That was Taz, and he was passing the soap to him, and he was asking
him to soap his back.

Jude's penis throbbed.

All he wanted to do was grab it, jerk it wildly, shoot his white stuff, if
there was any, and then, then what?

He began to soap the Asian boy's back. He didn't really know how silk felt,
but however it felt it must feel like this. Soap glided over skin, and
every time his fingers touched skin, they tingled. It was like magic. Taz
seemed so fragile, best to glide as smoothly, as gently as possible.

"Hey, Jude, I'm not fragile. I'm not going to break. Get stuck in. And do a
bit lower. I've ricked the top of my arse."

His arse! Taz's arse. The soap slid down the boy's back. Jude noticed a
triangle shape at the bottom of the boy's spine. Then the boy's buttocks
bloomed into perfect globes. He ran the soap across the right globe. The
soap and his hand slid into the boy's crack. As if his fingers had been
burned, he whipped them away, only to return almost immediately. The boy's
bum mesmerised him. He could soap it, touch it, feel it forever. If only,
oh if only...

Taz caught him by surprise. He turned suddenly and looked right at
him. Jude wanted to die on the spot. Not only was his penis erect but his
balls seemed to have risen in his scrotum until they'd all but
disappeared. He tried to say something but the words were lost in a
strangled stutter. All he could do was lower his eyes, and see that, and
see that... Taz had a stiffy, too!

It was long and hard and brown and purple at the top, and the base nestled
in the thick black hair at the bottom of his stomach. Jude didn't know
where to put his gaze, but if it had to be anywhere, this was where he
wanted it. But what was Taz thinking? He must think him a little freak, a
little perv, and little... he wished he knew more words to describe his
shame. He would start crying in a moment, and that would end it all.

"Hey, hey, c'mere, Jude. It's all right. Everything's all right. I like
you, too. I like looking at you, too. I'd like to touch you, too." Jude
pressed himself into the boy's open arms, felt the boy's erection burn
against his belly, felt his own stiffy somewhere between the boy's
legs. His felt Taz's knuckles run the length of his spine, and - "oh, oh,
oh," - he was whimpering, and trying to hold the flood back, but it was no
use, and he felt his body shudder, his hips shake, his knees tremble, and
that stuff was spitting from his body again. And he was pressing it onto
Taz, like a school rabbit on heat, he couldn't help himself. And Taz let
him hang on, Taz held him tight, Taz kissed the top of his head
until... until the stormy seas calmed into quieter waves, waves that still
washed over him but which he could now bear.

Taz eased him back a couple of steps and whispered, "Hey, look, look at
me." Jude looked at Taz's penis. It was long, hard, thick, and just
so... "Touch it if you want to. Hold it for me. I'd like that." Jude
wrapped his fingers round the boy's erection. His finger touched, just. He
knew what to do. He began jerking the skin the length of the penis. He
wanted to give Taz that feeling, make him happy, see his stuff squirting
from his body. There was more he wanted to do, much much more, but he
didn't know what it was.

Taz eased him back. Unwound the boy's fingers from his shaft. Raised his
head with his fingertips. "Not here, not now, not like this."

"But I want..." protested Jude, not sure what he wanted.

"I know, I know, I want it to," said his friend gently. "But my dad'll be
here in a few minutes. We don't want him to catch us like this, do we?"
Taz's last remarked ended in a little laugh. "Look at the time, Jude, look
at the time." He turned the boy so Jude could see the clock on the facing
wall. It read quarter to five. Where the hell had the time gone? "Come on,
let's shower for one minute more, then we're out of here, but is it okay if
I dry you, all over, and I mean all over."

It was Jude's turn to smile.

"Yes, please, I'd like that. I'd really like that." The boys stepped into
the full blast of the same shower. They felt the last of the hot water
bounce from them, then stepped, hand in hand, from the cubicle as if they'd
been newly baptised.

"Taz," said Jude, finding it a little difficult to speak as he was towelled
vigorously all over. "Taz, you won't tell, will you? I mean, it's okay,
that we like..." He'd almost said 'love'. "...each other and all that, but
you won't tell, will you? I don't know what Robert would say. He's probably
tease me silly."

"Okay," said Taz, "I promise not to tell anyone."

"And I promise the same. Not tell anyone. This is just me and you, just me
and you, Taz." He thought a moment. "And Scoot. I have to tell Scoot. I
tell Scoot everything. Is that okay?"

"That's okay," said Taz solemnly. He bent and kissed the young boy's
shoulders.

"Hey, Taz, can I ask you something?"

"Ask away, Jude, ask away."

"Well, is it okay for a boy to kiss another boy?"

"Yes it is," said Taz, then added, "but it's a very private thing, and you
should only do it in private."

Jude turned to Taz.

"We're in private here," he said, looking up into those bottomless brown
eyes, "so is it okay if I kiss you here? But only if you want to," he
added.

"Oh, I want to. I really want to," murmured the older boy, leaning forward
to press his brown lips against the warm pink lips of the younger boy.



6 - AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY WAYS

"Have you ever been around the world?" asked Taz.

"Around the world? I've never even been out of England," replied Jude. He
propped himself up on his elbow and looked at the Asian boy.

"Well, would you like to go around the world with me?"

"'Course I'd love to. But my mum would never let me. I'm only eleven. Mum
always want to know where I am. She treats me like a baby."

"Does your mum know where you are now?"

Jude looked down his own naked body. His semi-hard penis lay across his
little balls. He blushed. "She doesn't know exactly where I am," he
admitted. "But she knows I'm out walking Scoot and that I'll be back by
teatime."

He stretched himself out on Taz's bed. He loved the feel of the silk duvet
under his back, under his bum. The duvet was deep burgundy with gold
stitching. The curtains were also deep burgundy, and the deep, upholstered
armchair. It was only a bedroom but it looked like a miniature Indian
palace. He smelled the incense that burned on the bedside table, the smoke
circling upwards. He felt so comfortable he could lie there
forever. Especially with Taz stretched out alongside him, the boy's brown
skin so much darker, so much richer than his own. He looked at Taz's penis
- a brown snake hanging across his left thigh. He sighed. He was so lucky
to be here, in Taz's home, on a boring Sunday afternoon. Robert had gone
off to Tommy Mitchell's again.

Then the phone had rung. It was Taz! Did he want to have some more shooting
practice? Yes! Meet at The Green! Yes! But when he'd arrived at the Green,
Scoot prancing around him, Taz had invited him to visit his home. His
family were out visiting. They'd have the place to themselves. Yes! Yes!
Yes!

Jude was amazed how natural it felt. He hadn't felt shy at all. Of course
he was a little embarrassed when he'd stripped off his clothes. He was so
pale against Taz's beautiful brown skin. But he didn't mind being naked
with Taz. He'd jumped on his friend's bed and stretched himself out like an
invitation, his penis hard and eager. And Taz had stripped and stretched
out alongside him. Jude thought the sex would start right away. He was a
bit scared but he was too excited not to want it, whatever it was. But Taz
had done nothing, only talked, and asked him questions, and told him about
his own family, his own hobbies, and he'd shown a real interest in him.

And now Taz was offering to take him round the world. He wasn't sure what
that meant, but he trusted Taz, and whatever it was, he wanted it.

"Lie back. Cup your head in your hands. Get really comfortable," instructed
Taz. "Now close your eyes. Keep them closed. No matter what, keep them
closed. 'Cos we're off round the world. Here we go."

Jude sighed and closed his eyes.

He felt Taz's lips against his forehead. Lips, warm and wet. Felt Taz's
tongue lick across his closed eyelids, then slide down his little nose. He
imagined what that would look like. Taz had a very long tongue, the longest
tongue he'd ever seen. Taz's tongue could reach well past the tip of his
own nose. And it was pink, not brown. And now it was tracing his lips,
sideways. Jude opened his mouth. He guessed Taz wanted to stick his tongue
in his mouth. He liked that. He wanted to taste the Asian boy's saliva
against. But Taz only pressed his lips against the younger boy's lips. Then
his tongue was licking under the boy's ear, first right, then left. That
tickled a bit and Jude giggled but he kept his eyes shut as he'd been
instructed.

The warm, moist tongue slide down his chin, down his neck, then headed
right across his shoulder blade leaving a warm, wet trail. It retraced its
path then lingered in his throat. Jude didn't have an Adam's apple like Taz
so he felt wet kisses pushed into the hollow of his throat. The tongue
headed left across his shoulder, then all the way along his arm, his hand,
his fingertips. Taz sucked the boy's fingers, one by one. Jude couldn't
help it, his penis was really hard now. He imagined his friend's lips were
round his stiffy and he was sucking it like he was sucking his finger. He
wanted to reach down, play with himself, work his hard-on, but, no, he had
to stay on position, no matter what. Taz's mouth sucked on the boy's thumb
for a while then his tongue retraced its path to the boy's armpit.

Jude was taken by surprise. Taz's lips were glued to his armpit, he was
sucking the flesh, then his tongue would lick it all over as if he were
scooping the last of the ice-cream out of a glass bowl. Jude wasn't sure
why but there was something really sexy in having his armpit, and then his
other armpit sucked, and he was a little disappointed when the tongue and
trailed its wet way to his chest. He felt his friend's tongue trace
patterns round his chest, and then felt lips fasten round his right
nipple. The eleven-year-old boy had little sticky-out nipples and he'd
sometimes felt a bit embarrassed about them, but now Taz seemed keen to
fasten on each one, to hold a nipple between his lips and suck it
gently. His nipple began to feel erect - Was that possible? - and Taz
seemed to be sucking as if he was a baby at a mummy's breast. Jude couldn't
understand why but again he was swept with sexy feelings as the older boy
worked on his nipples. He wished Taz would play with his hard-on while he
was sucking; now and again his bum pushed up off the bed in sheer desire.

The tongue traced circles round the eleven-year-old's belly, stopping now
and again to suck at his belly button. "God... God..." thought Jude, unable
to find any words to express what he was feeling. His penis had never been
so hard. It actually throbbed and ached. He felt the head of his cock had
pushed right out of his foreskin, and that the skin on the shaft was
drum-tight. His balls were high in his scrotum.

But it wouldn't be long now. Not long until Taz's mouth closed over his
erection. Not long until he was deep in that wonderful, wet cavern. He
didn't know how he knew it, but he knew it - he knew what Taz was a
'cocksucker' and that it was his cock that was going to be sucked! What a
wonderful world! He only wished he was bigger down there. As big as
Robert. To give Taz something to suck on. He was so little. Robert said he
was big for his age. But he was only three and half inches when fully
hard. And he looked tiny next to Taz. So he hoped he was enough for Taz,
that Taz could have a good suck on his cock. And that he, yes, he would get
the chance to suck on Taz's big brown cock. How wonderful would that be!
And he'd tried to do a good job. Yes, he'd give his best. That's what Uncle
Addy had taught the boys, "You can only give it your best. But nothing less
than your best will do."

Taz missed his hard-on!

Jude couldn't believe it. The older boy's mouth had circled round it,
licked the inside of his thighs, but then it had moved on, down his right
leg, licking, licking, licking. Then Taz had kissed and licked his right
foot, sucked on his toes, one at a time, then returned to his thigh. Now,
now, it's got to be now. But, no! Then Taz had licked down his left leg,
kissed and licked his left foot, sucked on his toes, one at a time. Let it
be now, let it, be now, but, no!

"Keep your eyes closed. Turn over," Taz instructed.

Jude turned over. Cradled his head on his arms. Kept his eyes closed. And
then gasped as Taz covered his bottom with hundred of little kisses. At
first it had seemed silly. the kisses meant nothing, but as Jude felt the
warm, moist pressure on his skin, his penis had hardened again, and he'd
pressed himself deep into the silk burgundy duvet.

Then he felt Taz's hands on his bumcheeks, felt the long brown fingers
split him like a peach. The eleven-year-old's face burned into the
pillow. He felt completely open. His most secret place exposed to the other
boy's gaze. He tried to tighten his hole. Maybe Taz would just take a peek
and move on. But, no, he felt that long pink tongue on the inside of his
bumcheeks, and it was licking and kissing there, too. He felt so ashamed,
ashamed to be exposed, but ashamed because there was something incredibly
sexy about the feeling, too. Imagine Taz wanting to do that. Then he felt
it - the hot tip of Taz's tongue was actually touching his... What was the
word they'd learned in school? - his... his... his anus.

Not only touching it but tickling it with the tip of his tongue, pushing
against the tiny opening. Jude tried to tighten his hole again. But he
didn't want to tighten it. No, he didn't want to do that. It was awful,
terrible, but he didn't want to tighten it, he wanted to... and he did. He
relaxed his hole muscles - What were they called? - yes, his
sphincters. There were actually two of them. He remembered that from
school. So he made a conscious effort to relax them. And it worked! Because
he felt the tip of Taz's tongue inside his anus! Was that possible? And if
it was, how much of his tongue could Taz push up his bum? Would it hurt?
Would his hole close up afterwards? What if he had to go to the doctor? And
tell him!

"Doctor, doctor, my hole won't close?"

"And how did that happen, young man?"

He couldn't tell him, he just couldn't. And if Robert found out, he'd laugh
his head off. He'd never let him forget it.

But it felt so nice. He wanted to put his own hands down there, hold his
bumcheeks wide open, help Taz to help himself. But what would Taz think?
Surely he'd think Jude was rude, a rude dirty little boy, and he never
wanted that to happen. But, oh, it felt so nice.

And then it came to and end. Why did all the best things have to come to an
end?

Taz's tongue was travelling up his spine, licking and kissing each
vertebra. Then his shoulders. Then the back of his neck. His dad used to do
that. When he stayed with him and Robert and mum. Before he left. When dad
bathed him, he'd tickle the back of his neck with kisses. Not kisses like
Taz's kisses. Dad kisses. And he missed them. He'd forgotten how much he
missed them.

And then the whisper at his ear, "Turn over. Eyes closed."

And he turned over. And now Taz was kissing his lips, his mouth for
real. And he opened to let the long brown snake in. And it tickled his
tonsils. And Taz opened up to him, and his little tongue was inside Taz's
mouth, his tongue running along those bright, white, shiny teeth.

Then Taz raised his head.

"Welcome home," he whispered. "Open your eyes."

Jude opened his eyes. There was that beautiful face inches from his
own. Those big brown eyes as deep as the pools at the river. That smile
only for him. He was so happy he wanted to cry, but instead he whispered,
"It's my turn now."

"Your turn?"

"Yes. To visit my favourite parts of the world."

"Are you sure you want to? You don't have to do anything," said Taz
quietly, lovingly.

"Yes. It's your turn to follow MY instructions. You have to lie back. Close
your eyes. And don't look, no matter what?"

"Okay, you're the boss," said the 14-year-old Asian boy.

"Right," said Jude. "Stretch out on your back. Hands under your head. Get
totally comfortable. Now close your eyes and keep them shut. No
peeking. Promise?"

"I promise," said Taz, doing exactly what he was told.

Jude waited a few moments to make sure Taz was keeping his eyes
closed. Then he slid down the duvet, and curled himself so that he could
lean over the boy's groin. Tentatively he reached out a hand and rang his
finger along the sleeping brown snake. He snatched a look at Taz's
face. Eyes closed. Good. He returned to the tube of flesh and ran his
pointing finger along it again and again. It felt warm and soft but somehow
completely alive. He opened a wide space between thumb and finger, circled
Taz's cock and gave a gentle squeeze. He felt the flesh stir and harden. He
squeezed again and again, but oh so gently.

The 'snake' was alive now. It filled and fattened. Filled, fattened and
straightened until thumb and finger couldn't meet at all. Until Jude had to
circle it with his whole hand. The shaft was long and hard, but it was a
funny sort of hardness. It was a soft hardness. Was that possible? And even
though it was stiff it felt full of life. The head peeked out of the
foreskin, then pushed all the way out, helped by Jude who slid the foreskin
back as far as he could. Not too far. He knew from experience that could
hurt. But was so fascinating. The feel, the texture, the throbbing along
the underside, the veins that circled the shaft disappearing into the thick
forest of black hair at its base. The little eye, so much bigger than his
own, that seemed to invite kisses.

Could he? Would he? Yes, he would.

Jude leaned forward and kissed the head of Taz's cock. He thought he heard
a moan, more like one of Scoot's whimpers. He glanced up. His friend's eyes
were closed. Good. That gave him permission to do whatever he wanted. And
he knew what he wanted. He leaned forward and planted another kiss on the
tiny mouth, another, and then another. The head of the boy's cock was wet,
and getting wetter. It was almost like saliva. Jude gave the 'saliva' a
tentative lick. What was that taste? It was sweet but it was also slightly
sour, just slightly, and in a nice way. Was that because of what Taz ate,
what his family ate, what his mother cooked him. He knew Taz's family had
two restaurants, or was it three? He'd been to one them. It was called
'Spices' and his meal had tasted a little like this -sweet and sour. Robert
said you'd get used to it. You might not like it at first, but you'd get
used to it, and you'd really like it.

He swiped the head with his tongue again. He got more this time. He let it
linger on his tongue. Yes, he could get to like this. And after all, it was
just part of Taz, so it must be good. He lowered his mouth, circled the
head with his lips, and let the head rest just inside his mouth. Wasn't
life weird? This was what Taz pissed through but that didn't matter. Well,
not at that moment though he didn't fancy a mouthful of piss if Taz
suddenly got the notion. Don't worry about that. Nobody would ever do
that. So there he was, lying on Taz's bed, holding his stiff cock at the
base, hairs tickling his fingers, sucking on the head of his cock - and it
seemed the best possible place in the whole wide world to be. He realised
his other hand was between Taz's legs, gently kneading the sac that held
his balls. Why was he doing that? He had no idea. But it felt good when he
did that to himself so it probably felt good to Taz.

He kept on sucking, kept on thinking. There was so much to make sense
of. Yes, this was what boys pissed out of, but it still seemed
'beautiful'. He couldn't think of any other word. And it tasted
just... lovely. That was the closest he could come to describing it - just
lovely. Then he remembered something else. Taz had kissed him, long and
deep and hard. And where had Taz's tongue been just a few minutes before -
up his bum! Not his own bum, of course, up MY bum, thought Jude. And it
didn't seem to matter one tiny bit. Of course, you should keep your bumhole
very clean. He'd always been taught that. And now he had an extra reason:
keep it clean for your friend because he might want to stick his tongue up
there AND kiss you afterwards!

It wasn't enough. Sucking the head wasn't enough. He remembered when he'd
played 'Oliver' in the school musical. He laughed as he thought to himself,
"Please, sir, I want some more," and lowered his head to suck in more of
Taz's thick cock. He got half of the boy's cock in his mouth before he
gagged. His eyes watered as he let it slide out again. But it had felt
good, so taking a deep breath, he went down on it again. Nobody'd told him
but he knew what to do. If you slide your hand up and down your hard-on to
get that feeling, you had to... He let his mouth slide up and down Taz's
shaft, taking in about half each time. He felt his saliva gather in his
mouth and run down the shaft. He loved the feeling but he knew he had to do
more, he had to speed things sup, so he speeded up the rhythm and squeezed
is lips tight against the flesh as they rose and fell.

He felt Taz's fingers in his hair.

Was that allowed?

Who gives a fuck?

Maybe if he was lucky it would happen. Maybe Taz's cock would squirt the
white stuff. What would he do if it did? How would he know it was going to
happen? And when? Should he take his mouth away? Was it rude to keep it
there, or rude to take it away? There was so much to get right if he was
going to be a good little... cocksucker!

That's it!

Suck as hard and as fast as you can.

So he did.

And when Taz tried to warn him, Jude ignored him. Ignored the fingers
pulling in his hair. Ignored the warning that came from so far away. And by
then it was too late.

Taz squirted - no, Taz spurted, spurt after spurt into his throat. Jude
swallowed, gulped and swallowed again. There was just too much. He couldn't
swallow it all at once. Some escaped from the side of his mouth. Never
mind. He'd scoop that in later. For now just swallow every single
spurt. That's what he was there to do. And he'd fuckin' do it perfectly.

Taz hauled him away, gently, gingerly, hauled him away and up into his
strong brown arms. He looked into the boy's eyes. They were glazed, dazed,
filmy, far away, but they were triumphant.

Jude cuddled into the strong brown arms and whispered, "Did I do okay, Taz?
Was it okay? I did my best. Was it okay?"

"Oh, sweetheart," came the whispered reply. "It was better than okay, it
was the best, simply the best."

Jude's father used to call him 'sweetheart'. Used to say, "Sweetheart,
you're the best, simply the best, better than all the rest."

Jude snuggled deep into the warm brown chest.

Outside, in the garden, Scoot barked twice.



7 - PARALLELOGRAM

"Fuck me."

Robert was taken by surprise. Not so much by the request. He sort of knew
that one day Tommy would ask him to do it. But not today. He'd only learned
the thing called '69' the day before, so Tommy's "fuck me" came as a bit of
a surprise. No, it wasn't what Tommy asked as much as the way he'd asked
it. It was quiet, tender, insistent, and didn't seem like part of the game
they'd been playing on Tommy's mum and dad's double bed.

They were naked. They were sweating. They'd tried most things Tommy could
think of short of going all the way. And Robert was surprised Tommy hadn't
asked, "Can I fuck you?" He was the leader in most things, so Robert had
expected to be fucked first.

But Tommy had surprised him, by whispering tenderly in his ear, "Fuck me,"
and that'd surprised him. Mind you, he'd probably have been even more
surprised if he'd been able to see his little brother at that moment. Jude
was sixty-nine-ing with Taz Gurpreet. At that moment Jude was struggling to
take all of the Asian boy's swollen eight inches while Taz had sucked in
the younger boy's cock and balls at one go.

Robert had felt a little guilty, leaving Jude on a sunny Sunday
afternoon. But he knew his brother would take Scoot for a walk, probably
drop in at Uncle Adam's, and it was always fun at Uncle Addy's. He might
drop in on the way home, but for now...

"Fuck you? You really want me to try and fuck you," asked Robert. "I've
never done that before. I've seen pictures, men and women, but I've never,
you know... Have you?"

Tommy Mitchell laughed and pulled his friend into his chest.

"No, I haven't. What kind of boy do you think I am?" There was a note of
protest in the question, but it was far from serious. "Actually, I haven't
fucked anyone before, and I haven't been fucked before. So I'll be..."
Tommy sang the end of the sentence, "...like a virgin, fucked for the very
first time. Like a v-i-i-rgin..."

"Shut the fuck up, Mitchell," laughed Robert. "You're a bloody good
goal-keeper but you're crap at singing." Robert paused, became serious. "I
don't know what to do. Fucking, I mean."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Tommy. "It isn't rocket science. You get your
dick hard." He tweaked Robert's thickening penis. "You grease it up. Then
you stick it up my arse, and Nature takes care of the rest."

"But won't it hurt?" asked Robert.

"'Course it'll fuckin' hurt," said Tommy. "That's not a cucumber between
your legs, but it's big enough for my little hole. But I don't think it'll
hurt that much. If it does, you'll hear me scream like hell. Do you want to
give it a go - yes or no? If you don't, that's okay by me. We can go back
to the kids' stuff. But I want to feel what it's like to get fucked, and I
want you to do it. Just think. You'll be my first forever and I'll be yours
- forever."

"Okay," said Robert. "What do we do?"

"Okay!" said Tommy, a smile lighting up his face. "Go into the
bathroom. The one over there. Mum and dad's. Rummage in the wall
cupboard. You'll find a big jar of Nivea cream. Go and get it while I fix
things here."

Robert swung himself from the bed. It felt weird to pad across the bedroom
carpet, naked, with his hardening cock bouncing on his balls. In the
bathroom he sat on the toilet for a moment. Did he want to do this, fuck
his best friend? Yes, he did. But he was a bit worried. What if he was no
good at it, what if he was useless? What if he disappointed Tommy? He
sighed and rose, turned to the mirror cupboard, opened it and found a big
jar of Nivea staring him in the face like an invitation. For a moment he
giggled to himself. A weird image had come to him, of him trying to shove
the whole jar up Tommy's arse, and Tommy howling, "Only the cream, only the
fuckin' cream, you moron." Robert straightened his face and stepped back
into the curtains-drawn bedroom.

There was something odd about the bed. Then he realised what it was. It had
turned shiny black. Tommy had covered the whole bed with black bin
liners. What the fuck for? Of course! It could get a little messy - Nivea,
and sweat, and cum (Tommy's word for semen), and... he didn't want to think
about what else. And didn't want to make a mess of Mrs. Mitchell's
patchwork quilt. Yuk!

Tommy sat on the edge of the bed. "C'mere," he said. "Give me the
jar. Stand there. Yeh, there, right in front of me." Tommy twisted open the
screwtop and got a big gob of Nivea on the fingers of his right hand. With
his left he raised Robert's penis. Within seconds it was standing up
hard. He stroked the shaft with his cream-covered fingers. He slid Robert's
foreskin back and slobbered the head with more cream. "Your turn," he
said. "Take a big scoop." Robert took a big scoop. Tommy turned on the bed,
held himself raised in his hands and knees, waggled his bum at Robert and
whispered, "Do the honours."

"Pardon?"

"My arsehole, you dummy. I'm not having your big prick up my arsehole if
it's dry, not matter how greasy your dick is. That would really hurt. Get
your fingers in. One at a time, mind. Don't forget, I'm a virgin, fucked
for the very first time."

Robert took a deep breath and pushed one of his friend's buttocks to the
side. He could see Tommy's hole. The skin was a lovely brown. It paled
towards the centre of the boy's buttocks, but there, dead centre. It was
like a little mouth, but it was sort of puckered, as if it wanted to give
him a little kiss. He put the pad of his middle finger right on the
hole. Wow, it was hot! Not hot really, but it was warmer than the
surrounding skin. He began to stroke the little mouth up and down.

"That's it, that's it," said Tommy, "but push in as you're doing it. Don't
worry, you won't hurt me. Just think what comes out of there, the size, I
mean." Robert didn't want to think about what came out of Tommy's hole but
the thought of what was going in there excited him and he felt his prick
stiffen even more. Smear and push, smear and push, and... he was in! His
middle finger had slid in up to the first knuckle. What should he do now?
Wiggle and push, wiggle and push, that seemed the right thing to do. And
his middle finger slid right down to where it joined his hand. he couldn't
feel anything in there, and, for some reason, he wanted to.

"Ready?" he whispered. "I'm going to try and work in two fingers now."

"Go for it," whispered Tommy.

Two fingers took about five minutes. He had to take it easy. Too much too
soon hurt would Tommy. His friend was brave but he could hear the pain in
the muffled cries and whimpers. But finally both fingers were in as far as
they could go, and Robert was 'sawing' in and out quite happily.

"Three," came the muffled voice. "You'll have to go for three. Get more
cream on your fingers."

"Would you like a magazine?" asked Robert. "Something to read while I'm..."

"Robert, shut the fuck up and get on with it. This isn't easy on my neck."

"Ooops, sorry," said Robert, sloshing a huge scoop on cream on his
fingers. Two fingers were easy now. Three were going to take some time, or
so he thought, until Tommy suddenly opened up, and his three fingers slid
easily into the hilt. He wiggled them about. It felt sorry of mushy in
there, when he touched the sides. "That must be the inside of his rectum,"
thought Robert, trying hard to remember what the diagram of private parts
in his Sex Ed. book looked like. For a moment he wished he'd brought it
with him, then he'd know where everything was.

"That's it," said Tommy. "Get up on the bed and get your dick inside
me. Don't think it'll hurt now."

Robert clambered up on the bed. It wasn't easy. The bin liners were slippy
and the cream didn't help. With one hand he tried to separate his friend's
buttocks. With the other he held the shaft of his cock and poked it around
in the space between. His creamy skin kept sliding away from Tommy's creamy
skin. Where the fuck was it? A few times he got what he thought was the
knob of his cock against Tommy hot brown creamed-up centre. But he couldn't
be sure. He poked and prodded and, though Tommy tried to guide him, it was
hopeless. Finally Tommy collapsed on the bed and Robert fell onto his back.

"S'no good like this," panted Tommy. "Let's try it this way. Get off
me. And get off the bed." Robert followed instructions, his erection a bit
droopy with disappointment. He watched as Tommy stretched himself full
length on his back on the bed. Then the boy bent his legs towards
himself. "Come on, get in the space. Let me get my legs over your
shoulders. And mind my fuckin' ankle." Robert clambered back onto the bed,
in the space between his friend's legs, and hoisted each leg onto a
shoulder. Then, kneeling, he edged himself deeper into the space.

This was much better! He could look down and see Tommy's face. He laughed
as the boy stuck out his tongue at him. Then the boy's look became
serious. He reached down his body, and with both hands pulled his buttocks
as wide apart as he could. Robert couldn't see the hole but the geometry
was much easier. Almost at once he located the little anus, then felt
Tommy's fingers take him and guide him to the spot. He edged his hips
forward and lowered his body over Tommy's. He pushed. He pushed
again. Something gave, and he was in, at least his knob was in. Wow, and
double Wow. Then he heard Tommy moaning and panicked a little. "Am I
hurting you? Will I take it out."

"No, no, I'll get used to it. It hurts like hell but it's fine, it's okay,
honest. Just give me time to get used to it. How you feeling?" Robert
looked down into the face below him. Something that might have been love
swept over him. He'd always liked Tommy. He couldn't think of anyone
outside his family he liked more, and Tommy was letting him do this. He
didn't care if they stopped now. This was enough... enough forever.

But it wasn't. Though the joiny bit where his knob met the shaft burned a
bit, Robert knew he wanted more. Gently he leaned forward, his weight
forced another inch or so inside his friend's rectum. He stopped, he
waited, he looked at the face below him. Sometimes it was an angel's face,
sometimes an old man's, sometimes a baby, and sometimes it was just Tommy,
his Tommy. He leaned forward to kiss the boy and his shaft slid halfway
home.

"My God, my God," sighed Tommy.

"It's hurting you, it's hurting you," cried Robert. "I'd better stop."

"You do, and I'll fuckin' kill you," hissed Tommy. "It hurts like hell, but
there's something... I don't know... it's like making a penalty save in the
last minute of the game. You just know you gotta do it. Shove some more
in. You have got some more, haven't you?" The last question was giggled,
and, reassured, Robert hurried to comply. He lost his balance, fell
forward, and buried his cock in Tommy Mitchell's arse - to the hilt!

"Fuckin' hell," yelled Tommy. "I said fill 'er up but not all in one
go. It's like I've got a huge shit inside me, a log, fuckin' hell." Robert
felt vague proud.

"Go for it, sweetheart," whispered Tommy. "That's what we're here for. So
fuck me!"

With one free hand, Tommy started to work his cock back to erection. Robert
grabbed a hip in each hand, eased his cock back, then slid it into the hilt
again. Shit, it was hot in there, hot and tight, and his shaft felt it was
being gripped by sponges on either side. After a couple of minutes, he
found a rhythm, and slid himself in and out, feeling a warmth spread from
the base of his cock up his belly, over his chest, round his neck. The same
warmth spread downwards, across his thighs, his hips, his arse that
suddenly felt all muscly as he clenched and unclenched it. He was doing it,
he was actually doing it, he was fucking, and he was fucking his best
friend. Whatever happened, nobody could ever take this away from him.

He felt the need to speed up. It wasn't a conscious choice. Something was
happening to him. He felt less in control. His body was taking over. That
didn't seem to matter. That was the right thing to do. He opened his eyes,
looked down at Tommy. His friend's eyes were closed. He couldn't work out
the expressions on Tommy's face. Was that pain or pleasure? He could feel
Tommy's fingers and the head of his cock bounce against his belly. Tommy
was wanking himself, so he must be enjoying it, enjoying being
fucked. Robert had to go deeper, faster. His cock was telling him that. His
thrusts became quicker, shorter, his breath faster, more shallow, the sweat
running down his back, into the crack of his bum. He was sweating. More
than that. He was wet. All over. Even the hair, falling in his face, was
wet. And all the time, faster, deeper, harder. This was the way it had to
be. He wondered if... no, he couldn't wonder about anything now, he was
beyond wonder, beyond thought. It was time to go home, to drive all the way
home, to feel the sweet surrender of just letting things be the way they
should. And there it was.

But this was way beyond his own hand. This was even beyond Tommy's
mouth. This was a thousand mouths and a thousand fingers. This was it. His
roller coaster ride. His big dipper. His tunnel of love. Drive in, pull
out, drive in, pull out. He wasn't aware of it but Robert, head thrown
back, was pounding Tommy now. And Tommy was driving up to meet him, his
hand working furiously, savagely on his own cock. Lift off! Splash down!
There, there, there!

Robert felt himself spurt into the boy below. And not just sperm, not just
semen, not just cum. This was his entire self emptying into the boy
below. This was it -the Big Bang! This was it - the moment of Creation!
This was it - the bells of Ying and Yang going ding-a-ling-a-ling!

He couldn't breathe. He fell forward. His damp hair flopped across Tommy's
face. His lips touched Tommy's lips, mouths opened, tongues searched, each
boy breathed for the other, took the other in, became the other. Robert
heard himself whisper - "Tommy, Tommy, you just don't know," and he felt
Tommy's arms wrap around him, felt Tommy's lips touch his ear, heard words
from Tommy he'd never ever forget.



8 - PICKING UP GOOD VIBRATIONS

"This rain's never going to stop."

"Yes, it will. Stop whining. Get back to bed."

"I'm not whining," said Jude though he knew he was but he couldn't
help. "It's probably been raining all night," he said, staring miserably
out of their rain-spattered bedroom window. "They'll probably call the
match off."

"Maybe they will. Maybe they won't. Stop worrying. It's only a
friendly. And you won't even be playing if Tommy's ankle is okay." Robert
cuddled down and slipped his hand into his Y-fronts. Even the sound of
Tommy's name made his penis throb. He had a morning hard-on and he was
determined not to let Jude spoil it.

"I know it's only a friendly. I know I might not be playing... but I
might. So I want this bloody rain to stop." Jude imagined his dreams
disappearing down the drainpipe with the rain. "Maybe you should phone
Mr. Hunter and ask if the match's going to be cancelled."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Jude, it's only 9 o'clock. The match isn't till 2
o'clock. Get back to bed."

"No, I'm going to stand here. I'll watch the rain. I'll tell you if it
slackens or if it looks like stopping."

"Don't bother," said Robert, his fingers gently working his stiffy. "Even
if the rain stops, the pitch could be water-logged. Then they'll have to
call it off."

"Don't you say that. Don't even think about it." There was a pause,
followed by a yelp. "Damn it, Robbie, my gloves, my goalie's gloves. I've
left them at Uncle Addy's. I'd better phone and..."

The younger Morton, dressed only in Y-fronts, hopping from one foot to the
other at the window, never finished the sentence. He was caught in the back
of the head by a pillow, his own pillow. Robert had slid from his bed,
reached up, got Jude's pillow, and threw it across the room, catching his
brother beautifully.

"You... you..." He was no match for Robert but caught him by surprise as he
dived across the room. Robert toppled back over a large blue bean bag. Jude
diving on top of him and the wrestling was on!

Jude had the advantage at first, forcing Robbie into a crab position over
the bean bag. Chests pressed together, the brothers struggled for the upper
hand, but with a two-year difference, Robbie managed to turn the tables and
get to his feet. The boys did a funny little dance as the struggle
continued, but pushing him backwards, Robbie pressed Jude's legs into the
bean back. His legs gave way, and Robbie lowered him into the bag. It was
Jude's turn for the crab position, his crotch pushing up into his older
brother's. Both boys were panting. Robbie put his legs either side of the
boy beneath, so they gripped and held him in position.

It was Jude who noticed it first. His brother's cock was hard, very hard,
and it was pressing against his own. His penis stiffened in response until
their two cocks, separated only by cotton Y-fronts, pressed against each
other. Jude looked up at Robbie. His eyes were closed. Then he started to
move his groin in circles, first left, then right. This time it was their
cocks doing the funny dance. Jude closed his eyes. It wasn't Robbie on top
of him. It was Taz. And they weren't just having sex, they were making
love.

He felt Robert's fingers slide inside his Y-fronts. He raised his bum so
that he could edge them down. At the same time his own fingers pushed
Robert's Y-fronts down his bum. He felt their naked cocks fence. They were
on fire, he was on fire, his face burning. He closed his eyes and
surrendered to pure sensation. He felt his brother's lips against his
neck. Heard the murmur, "Tommy... Tommy..."

Bang! Bang!

That was their door! That was their mum!

"Boys, are you ready for breakfast yet?"

The Morton brothers were off each other in a flash, Robert in the lower
bunk, Jude in the upper. The door swung open. "Morning, boys. Remember you
asked me to get you up a bit early today. You've got a match, haven't you?
And the rain's beginning to ease. So, have fifteen more minutes and then up
you get. Breakfast on the table in half an hour." Mrs. Morton closed the
door gently behind her.

Silence hung heavy for a few moments. Then Jude swung himself down from the
top bunk, landing lightly on his toes. "I'm going to check the rain," he
announced. "And after breakfast, can we please phone Uncle Adam? Just to
check he knows when to pick us up."

From the lower bunk came a muffled something. Jude saw movement beneath
Robbie's duvet stop. He laughed to himself, "Sexy beast." The rain had
practically stopped. He climbed back into bed, closed his eyes, found his
stiffy, and began to relive the weight that had been on top of him only a
few minutes before. Most of the images were of Taz but a few of Robert
crept in. Jude sighed. "Aw, shit," he thought. "We are brothers and we've
always shared everything anyway."

Above and below the bunks began to jog and jiggle.

At that moment, half a mile away, Uncle Adam would not have appreciated a
phone call. He, too, was looking out of the window, but he was hardly
concentrating on the rain. Standing in front of him, feeling every thrust
of the man's penis, Toby Laughton was wondering exactly where his prostate
gland was.

It wasn't that he disliked being fucked, but to be honest he'd rather be
doing the fucking. To be fair, he and Adam took equal turns, but Adam only
really enjoyed it when the older man hit the magic spot, otherwise it was
all a bit of a pain in the ass. In the early days it had been incredibly
exciting, painful but exciting. Now it was a rather routine, and to be
completely honest, he'd rather be in bed with Adam, feeling the older man's
arms around him, cradling him in the spoon he made with his body,
whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

He liked making love with an older man. All that slam, bam, thank you
ma'am, of his first few ventures into sex with boys his own age had been a
bit tedious. He'd loved being seduced by an older man. Seduced? That was a
laugh. If anything, he'd done the seduction. He'd hung around Adam's
cottage doing odd jobs until he was part of the furniture. He'd worn shorts
so tight and skimpy his mum wasn't going to let him out of the house. He'd
dropped hints until he despaired Adam Daley was hopelessly straight. He'd
got so desperate he'd deliberately run straight into a tree, banging his
nose, then letting the blood run straight down his T-shirt and shorts so he
had to take them off, had to have a shower, had to call out to Adam, "Don't
go." In the shower, he'd played with his prick until it was tumescent, as
hard as he dare have it without a full erection, then stepped out of the
shower with the magic words -

"If you try to seduce me, I won't try to stop you."

It was so bonkers, he giggled. Then gasped as Adam push his cock in so deep
that his pubic hair tickled the prefect's bum. He gasped again and pushed
backwards. That was it, there, right there. He turned his head and felt the
man's lips against his, his tongue forcing its way where his cock had been
only fifteen minutes ago. "Uh, uh, uh. Yes, there, right there." Damn it,
he'd pulled his cock back a bit. That's what Adam did. Took you right to
the edge, the hauled you back, making you more desperate to go over the
edge every time. Boys? Who needed them when you had a real man? He giggled
again. He sounded like something out of a porno movie.

Boys.

An image popped into his mind. He was kneeling behind Adam, his lover below
him, on all fours. He was taking him from behind, driving so hard and fast
into him the man's head was bouncing off the headboard. Then he'd caught a
glimpse of a boy, in the wardrobe mirror on the other side of the room. At
first he thought he was seeing things. No, it was a boy, a young boy,
standing just outside the bedroom door, eyes wide, mouth open. He'd seen
the boy before. It was young Jude Morton, Adam's nephew. He'd popped into
the garden a couple of times when Toby was pruning or weeding or mowing the
little lawn. He had a dog. What was the boy's name? Scotty? No, that was
the dog, but it's name wasn't Scotty, it was something like Scoot. And the
boy wasn't Robert. That was his elder brother. What was the younger boy's
name? Anthony? No, not that. Aaron? No. Jude, that was it. Jude Morton.

Yes, Jude Morton. Jude. He'd met him at the match. For some reason he was
keeping goal for Year 9 though he was just... what eleven? Yes, that was
it. He was eleven and he was coming up to the Academy in a few days. Bloody
good little goal keeper. And bloody good-looking. But then so was his
brother Robert. So was their Uncle Adam - his Adam, who...

"Fuck me!" That hit the spot. Adam was hunched over him now, going hell for
leather. But considerate as ever, Adam was jacking him off at the same
time, his hand reaching round Toby to work the boy's prick furiously. Toby
reached and pushed the hand away. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the
man's concern, but he wanted him to concentrate on his own orgasm. He
wanted his man-lover to come in fountains. Then he wanted them to go back
upstairs, into the tiny bathroom, where Toby wanted to try something he'd
read about on one of those erotic sites he'd found on the Internet. He
wasn't sure if Adam would be up for it. It was pretty far out, but the
worst that could happen was he'd say no.

Toby giggled as Adam bounced him back and forward against the kitchen
sink. Nope, that wasn't the worst that could happen. Even worse would be if
the phone rang in the middle of it. Now that could really be messy.

If a phone had rung, it wouldn't have bothered Jack Driver or
Mr. Hunter. They were expecting the phone to ring. They were expecting a
series of phone calls from the team. And the news was good. The pitch for
the friendly match had dried out so much during the summer that last
night's rain had only softened it, in fact had made it a lot more
playable. And the forecast was good. Things should dry out by lunchtime and
conditions would be perfect in the afternoon.

"Do you think you'll give Tommy Mitchell the whole match?" asked Jack,
sipping at his second mug of tea. He'd been round at Coach Hunter's since
9am. Mr. Hunter was a bachelor, so he hadn't disturbed anyone by arriving
so early. And he had his own key.

"Not completely sure. What do you think?"

"Well, we've got Jude Morton ready to sub. if you think a whole game's too
much for Tommy. But I don't see much point playing him. He won't be playing
for the Year 9 team in school matches, and, anyway, Ritchie Martin will be
back from holiday at the weekend."

"That's what I'm thinking, too," mused Mr. Hunter, shifting closer to his
team captain on the couch. "But young Morton's done so well in the practice
matches, it's only fair to give him some of the match, even if it's only
the last fifteen minutes. He's obviously going to be the Year 7 goalie this
year. Hell, if he was two years' older and six inches taller, he'd be
challenging Tommy for first choice keeper."

Jack grinned and ran his fingers across the man's groin. "It's that six
inches that really matters, isn't it, sir?"

"Is that all you ever think of?" laughed Mr. Hunter, feeling the boy's
fingers coax him towards erection. "We're meant to be thinking about team
selection, not about how you're going to make me happy."

"But I like doing that, sir," whispered Jack, edging down the man's zipper,
"making you happy." He struggled to free his teacher's cock before it
reached full length. There it was. "This is a lot more than six inches,
sir." Jack turned and put his mug on a coffee table. "It's more like eight,
maybe nine. Can I measure it, sir?" As he spoke, he eased the older man
backwards and raised his legs till he was stretched full length on the
couch.

"Measure it," said Mr. Hunter, sighing as Jack edged open his trousers, and
tugged his them and his shorts to his knees. "How are you going to measure
it without a ruler?"

"Like this," winked the 13-year-old boy.

Jack lowered his lips to the man's straining cock and ran little kisses the
length of the shaft. He looked up for a moment. "And if the phone rings,
you answer it please. I'm a bit busy."

Three streets away Tommy Mitchell waited for the phone to ring.

"Where's that lazy blighter?" he thought to himself. Typical of Robert. He
could move like greased lightning on the soccer pitch but ask him to get up
early on a non-school morning - no way. He wondered what Robert was
doing. Probably in bed, probably asleep. Well, he, Tommy, was in bed but he
certainly wasn't asleep.

Tommy opened his legs wider and pushed the vibrator in a little deeper.

He wondered if his mum had bought herself a new one. He wondered if she
ever suspected her only son had purloined her special friend. He wondered
if she noticed how much Nivea was being used. Ah well, now that he had
Robert he might have less need for a vibrator. But he didn't think so. It
was comforting to lie in bed, play with his hard-on, and fuck himself with
a solid six inches, even if it was only ribbed plastic. It needed a new
battery. Two nights ago, he'd actually fallen asleep with the vibrator
inside him, switched on!

What if his mum had come in? And found her son, naked, ass in the air, with
her buzzing vibrator protruding from his arsehole. But she wouldn't do
that. She was a good sport, his mum. She respected his privacy, and he
respected hers. He'd heard her being fucked again last night. Maybe he'd
have a new uncle at breakfast. He'd had lots of new 'uncles' at breakfast
since his dad had walked out on them. Maybe the new uncle would be
good-looking. Maybe he liked boys as well as women, sons as well as
mothers. Maybe he wouldn't need the vibrator after all.

Tommy laughed at himself and turned back to his book - 'Lord of the
Rings'. It was pretty heavy going, but at least it reminded him of Elijah
Wood. Mmmmm... he wouldn't mind Elijah being Lord of his Ring. He sighed
and pushed the vibrator into the hilt.



9 - ALL OR NOTHING

"Okay, lads, we're down two-one but that's to be expected when we're up
against a breeze like that." Mr. Hunter smiled at the sweaty, muddy boys
who packed the benches. "Belmont are a very strong side, don't
forget. Remember, they aren't a school side, they're a club side so you
expect them to be that much stronger. Now listen. This is how we take
advantage of the wind in the second half."

Jude Morton couldn't listen. There was only one question, and it filled his
head. "Will he or won't he? Will he or won't he?" He risked a glance at
Tommy Mitchell. The Year 9 goalkeeper sat on the bench, next to Robert,
leaning forward, listening intently to Mr. Hunter's instructions. He'd
played really well in the first half. No sign of the ankle injury, and he'd
had no chance with the two goals. Jude's emotions were mixed. On the one
hand, he desperately wanted to play. On the other, he recognised he was
being a little selfish. He shook his head and cleared it of any notion of
playing in the second half. He looked across the changing room at Taz.

How could Taz be so relaxed? He was leaning back against the wooden wall,
eyes half-closed, head resting against his football shirt. He'd taken if
off immediately they'd come in, wiped his armpits with it, and stuck it
behind his head to rest on. Jude watched the sweat trickle down his
friend's brown chest. The younger boy didn't realise it but he was licking
his lips. He wondered if he'd get a chance to see Taz in the shower. Not
much hope if he didn't get a game in the second half. He knew Taz liked
him, liked him a lot. Jude shied away from the word 'love', that was a
girly word, but he knew Taz really cared about him. It wasn't just the
sex... though they both liked the sex, a lot.

"So that's settled," said Mr. Hunter. "Young Morton's been a great help to
us, so we'll give him the last fifteen minutes regardless of the score. And
if he screws it up, don't blame me. That was Tommy Mitchell's idea."
Mr. Hunter grinned at Jude. "Better close your mouth. It's too big a target
for their centre forward to aim for." Jude got a grip of himself and joined
in the laughter.

"Okay, boys, two minutes. Last chance for a pee." Half a dozen boys
strolled to the open urinals, fishing themselves out as they went.

Jude made his way over to Tommy and Robert. A little sheep-faced, he
muttered, "Thanks, Tommy, hope I play as well as you."

"No chance," laughed Robert. "Nobody does it like my Tommy."

"Or like my Jude." That was from Taz who'd joined the little circle and put
his arms round Jude's shoulders.

"Oh, ladies," came a voice from across the room. "There's no time for a
love-in. We've got a match to win, remember."

The team scampered out onto the muddy field. The Belmont side were already
there. Jude gulped a little as he saw the size of their players. Some of
them dwarfed him. He'd bet some of them even shaved. He walked over to
where Uncle Addy was standing with Toby Laughton. "Well," said his uncle,
pulling on his pipe, "go out there and do your best. And the other thing,
too."

"The other thing?" echoed his nephew.

"Yes, the other thing, Jude. Enjoy it, just enjoy it."

From the restart Academy almost equalised. Robert picked up the ball from
midfield and sent an inch-perfect pass through to Taz. It looked like a
certain goal, but as Taz tried to dribble round the Belmont goalie, their
keeper pounced and nicked if off his feet. Jude couldn't help but clap his
hands. He felt his uncle's hands on his shoulders, and heard the words,
"Too right, Jude. Bloody good save that. Took a bit of courage to dive in
that mud, at those feet."

The game became an exciting end-to-end battle as both teams threw
themselves into it. Belmont came close twice but Tommy was on the spot,
once to knock it round the post for a corner, then to tip it over the
bar. Uncle Addy chewed on his pipe, glanced at his watch, murmured, "Twenty
minutes to go." Jude wished he'd gone to the toilet.

Then another goal.

The ball was punted hopefully forward. As it dropped, Jack Driver flicked
it on, and there was Robbie Morton slipping through to volley an
unstoppable strike past the Belmont keeper. The crowd, all fifty of them,
went wild. It was a wonderful strike in anybody's book.

As he ran back to the centre circle, Robert saw Mr. Hunter signalling Tommy
and the referee. He was making the promised substitution. He felt a pang in
his chest. Jude looked so little running onto the field, and, as he passed,
the Belmont captain reached down and ruffled his hair. Jude pulled on his
gloves and took his position in Academy goal. He had that look on his
face. What Robert called his Gandalf look: thou shalt not pass.

Two minutes to go. Still anyone's game. Then disaster.

Belmont took a corner. Academy crowded the penalty area. Over came the
ball. Their centre forward rose to head it goalwards. But the header was
weak. It was Jude's ball all the way. But Robert was unsighted. The ball
came at him out of the blue. It was heading for his goolies
(balls). Instinctively he tried to protect himself. The ball hit his hand
and bounced harmlessly out of play.

"Penalty!"

Up went the cry from the Belmont supporters. Robert sank to the turf and
cradled his head in his hands. The referee had no choice. Penalty!

Jude settled himself on the goal-line. He felt curiously calm, sort of
detached from everything. Tommy'd run up to give him a word of advice but
he hadn't heard a word of it. He looked over at Uncle Adam. He was smoking
his pipe, acting, for all the world, as if nothing much was happening. Jude
looked at the goal around him. This wasn't their mini-goal in the
backgarden. This wasn't even the half size things they used for practice
matches. This was the real thing. And the real thing was huge.

He watched their captain pick the ball up, wipe the mud from it. Jude
noticed he'd missed a couple of muddy streaks. He watched the lad place the
ball on the penalty spot, turn and take a few steps back. Jude couldn't
help smiling. He remembered Scoot's penalty save. Well, Scoot wasn't here
this time, so he'd jolly well have to save it himself.

The spectators hushed. Mr. Hunter wiped his hands nervously. Even Uncle
Addy removed his pipe, moistened his lips, and whispered something to Toby
Laughton. The Belmont captain turned to face up. Beyond him stood Taz. What
was Taz doing? He wouldn't, he couldn't. Jude blushed. Nobody else'd
realise what the Asian boy was doing, but Jude did - Taz was blowing him a
tiny good luck kiss. The Belmont captain stepped up to the ball and...

Jude's last thought was a bit of advice his uncle had drummed into
him. "Pick one way to dive, right or left, and stick to it. Don't change
your mind, just do it."

The striker hit the ball, he hit it very hard, it flew towards the left
corner, just as Jude dived to his right.

Jude felt something smack against his legs. It was the ball! It went
spinning into the air right in front of the empty net. Their striker went
for it. Robert went for it. Robert got their first and whacked it out of
play. In fact, he whacked it right out of the ground, over the bushes, and
into the stream.

The referee blew full time!

It was a draw!

Academy had pulled off a draw against the strongest club side in the
district. The Academy players mobbed the Morton brothers in sheer
delight. They were joined by Mr. Hunter, Uncle Adam, Toby Laughton and
Tommy Mitchell. As everyone jogged to the changing rooms, Uncle Adam turned
to Mr. Hunter. "Damned fine save that, Eric."

"Nothing I wouldn't expect from my Year 7 goalkeeper, Adam," smiled
Mr. Hunter.

The years rolled away. Both men remembered their years playing for the
Academy - Adam Daley in goal, Eric Hunter at centre forward. So many
memories of great football memories, and so many other memories to share,
too.



10 - HERE WE GO

The rain had started again. It was hammering down. A crowd of boys hung
round waiting for their turn in the Belmont showers where the water was
already lukewarm.

"Right, Academy," shouted Mr. Hunter, immediately getting their
attention. I can take half a dozen of you in my car. The rest of you can
grab rides home with parents. See you all Monday afternoon at
training. Once again, well done!"

Mr. Hunter's car was a 'people carrier' and within moments it was packed
with boys, muddy ones in the back, clean ones up front. Uncle Adam and Toby
Laughton rode up front with the driver. In the back, laughing and joking,
Jack Driver, Robert Morton, Tommy Mitchell, Taz Gurpreet and Jude Morton
squeezed muddy knees and thighs together.

"I've got a couple of bathrooms at my place," called Mr. Hunter. "Let's
hear if you want to go there for hot showers, then something to eat and
drink." A unanimous "Yes, sir!" rang through the carrier as it swung left
onto the main road. The drive took only ten minutes, and Jude was thrilled
to be included as 'one of the boys'. It was the most exciting day of his
young life, and it wasn't over.

"Right, you lot, off with those muddy boots and stockings," instructed
Mr. Hunter just inside the back door. "Might as well get those strips off,
too. No, Tommy, you can keep your underpants on till you get to the
bathrooms. There's one on the first floor, a second on the third. Now get
your arses upstairs and give them a good scrubbing. Toby, you might like to
help Adam, Mr. Daley, and me make up some sandwiches. On second thoughts,
maybe you'd better supervise the showers. I don't want the bathrooms
flooded if it can be helped."

Before he'd finished speaking, there was a stampede up the stairs. Jude,
shielded by Taz, got to the first floor bathroom, dived in, and, as Taz
followed him in, slammed and bolted the door. No time to argue, the
remaining three headed for the second bathroom, which, as it turned out was
double the size of the one below.

Inside the bathroom, Taz turned on the hot tap. He was about to pull down
his underpants when Jude, a little shyly, put his hand on the older boy's
waist and whispered, "Can I?"

"'Course you can," said Taz. "It's your big day. You can do whatever you
want."

Jude dropped to his knees in front of Taz. He backed the bigger boy under
the shower, then leaned forward to ease down his white, clingy
underpants. Taz's cock sprang free. Without being touched, it stretched,
hardened, elongated and stood up against his belly. Jude leaned further
forward, pulled the big cock towards him, eased back the foreskin and
licked the purple, engorged head. The hot water bounced from his head,
bounced down Taz's belly, ran through his thick black pubic hair and down
the shaft of his cock. Taz gasped as he felt the younger boy's lips run up
and down the shaft, felt the boy's fingers squeeze his scrotum, felt the
boy's middle finger stroke the crack in his arse. The sound of the boy's
slurps could be heard above the cascading water.

Directly above them, sharing a shower, Jack, Tommy and Robert, naked, let
the hot water bounce from their upturned faces. Their soapy bodies gleamed
in the subdued lighting of the bathroom. "This is nice," murmured Robert.

"It sure is," came the muffled reply.

Robert was startled to feel pressure against the back of his neck. It felt
like... it was Tommy's lips! Tommy was kissing the back of his neck with
Jack Driver only inches away. Stunned and embarrassed, and blushing
brightly, Robert pulled away.

"What are you doing?" he gasped.

"He's doing this," said Jack, stepping into him, and kissing him full on
the lips. "But he'd like to do this." Robert felt a hand round his cock. It
had already begun to harden in the heat.

"No, what I'd really like to do is this."

Robert looked down. Tommy was on his knees. As Jack held his cock, he saw
Tommy lean forward and slip the head into his mouth. Felt Tommy's hands
round his bum, pulling him in deeper. Heard Jack's whisper at his
ear. "Hey, Robbie, take it easy. Tommy and I used to be... you know. But
then he found you. But that doesn't mean we can't celebrate together."

Robert felt Jack's hands cup his jaw, pull him forward, run his tongue
against his lips, seek entry. He opened to Jack's probing, allowed the
boy's tongue to slide in deep, pushed it back, then let his own slide into
Jack's. Below, he felt Tommy's head bob up and down on his cock. The
sensations were overwhelming. He was french-kissing with Jack while Tommy
deep-throated him. He tried to think, to make sense of it all, but thinking
wasn't really possible, and, to be honest, he didn't want to think. Just to
feel, feel and feel again.

Jack was sliding his tongue down Robert's body, pausing to nibble at his
nipples, to probe his belly button, and then, oh then, there were two
tongues on his shaft, no, one tongue licking his shaft, the other lapping
his scrotum, then back to the shaft. One mouth half way down his shaft, the
other tonguing his balls, his perineum, his crack, his most private and
secret place. Robert lifted one foot and placed it on the bath, opening his
buttocks to the probing tongue. This should be dirty, but it wasn't. This
was his body to do with as he pleased, and if it pleased his two friends to
treat him this way, he would enjoy their pleasure. Robert threw his head
back, let the water batter on his face, clutched at the hair of the boys
below him, knew that this ecstasy couldn't last forever.

"I wish this could last forever," sighed Taz. He was washing Jude from head
to foot, savouring every delicious inch of the boy. He'd visited India
twice. He'd seen older boys wash younger boys in the sacred river. What he
was doing now was sacred, worshipping with his soapy finger every inch of
the satin-skinned youngster. Jude murmured, "Yes" and leaned into his older
friend. How could anyone be so lucky?

"Bath towels are out here. Come and get 'em."

The voice was Toby Laughton's. The reply came from Jack Driver, "On our
way." The bathroom door opened. "Dry yourselves in 'The Loft'," said
Toby. "I know where The Loft is," laughed Jack. "I'll bet the towels are on
the radiators."

The boys skipped nakedly across the landing into the huge guest room called
The Loft. It stretched the length of the house and was really three rooms
knocked into one. Stepping in, Robert saw the biggest bed he'd ever
seen. To call it a double or even king size was silly. It was a double king
size at least. And the room was warm, wonderfully warm. Robert was startled
to see Jack and Tommy dive straight onto the bed. They began to wrestle but
it wasn't really wrestling, it was sex!

"Hey, wait for me!" That was Toby, and he was scrambling out of his
clothes. Robert could hardly believe his eyes. Naked, Toby was more man
than schoolboy. Slim but surprisingly well-muscled, his broad shoulders
revealed why he was the county's champion freestyle swimmer. But it was his
cock that startled Robert most. It swung heavy and free, like a small hose
pipe. It must have been all of ten inches and it wasn't even hard. Toby
dived onto the bed and joined in the free-for-all. Out of the melee came
Tommy's voice. "Hey, Robert, come on. Get on the bed. It's no fun without
you." Another voice echoed him. "He means that, Robbie. The little mutha
fucka is in love with YOU!"

Tentatively, Robert edged towards the bed. A hand reached out and grabbed
his arm, pulling him onto the bed. He felt the warmth of boys' limbs enfold
him. He heard someone whisper, "Here we go." He sighed, glad to be there.

"I'm glad to be here with you," sighed Jude, nestling between Taz's
thighs. "Is it okay if I...?"

"Go on. Help yourself," laughed Taz.

Jude cupped Taz's scrotum in two hands and raised them to his face. He felt
hairs tickle his nose. "Do you think my balls will be as big as yours one
day?" he asked. Taz, perched on the side of the bath, ruffled the boy's
hair. "'Course they will. You're already a big boy for your age."

"If you think I'm gonna be big, you should see Robbie. And he's got lots of
hair, too." He paused. Then, "Do you think Robbie does it with other boys,
too?" he asked. He remembered the morning and the pressure of Robbie's
crotch against his own, the hard shape of his brother's cock pressed
against his own.

"Not sure," said Taz, "but I wouldn't be surprised. Robert and Tommy
Mitchell look like they've got the hots for each other."

"That's nice," said Jude, pressing his cheek against the older boy's brown
inner thigh. "Nice for them I mean. Hope they're as happy as us." Taz
raised Jude and positioned him between his thighs, making just enough room
for Jude's bottom on the edge of the bath. His own brown cock stuck up
between the boy's thighs. It looked as if he had two cocks, one long and
brown, the other shorter, and pale pink. Gently he pressed them
together. Jude looked at the erections and giggled. "Just like us," he
said, "the long and the short". He was glad Taz hadn't come yet. That meant
the best was yet to come, for both of them.

The boys stood up together. Taz leaned over Jude and pulled him into him,
his hot hard shaft pressed against the smaller boy's lower back. He
considered the idea of bending the boy over the bath and sliding that hot
hard shaft deep inside him. He guessed Jude would be willing. But he was
only eleven, so small you could hardly make out his anus. And there was no
hurry; they had all year together to look forward to.

"Hey, where are the towels?" asked Jude. "There's only these little face
towels." He hung a blue face towel on Taz's erect penis. Both boys laughed.

"Bet they're in the upstairs bathroom. Or in The Loft," suggested Taz.

"The Loft?" queried Jude.

"Come on. I'll show you." He opened the bathroom door, took the boy's hand
and led him upstairs.

Jude followed, wondering what The Loft was, and what might he happening
there.

His brother, Robert, was also wondering what was happening. He knew he was
stretched out on the double bed. He knew he was sucking a cock; it felt and
tasted like Tommy's. He knew someone was sucking his cock; was that Jack or
Toby? But why were his legs in the air, bent double so that his knees
touched his stomach? He felt a hot tongue licking his bum. He laughed to
himself. That must be some kind of joke. But the tongue was between his
buttocks, deep between the cheeks, and, oh, my God, it couldn't, it
wouldn't, but it did.

Someone was licking his... it took him some time to admit the
word... arsehole. Someone was licking it, lapping at it, running his tongue
round, across, over and... the tip of the tongue was pressing at his
backdoor, his back passage. He wanted to protest but the sensations were
too much. The mouth round his cock, the cock in his mouth, and, yes, he had
to admit it, he liked the wet warmth of the tongue probing his anus. He
felt his buttocks being pulled apart, not too wide, but wide enough so that
he must be wide open to whoever was between them. His legs began to
shake. His tummy to flutter. He felt faint and light-headed. It was all too
much, all too wonderful. In the distance he heard a couple of creaks. Were
those his knees? They sometimes did that after a hard match. But he
couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate. All he wanted to do was let go, to
surrender, to sink in the cotton-wool bliss around him.

The Loft door creaked open.

Taz and Jude stood there, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of the
scene. From loud speakers, hidden somewhere in the beams, music washed over
the boys writhing naked on the bed. Had they been able to pay it attention,
they would not have recognised it though it was difficult not to respond to
it. Downstairs, Mr. Hunter and Mr. Daley recognised the music. It was they
who had put it on, and set it to play again and again. It was Donna
Summers. And she was singing, "Love to Love You, Baby."

Taz carried Jude to the bed. Their towels fell away. He placed Jude at the
end of the bed, then straddled his chest, his long brown legs on either
side of the small pale lovely boy. He fed him his thick brown cock
again. Jude swallowed half the cock and sucked on it like a hungry baby on
his bottle. Jude raised his arms behind his head and found a world of
flesh. He let his small hands and fingers play in the world of flesh: cocks
and balls, legs and thighs, hair, bum cracks, hot little places. He kept
his eyes open. He couldn't see much. Mostly the thick black hair at the
base of Taz's stomach, but it was oh so beautiful, and he loved to love it,
baby.

"Baby, baby," sighed Eric Hunter, sipping again at his champagne. "Takes
you back, doesn't it, Adam?"

"It surely does," agreed Adam Daley, "though all we had was your narrow
metal army bed. And we certainly didn't have those speakers or those
cameras."

"Mmmmm," said Mr. Hunter, "but had each other."

"And half the school," laughed Adam.

"Your nephews are beautiful boys," said Mr. Hunter, "and damn fine players,
too. I'll be appointing Jude captain of the Year 7 after training on
Monday. He's earned it." He returned his attention to the screen and the
tangle of limbs on the bed. "Beautiful, just beautiful," he murmured.

"I wonder if it's genetic," mused Adam.

"What?" asked Mr. Hunter.

"This 'gay' thing. That's what they call it now, gay, don't they? I mean,
first there's their father, then there's me, and now the boys."

"Mmmmm," said Mr. Hunter. "I'm not sure. I've been in teaching nigh on 25
years. It happens, it always happens. Boys experiment. They try things out,
and they like to try things out with each other. They feel safer that
way. Girls are a different thing altogether. Girls are scary, so a lot of
boys stick to each other. Some 'grow out' of it. Some are made that
way. Time will tell; it always does."

"You're right," said Adam. He gestured towards the screen. "How long are we
going to give that lot?"

"Oh, as long as they need, I guess."

"Which gives us time..." Adam put down his glass, leaned towards Eric, and
kissed him on the lips. He sighed. "Boys are fine, but there's nothing like
a real man."

"There's nothing like the real thing," sighed Jude as Taz's swollen cock
swung over his face. "Close your eyes," whispered his lover. "Here it
comes."

Then he felt them, hot spurts across his cheeks, his nose, his mouth - hot
spurts of Taz, hot spurts of love.

Inches away, Robert felt hot spurts, too. His cock spurted wildly into the
air. Another cock spurted wildly onto his chest. Two fingers, or was it
three, eased out of his arsehole. For a moment he wondered where Jude was,
and wondered if Jude would ever feel like this, so... so... blissed out.

Taz, taking the younger brother's cock and balls into his mouth together,
knew that in a couple of minutes Jude certainly would.

Outside, across the wood, across the stream, small boys kicked a ball
around in the sunlight breaking through the last of the rain. They'd
watched the match. They'd watched their heroes. They wanted to be just like
them. And if they wanted it badly enough, someday soon they, too, would be
playing The Beautiful Game.



LET IT BE ME

Stephen and I walked out onto the lawn, side by side, but hardly
together. He sat down in one of the swings. I sat on the other. He looked
back at the big house. I looked back, too, and saw the two women talking in
the sitting room, or rather, Stephen's mother talking, my mother
listening. I wondered if Mrs. Martin was giving instructions. I felt uneasy
about my mother taking another woman's orders but I'd already accepted this
was the way it was going to be from now on.

I tried to read their lips, my mother's pinched and pale, Mrs. Martin's
perfectly out-lined in a washed-out pink. If I'd known the word sensual, I
might've used it. Even without knowing it, I felt her sensuality even at
that distance. I turned and stole a glance at Stephen. He was watching me
and I felt my face redden from my over-starched collar to my hairline. His
lips were exactly like his mother's though not quite so pink. Stephen gazed
at me without pity.

"What's your father do?" I asked to deflect his attention, deflect his
gaze.

"He doesn't 'do' much. He's dead. Dead as a dodo. Dead as a doornail."

He used his long bare legs to push his swing higher. I envied him his
shorts. It was hot, really hot. I could feel the stickiness around my
private parts, in the crack of my bum. The sweat trickled down my legs.

"And yours?" he asked.

The inquiry sounded like an after-thought. Polite, but distinctly an
after-thought.

"Gone. Left. He's got a new family, I mean. Haven't seen him for a long
time. Don't much care." The last remark was insouciant but the lump in my
throat betrayed me.

"He died in the Atlantic."

"Who?"

"My father. He was a yachtsman. Sailing solo."

"Did they find the body?" This was my attempt at conversation.

"The body? They didn't even find the fucking yacht."

I pushed off till I was swinging gently backwards and forwards. I thought
it over. Stephen's father going down with his yacht. Somewhere in the
Atlantic. Pretty heroic stuff.

"What's it like having a dead father?"

Stephen thought it over for a bit.

"Much the same as having no father, I expect. At least we've both got our
mothers now."

These remarks didn't make complete sense to me, but I put that down to my
inferior status. Stephen was 14. I was 12. Two years is a huge stretch of
time in the annals of childhood.

"Fucking hot, isn't it?" Stephen said, dragging off his short-sleeved shirt
and flinging it carelessly on the lawn.

I was tempted to respond with a snatch of bad language but I knew I'd blush
even more furiously. I stole glances at Stephen as he swung idly in the
noonday sun. Two years was the difference in our ages, but he was
long-bodied, lean-muscled, broad-chested while I still carried the puppy
fat of pubescence. I was good-looking, I knew that. Enough women insisted
on tousling my hair. But if I was 'cute', a word I detested, Stephen Martin
was handsome. I couldn't compete with that, not that I'd even try, and it
only served to confirm my status. My mother was the new housekeeper; his
mother was the lady of the house.

Stephen raised his arms to pull himself higher on the swing. I blushed
again. There was hair in his armpits, thick, luxuriant, dark hair. My
armpits were hairless, and as smooth as the brass doorknobs that caught the
eye in Heathfield House. Thick, dark hair. I tried not to, but I couldn't
help glancing at his crotch. He would have hair down there, too, probably
thick and dark. My face was afire. I didn't want to think about
that. Because it made me think of what else would be down there, and that,
too, made me feel so young, so junior, so inferior.

I had hair down there. I had five hairs to be precise. I knew because I'd
counted them that morning. Three on the left, two on the right. They looked
so pathetic I was tempted to pull them out. Better not. Best left
alone. Don't even think about down there. You'll only get a stiffy
again. That was the right word, wasn't it? A stiffy, a hard-on, an
erection. I knew the words even if I wasn't sure what the purpose of the
phenomenon was. I wasn't that stupid. I knew it had something to do with
sex. Something about the gentleman pushing his 'stiffy' into the lady's
'down there' and making babies and all that sort of stuff. But when I
thought about that sort of stuff, I couldn't help thinking about my mum,
and that stopped me in mid-vision.

"The pool. I said let's go down and have a look at the pool."

"What? Pardon? Excuse me. The pool? Have you got a swimming pool here? Can
we use it?"

"'Course we can, you dummy." Stephen was grinning. He leapt from his swing,
faced me, grabbed both my hands and jerked me from my swing. We can use it
any time we jolly well like. You can swim, can't you?"

I nodded.

In fact, I was an excellent swimmer. Mum was, too. It was she who'd taught
me. I didn't mention that to Stephen. I salted the fact away. He'd be
impressed, and I so badly wanted to impress him.

"And Dan will be here on Saturday; he'll be here for the rest of the
summer, and it'll be fucking great, just fucking great."

"Fucking great," I echoed, but Stephen was already loping across the lawn.

I'd missed my chance to impress him with my carefree use of a forbidden
word, and I did so want to impress him. From that first day I worshipped
Stephen Martin, worshipped him with that dogged reverence the young have
for the slightly older, the almost attainable. Worshipped him in the way
that the young can never worship the grown-up. Adults belong to a different
world; Stephen was a hero in my world. And the fact that my world was
simply an enclave in his world made not the slightest difference.

The blue waters of the pool sparkled in the sun. It hurt my eyes, made me
squint, but it was paradise. Not quite a full length pool, it was
immaculate, white tiled, blue striped, with a small diving board at the
deep end.

"Dan filled her up last Saturday. Come on, let's get in."

As he spoke, Stephen stripped off his shorts. No underwear. He kicked his
open-toed sandals towards the lawn. No socks. "Come on," and dived neatly
into the blue. His penis, thick and heavy, at least to me, swung beneath
him, led him beneath the shimmering water. Beneath my flannels, my penis
leapt to life. It did that more and more these days, but usually in the
shower, usually in bed, usually when my hand slipped down to feel its
pulsing life. Why here? Why now?

Stephen's face emerged, spouting water like a whale. He did a backward
roll, sleek as a young dolphin, his penis bouncing from a thick nest of
hair against his belly. He swam to the side and gripped the rail, pulling
his shoulders from the water, his dark hair thickly-plastered against his
forehead. He grinned, his even teeth shark-white.

"What you waiting for? Another invitation?"

"No swimming trunks," I muttered, dragging one shiny black-leathered foot
along the tiles. I felt stupid. I know I looked stupid.

"What the hell do you need swimming things for? You mightn't have noticed,
but I'm male, too. I've got a dick and balls. You've got a dick and balls
-you do have the right equipment, don't you?" Like a fool, I nodded. "So
what's the problem. I'll look the other way if you're shy," Stephen
laughed, but not unkindly.

"My mother... your mother..."

"My mother? Your mother," he echoed. "Mothers don't count. And we haven't
got anything they haven't seen before. At least my mother has. Come
on. Don't be a chump," and with that he turned and slipped beneath the
water.

I retreated twenty yards to a huge rhododendron bush. I stood there. I
frowned. I made my decision. Solemnly I undid and removed my tie. Then my
blazer. Then my shirt with its itchy, over-starched collar. Folded them
into a neat pile. Opened my snake belt. Unzipped my flannels. Slid them
off, perching precariously on a single leg. Folded them. Undid my shoes,
slipped them off. Placed them neatly by my trousers. Slipped off my
socks. Stood there in my white y-fronts. Slipped them off in a rush. Cupped
my genitals in my right hand. Dashed for the deep end and dived in.

Bliss! Sheer bliss!

I rose to the surface to find Stephen waiting, smiling, spitting a stream
of water into my face before I could recover. Not fair. I dived below and
pulled away his legs. Taken by surprise he went under, came up spluttering,
laughing, out for revenge. I turned and swam for the other end. Stephen was
two years older, was stronger, had a better reach, but I'd been trained by
an Olympic trialist. I only mention this because it's true. He almost
caught me, but I reached the shallow end, turned, pushed off with my feet,
was past him and away again. Stephen tried and tried again, but I was
faster, slippier, and could outswim him all day if I had to. But he
cheated. All's fair in love and war, and this was war.

Stephen stopped in mid-pool, turned and waited for me to swim straight into
him. He swung both arms round me and held on. Not fair. He was standing, my
feet were off the bottom. He held on to me. I could feel his chest against
me, his belly, his hips, and what could only be the small hose pipe in his
groin press against me.

"Where the fuck did you learn to swim like that? You've got to teach me."
His smile was as hot and carressing as the sun. I basked in the glory. I
looked into those dark-fringed eyes, saw thunderstorms, saw water-pearls
hang from his ears, noticed for the first time the tiny mole to the right
of his nose, felt my penis stir and thicken.

"Fuck, no, please, no, not now," I prayed to whatever God was not
listening. Stephen held me tighter. He must feel me, must feel it. I grew
increasingly aware of his own private part. His eyes joined his lips in his
smile. At least that's how it seemed to me. My face burned, my shoulders,
my chest burned; beneath the cool waters my penis was turning to fire.

"Boys! Boys! Lunchtime. Come on in. Where are you?"

Stephen's mother! On the way to the pool. Dream turned to nightmare.

Stephen let go and called back.

"In the pool. We're in the pool!"

The traitor.

Stephen let me go, swam to the side, and was hauling himself from the water
as his mother arrived, trailing a cloud of white chiffon behind
here. Standing beside her son, looking down at me, she seemed entirely
unaware his nakedness.

"Robert. Lunchtime. Your mother's making a cheese and ham salad. I'm making
lemonade, with real lemons." She made 'real lemons' sound like both a
challenge and an achievement. "Now out of the water like a good
boy. Stephen will show you where the towels are though you'll hardly need
them in this heat."

"He can't."

"Can't what?"

"He can't get out of the water."

"Whyever not?"

"Because he's starkers."

She seemed to notice Stephen's condition for the first time.

"Goodness gracious, that hardly matters. In fact, it doesn't matter at
all. Let's not make a fuss over such a small matter."

Mrs. Martin and Stephen realised the import of her last remark at the same
time. Both burst into giggles. "It's not such a 'small' matter," added
Stephen. The water in the nest at the bottom of his belly sparkled like
diamonds.

"Well, I'll leave you boys to boys' business, whatever that is," laughed
Mrs. Martin. She turned and made her way towards the house, calling back
over her shoulder, "Five minutes, not a minute more." Her laughter trailed
behind her like the white chiffon.

"Come on. Let's get you out of there."

I could hardly refuse Stephen's helping hand. He pulled me from the water
and onto the side of the pool. Thank God, my cock - there, I've used the
word - had subsided. We stood there, two naked boys in the midday sun of
the hottest July for many years.

"No, not such a small matter at all," whispered Stephen, his eyes of my
growing part.

Embarrassed, flustered, bemused, and vaguely flattered, I ran for the
refuge of my hot, sweaty clothes. That was the last time I'd wear them that
summer.

Heathfield House was in the middle of nowhere. There was the village three
miles down the road, but the 'village' proved to be half a dozen cottages,
one general shop-cum-postoffice, and a tiny church and graveyard. As the
graveyard was the most lively spot in the whole place, Stephen and I rarely
cycled down to the village, preferring instead to bike our way along the
steep gravel paths that took us... even deeper into nowhere.

Happy, happier, happiest.

That first week at Heathfield was probably my happiest, at least in the
sense of having Stephen to myself. Puffing and panting, I peddled behind
him, content to follow his lead, content to have an uninterrupted view of
those turning thighs, the rounded buttocks, and the sweaty crease that
split them. Was it sexual? Of course, it was. But perhaps not consciously
so. It was just wonderful, especially at the end of steep climb, when we
found a small valley, free-wheeled down, and threw the bikes aside.

Then we stretched out beneath a tree and rabbited on about everything under
the dappling sun. Stephen would stretch himself out, flip out a fag - one
draw had me coughing and spluttering - parking his head on one arm, gaze at
the sky and say whatever was on his mind. I would lie alongside him,
content to be there, sometimes turning to sneak a peek at the strong lines
of his face, the straight nose, the slash of the eyebrows, his mother's
lips. The thirty three freckles around his nose. Thirty three. I counted
them. Thirty three. Not one more. Not one less. Thirty three.

Sometimes Stephen would turn and lean on one arm, lean over me, gazing down
unabashed, seeming to inhale me, while I closed my eyes and squirmed
surreptitiously as the traitor between my legs awoke, sensed the
possibility of pleasure, and stretched into life.

"She did, you know."

"She did not."

"She did."

"Let you actually see it, you mean?"

"Where? When?"

As casually as I could, I adjusted my elongating penis. Stephen laughed,
reached down, fumbled, took it between his fingers and straightened it
against my lower stomach.

"There you are. Don't be such a wimp. We all get hard-ons when we think
about sex."

His laughter was so unaffected, I couldn't help joining in.

"Down at the graveyard. Behind the big tomb on the left. You know, the one
with the weeping angel. All that pigeon shit over its face. No wonder it's
weeping."

"But she's the vicar's daughter."

"They're the worst. At our school, in the showers, you never turn your back
on the vicar's sons. They're worse than soap-on-a-rope. Or so they say. I
wouldn't know, about the soap I mean. About the vicar's boys I do
know. Believe me, they're the worst."

I tried my best to look less interested, less fascinated. I failed.

"It was after church, after Evensong actually. Mother was extending her
social network, so we had to attend Evensong, at least once. She was
chatting to the vicar, probably chatting him up. He's not bad looking - for
a vicar. Anyway, Millie, that's Millicent, and I went exploring."

"How did she..? I mean how did you...?"

"Her idea. We were inside the tomb. I didn't tell you it's a walk-in-tomb,
did I?"

I shook my head. Stephen's face was above mine.

"She'd played with her brother's and she..."

"Played with!"

"Oh, you are such a baby," Stephen grinned. "You might have one of
these..." He tweaked my erection. "...but you really are an innocent." I
was too engrossed in his story to care he'd left his fingers flat against
my, against my... hard-on. There, done, best to call it what it was.

"Millie plays with her brother's - he's 13 -and she wanted to see if mine
looked the same. I said 'sure' but only if she'd let me see hers."

"Did she? Let you see it, I mean."

"'Course she did. That's part of the game."

There was a pause. The pause extended itself into a silence. Stephen was
forcing me to ask. I gave in.

"Well?"

"There wasn't that much to see actually. Some dark hair. Like
brushstrokes. A crease down the middle. Like smiling lips turned the wrong
way round."

"Is that all?"

Stephen laughed. "Funny, that's exactly what I asked. 'Is that all?'"

"Well?"

"She pulled them open. The little lips, the little smiling lips. I knelt
down to have a look. In for a penny, as they say. It was all pink and wet
in there, sort of folded over, with a little bud. No a bud really. More
like an aspargus tip."

"Did you touch her?"

"Yuk, no."

"Did she touch yours?"

My penis was rock hard. The closeness of Stephen's face. His minty
breath. His fingers tracing my hard-on. My chest rose and fell.

"I should say not. That wasn't part of the deal. Fair's fair. I let her
have a look, but I don't drop my trousers for just anybody."

"Oh."

The note of disappopintment in my voice was obvious.

Stephen scrambled onto his knees, unbuttoned his tennis shorts, and
together with his underpants, pushed them down his thighs.

"Look..."

I didn't look. I stared.

"That's called an erection, a hard-on, a stiffy."

Stephen's cock was huge, pink and golden, the head a purple plum. The shaft
was five inches, the head added at least another inch. Each testicle was
clearly outlined in the tightened sac. Slighty curved to the left, the
shaft rose agqainst his belly, against the thick dark hair at the bottom of
his belly, until the head just touched his belly button.

I swallowed and looked round, hoping there wasn't anybody nearby,
watching. I turned my gaze back to Stephen's exotic, tempting fruit.

"Touch it if you like," he whispered.

"Well..."

"It's okay. Boys in our school touch each other's. It's a really good
school. There aren't any girls," he added as if that made everything
okay. He wound his right hand round the shaft of his erection and began to
move the skin the length of the shaft. Each time he closed the extra skin
over the head. "This is the best. Do you do this yet?"

I tried to say something but the saliva had backed up in my throat.

"Come on. Relax. It's summer. You know you want to." Stephen fumbled at my
shorts, flipping each button open one at a time. How did he know I wanted
to. I suppose my aching stiffness was a clue.

I reached out and wrapped my fingers round his
shaft. Soft. Hard. Dry. Sweaty. It was all these things at the same time. I
pulled up and down on his cock.

"Oh, for fuck's sake..." He wrapped his fingers round mine, taught me the
correct rhythm, the desired speed, the varying pressure. I felt his fingers
do the same to mine. Both his fingers on my penis, my smaller, smoother,
small boy's penis.

"Millie did this to her brother. She told me about it."

For some reason this added to my excitement. So many images. I felt my
buttocks clench.

"She did more."

More? What more could she do? After all, it was her brother. At least
Stephen wasn't my brother, so that made things better. But more? What more?

"She took him in her mouth. Took it in her mouth. 'This' in her mouth." He
pressed firmly round my stiffy. "She sucked him till he came." Came?
"Sucked him till he spit. That's what she called it, spitting. Silly little
cow."

The dam inside me was going to burst. Something was going to
happen. Everything was going to change. It was getting hard to breathe. I
pushed myself up into Stephen's grasping fingers, let myself drop, pushed
up again. I'd lost control. If I'd ever been in control, I'd lost it, and
the dam was going to burst. Something beautiful and terrible was going to
happen.

"You could use your mouth," I heard Stephen's voice somewhere in the
distance. Why had it become so distant? "Suck it, I mean, but only if you
want to. I've done it. It's..."

I burst away from his hand.

Rolled over onto my stomach. My bum rose and fell. My throbbing penis
pressed against the sweet fallen pine. I burst into tears.

Stephen stroked my hair.

"Hey, come on now. It's not so bad."

No, no, that wasn't it at all. It wasn't bad. It was good. It was
wonderful. But it was new, oh so now, and I'm always scared of the new,
terrified of the unexpected. I lay there, shorts and underpants at my
knees, my sweaty genitals pressed into the sweet pine needles. Stephen
stroking my hair. I felt his other hand gently stroking and caressing my
backside. That was okay, that was fine, that was the right thing to do.

I rolled over onto my front, looked up into his eyes, saw his cock flopped
disconsolately between his thighs. It was still beautiful. I wanted to
reach out, take it, smother it with little kisses.

Stephen did us both us up. Pulled up my underpants and shorts. Did each
button up one at a time, then fastened my snake belt. Then he dressed
himself.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Hey, hey," he whispered back. "Nothing to be sorry about. There's always
next time."

He was right. There would be a next time. We had all summer, and there
would be a next time. I'd die if there wasn't.

"Last one back to the pool's a mother-fucker!"

Stephen leapt to his feet. grabbed his bike and was away before my arse was
off the ground.

"Bastard!" I shouted after him. "You're the fucking mother-fucker!"

I'd learned so much in such a short time, and we still had the summer
stretching before us.

His name was Dan. He was the handyman. He lived in the stable block. The
horses had gone, and Mrs. Martin was considering converting the stables
into guest accommodation. Paying guests. The Martins were well-off, but not
rich. They needed to make a living. Stephen's school fees were
expensive. Dan had the first apartment in the stable block. You reached it
by wooden stairs outside the block. I knew all this because mum told me. We
had rooms at the back of Heathfield House, in the servants'
quarters. Heathfield had once had a small army of servants, but now there
were only Dan and my mother. I suppose I was a sort of companion for
Stephen; I wasn't much but I was better than nothing, I hoped.

Dan was too young to be middle-aged, and too old to be young. Sort of
middling in height. Strongly built, especially in the arms. He could lift
Stephen and me with each arm and hold us off the ground for ages. He was
good-looking though not handsome in the way that Stephen was
handsome. Brown eyes, reddish brown hair, a slightly hooked nose. He was so
tanned I imagine he spent most of his working life outdoors. Big nipples,
like fifty pence pieces. I blushed when I first saw them. Thought my own
little starfish nipples, of Stephen's raisins, and now Dan's big nipples,
deep pink against brown skin, topped with black currants. Stephen told me
that men's nipples could be really sensitive. Stephen told me lots of
things. I tried rubbing my own, at night, in bed, but felt nothing. I
wondered what it would feel like to rub Stephen's nipples, or Dan's, and
what would it feel like to them?

I was jealous of Dan, right from the start. Jealous of the easy-going,
friendly relationship he had with Stephen, with my Stephen. And to tell the
truth I was jealous of Stephen, too. It wasn't a hateful jealousy. I didn't
wish them ill. But they seemed to be a closed circle, and I was on the edge
of that circle. I wanted to be inside, to be part of it. I don't think they
sought to exclude me, but between them was an easy-going warmth I found
difficult to be part of.

Dan arrived that Saturday. Stephen and I were in the pool. In swimming
costumes. Dan came strolling across the lawn. I saw him first. The sun was
behind him, creating a halo effect around his head. I guessed it might be
Dan. I squinted to make out his face. "Hey, Stephen," I called across the
pool, "who's that?"

"Dan! Dan!"

Stephen turned, the water showering from his shoulders. Even as he shouted
again, he was pulling himself out of the pool. As he ran bare-foot across
the lawn, he shook the water from his hair. "Dan! Dan!"

The handyman dropped his battered old suitcase, stetched out his
arms. Stephen leapt into them, raising his legs so he could hook them round
Dan's waist. I heard myself "Tut tut"... after all, Stephen was 14 years
old. He wasn't a child anymore, and jumping into a man's arms was surely
what a child would do. As I tutted, I wished it were me.

"Well, well, who've we got here?"

Stephen and Dan were standing near the edge of the pool. I held onto the
bar at the edge and looked up.

"That's Robert, Robbie. His mum's the housekeeper. He's only 12 but he
can't half swim."

"Good afternoon, Robert, it's a pleasure to meet you." Dan knelt down by
the side of the pool, careless his knee was in water, and extended his
hand. I extended mine and we shook hands rather formally. His skin was dry,
warm and pleasant to touch.

"And you, sir."

"No, not sir. Never sir. Mister Cummings if you must. But I prefer Dan. And
may I call you 'Robbie'?"

Nobody had ever called me Robbie - until a few seconds ago when Stephen
decided I was to be 'Robbie'.

"Yes, sir. I mean, yes, Mr. Cummings. No, I mean, yes, Dan." My blush was
furious but Dan was kind enough to register nothing except that I was still
holding onto his hand. He glanced at our hands. I glanced, too, and jerked
mine away as if I'd touched the hot stove.

"Let's get you settled in." Stephen rejoined the conversation, sounding
precisely like his mother. "I'll show you your rooms. Mum had them
recurtained while you were away. But she left the mattress on the floor
'cause that's the way you like it." Stephen turned to me.

"Go on swimming. I'll be back in a little while. Then we'll ask your mum to
rustle up a picnic. For the three of us. For the boys. For the men." He
turned and picked up Dan's suitcase. I heard him grunt as he swung it over
his shoulder.

"Catch you later, alligator. Or should I say dolphin." That was Dan to
me. He held my eyes for a moment. His eyes were smiling. I don't know if
eyes can smile, his were. I used mine to smile back, then turned and
free-styled my way up the pool. I was showing off. I knew it. I couldn't
help it. I wanted to impress Dan. He wasn't what I'd expected. A handyman
should be rough and ready, but Dan was well-spoken, polite, kind,
considerate. I turned at the far end of the pool and saw them mount the
stairs attached to the stable block, Stephen chatting animatedly, Dan's
hand on his shoulder. O, let it be me, let it be me.

That night Stephen kissed me.

I was grateful for his attention. I felt I'd been abandoned. Stephen hadn't
returned from the stable block until 5 that afternoon. I'd wandered the
grounds, did a jigsaw, wandered the grounds, thought about climbing the
stable stairs, but I've always had a horror of being uninvited, of being
unwanted, of being an extra. The son of a servant, I knew my place, and my
place was in the background, waiting for the summons, waiting at the behest
of my betters. I thought of biking down to the village. I might examine the
gravestones in the churchyard. I might explore the empty tomb where Stephen
and Jeannie had...

We'd had breakfast together. Lunch together. Dinner together. Now we might
have sex together. 'Have sex'... what a strange way to put it. As if sex
wasn't really a part of us, as if it was something we pulled out of a
bottom drawer, like Scrabble, and had it together. Then put it back in the
drawer until the next time.

We were lying on Stephen's double bed. Mine was a narrow single in a back
room. His was a double in his room on the first floor of the house. A room
with a view. The road, twisting and winding its way to the village. Blue
hills in the distance. I tried to initiate conversation about Dan, about
his stable block rooms, about how they'd spent the afternoon, but Stephen
smiled my questions away. His mood was languorous. I'd found that word
during the long afternoon. Languor. Dreaminess. Indolence. Lotus-eating. I
wasn't sure why anyone would want to eat a lotus, but Stephen was dreamy
and indolent. At least he was content to let me lie by his side.

It was my turn to lean over him. I noticed how his eye-lashes turned
upwards, like an inverted fringe. That's why he had always had a look of
slight surprise on his face. I counted his freckles again.

"Dimples."

"Pardon?"

"Dimples. I'm going to call you 'Dimples'," he said, "because you've got
dimples in your cheeks when you smile. They're very sexy. That's who you
are: Mr. Sexy Dimples."

I blushed.

"There you go again," Stephen giggled. The look on his face became
solemn. He put his arm round my neck and pulled my face down to his. Noses
touched. Cheeks brushed. Lips touched. And then he kissed me.

This was not the first time I'd been kissed - by someone other than my
mother, I mean. There been a few others; three to be exact. A fat girl with
freckles at a school dance; she smelled of garlic bread and seemed vaguely
desperate; a girl at summer camp - impressed by my swimming; and my cousin
Irene; I didn't like to think about that because she was family.

But Stephen's kiss was different, different in kind, different in quality,
different in nature. The brush of his lips against mine like silk on
satin. The pressure his flesh against my own. The tip of his tongue that
ran along the valley between my lips. The gentle probing and pushing that
opened me up. The tongue that seemed to grow as it pushed deep inside my
mouth, then withdrew demanding pursuit from my own. Never this intimacy of
innocent geometry as our cheeks and chins sought accommodation so that our
tongues could explore the deep recesses of our mouth. His hands held each
side of my face as he urgently probed ever deeper, then withdrew to let me
enter him. Our saliva ran like wine from mouth to mouth. I tasted him:
fruit gums, lemon drops, echoes of liquorice. We lay there, me over him,
and gnawed at each other.

I felt my penis hard, stiff, relentless, urgent in its need.

"Use your mouth," he'd said. "Suck it," he'd said.

I wanted to. I wanted to suck him, lick him, nibble at him, chew him, eat
him up, gobble him up. I wanted to take him inside me, all of him, devour
him, make him mine, and become him, so that he would never never belong to
anyone else but me... because he would be me and I would be him.

My hand slid down the front of his shorts. That summer, as I remember, we
wore shorts always, never trousers, never jeans, only shorts, swimsuits, or
nothing.

He wasn't hard. He felt full but not hard. I was so hard I ached. How could
he not be hard? How could we kiss like this, and he not be so hard it hurt?

Stephen pushed my hand away. Gave a slight moan, frowned slightly and
pushed my hand away.

"Not now, Dimples. Not just now."

I was hurt, disappointed.

"Let's just lie here together and watch the stars come up."

He was right. That was enough. I was content, I was happy.

Later, in my own bed, my hand slid down between my legs. Two, three
squeezes, and I was hard. But I didn't want to. Without Stephen I didn't
want to. Without Stephen it didn't mean much. And why not wait? After all,
we had all summer.

Blame it on Sherlock Holmes. If I hadn't become engrossed in the sleuth of
Baker Street, I'd never have fancied myself as a boy-detective, and, maybe,
just maybe, I'd have minded my own business.

I found the novels in the house library, a house library that held as many
books as my school library. Wall to wall books, on shelves that stacked
them from ceiling to floor. There was even a slide-along rickety staircase
to reach the uppermost shelves. I've always been a reader, so after tea I
got into the habit of stretching out on the chaise longue and tried to
forget Stephen by losing myself in Arthur Conan Doyle.

Most days, after tea, Stephen disappeared for an hour or so. When I probed,
he shrugged his shoulders. "Helping Dan, that's all. This is going to be a
guest house, so he's showing me the ropes." There was no invitation for me,
and I was too scared of a rebuff to suggest I might come along. After all,
I mustn't be greedy. I had Stephen most mornings, afternoons, and evenings
though sometimes he'd take off with a cheerful "Helping Dan out. Catch you
later."

It was the day, a Wednesday, if remember aright. Stephen and his mother
left after lunch for the market town. Stephen needed new 'togs' for school
in September. They'd be back around six. After tea, just mum and I, I was
bored, restless, lonely. I convinced myself that Dan might need me; I'd be
his helping hand this time. He wasn't round the grounds. Didn't seem to be
in the house or the outhouses. I wandered to the stable block, hung around
the foot of the stairs. No sign of Dan. I turned to go.

"Hey, come on up."

It was Dan. The door was open. He stood there, rubbing his eyes as if not
long awake. Faded, blue-striped pyjama bottoms hung from his waist defying
gravity to bring them to his naked feet. He scratched his bare chest. "Come
on up. Going to put on a movie."

I climbed the wooden stairs and followed Dan into the block. A huge room
just below the eaves. Sparsely furnished. A small wooden table, two wooden
chairs. A wooden wardrobe. A small television set on a coffee table. The
double mattress, rumpled sheets and a crimson quilt. A tiny kitchen on the
right. What looked like a shower room on the left. Not too much of
anything. Nothing feminine about the room; a man's place.

Dan flung me a cassette. Luckily I caught it.

"Stick that in the VCR. Then c'mere."

He sprawled on the mattress. I saw thick black hair in his armpits. His
chest was hairless but I could see hair on his lower belly. It thickened
below but narrowed into a thin straight line as it headed for his belly
button.

I'd never used a VCR before. I fumbled the cassette into the slot and
looked for the button. How the hell did these things work?

"Hey, c'mere. I got the remote."

Whatever the 'remote' was, it seemed to solve the problem.

Given the choice, I'd have sat primly at the table, but it would've been
rude to refuse Dan's invitation, so I sat down on the edge of the mattress
and fixed my gaze on the dark screen, conscious that the man's half-naked
body was inches from me.

"Hey, relax, take it easy," he said, friendly laughter in his voice. "Here,
take a mouthful of this. It's Stephen's favourite. And I won't tell if you
won't."

Blindly I reached for whatever he was offering me. It was a can. A cool can
of cold lager. I'd tasted lager before, a few clandestine sips at a school
disco. I didn't much like it, but it would be rude to refuse. I tipped the
can over my open mouth, misjudged the distance, and felt a stream of cold
liquid run down my throat. I expected to cough and splutter. I didn't. In
fact, I liked the stuff and kept pouring.

"Hey, take it easy, Slugger. Save some for me. Plenty more where that came
from and we've got all afternoon." Dan laughed openly now and I couldn't
help giggling along with him. The screen flickered into life. The movie was
on. Dan shifted around so that I leant into his chest with my back. I
blushed but accepted the comfort. After all, this is what Stephen probably
did; just two friends together, enjoying a movie, and each other's company.

The movie didn't make much sense. Even I could tell the acting was
rotten. A young window cleaner was doing his rounds, and at every second
window, he got invited in for tea and biscuits. He never seemed to get
either the tea or the biscuits. He ended up on the floor, or on the kitchen
table, or in the bath, or on the stairs having sex with the lady of the
house. But they kept most of their clothes on, and even I could tell they
weren't really doing 'it'. I sat there and watched, my eyes fixed on the
screen, wondering when the real story would start. Occasionally, Dan passed
the can to me and I took a mouthful. I liked the way the liquid warmed my
belly, and it seemed such a grown-up, such a Stephen-thing to be doing.

Dan's arm was round my waist, his big right hand across my stomach. Ever so
slowly it inched its way onto my shorts and onto my private parts. Maybe he
hadn't even noticed. It was such a hot day I hadn't buttoned my shorts up
properly. The third and fourth buttons were slid open. Dan slid his fingers
inside. He moved my underpants aside and took me in his fingers. My face
burned, my heart banged inside my chest. He twiddled my bits around. I
didn't go hard. I don't know why. I wasn't scared; I was too frozen to be
scared.

"You're a funny kid."

I felt his beery breath on my neck.

"Bet your ticklish."

He pulled me backwards onto the mattress, and began to tickle me. I didn't
laugh but I struggled against the tickling. In the struggle, my shorts and
underpants were pulled to my knees. I was mortified. I was wearing the
baggy y-fronts mother always bought me. How I longed for the sexy slips
that Stephen wore but I couldn't think how to ask my mother for them. We
continued to wrestle, or rather Dan continued to bend me in assorted shapes
like a handful of branches and twigs. I ended up across his lap, front up,
head twisted towards the television as if, by gazing at TV, I could deny
what was happening to me on Dan's double mattress.

I started to become aroused by what he was doing. I was embarrassed. I
could feel myself begin to fill and elongate.

"Getting excited?" I heard him whisper.

"No," I lied. "Just watching the movie."

"Don't bother. That film's rubbish."

As he spoke, he pulled me round so that I was lying on the bed, alongside
him, our feet pointed towards the TV. He'd lost his pyjama bottoms. He was
aroused, in full erection, his penis huge and hard, jutting up angrily from
a forest of thick black hair, the skin pulled back from the head, leaving
it purple and urgent. He put one arm around my shoulder and used his other
hand to manipulate me. He looked at me from time to time but I just lay
there staring at the wooden beams above.

Although I was only half hard, he began masturbating me. I'd learned the
word from Stephen. After five minutes or so, he said in a low voice, "Come
on. Help me out. Do the same thing to me." He took my right hand and
pressed it into his genitals. They were hot and sticky; I felt his balls
wobble in their sac, and the shaft of his erection burned against my wrist.

He whispered something in my ear. I couldn't quite make it out. He
whispered again: "Use your lips. Go on, suck it, you'll like it." He pushed
my face into his groin.

I felt the bile, if that's what it was, rise in my throat. I tried to check
it, hold it down, but I couldn't. I vomited. I think it's called projectile
vomiting. It wasn't a polite vomit. The vomit surged up my throat, into my
mouth, and I spewed all over his huge, hot, hairy hard-on. I wretched and
vomited up some more. A blend of lager and cream scones splattered across
his lap. He pushed me away and rolled off the mattress.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

He stood there dripping in my vomit, his cock collapsing.

Though exhausted, I dragged myself to my feet, and pulled up my underpants
and shorts. By some miracle, there wasn't a spot on me. I couldn't meet his
eye but I remained polite. "Thanks very much for the movie, sir, and for
the cold drink. I'd better be going now. Mum'll be wondering where I've got
to."

Dan said nothing, just stood there, dripping.

I made my way down the wooden stairs, crossed the lawn and stood at the
side of the swimming pool. The waters sparkled blue and innocent.

"Aw, fuck it," I said out loud and threw myself into the pool. The water
embraced me, enfolded me and enclosed me. I began swimming lengths. After
30 lengths I was dog-tired but I was content. As I pulled myself from the
pool, I even managed a laugh.

What a summer!

What a fucking great summer!

That evening Stephen was bubbling with life and showed no signs that he
knew of my adventure in the stable block. I couldn't share his enthusiasm
as he prattled on about school in September, his new togs, his new tennis
racquet, his new rugger boots. This was a world I couldn't share, a world
where you didn't go home after school, a world where you studied, played,
showered and slept near other boys. As we lay on his bed, he described an
alluring world I would never share.

"I won't be a junior any longer," he told me with some satisfaction. "Not
quite a senior, of course, but not a bloody sprog. I'll be sharing with
three other chaps instead of eight of us crammed in one dorm."

I couldn't resist asking, though I could get the words out properly.

"Do you boys... guys... chaps... I mean together, you know?"

"'Course we do. There aren't any bloody girls around, so what do you think
we do? Better than nothing. Anything's better than nothing. Even you." His
laughter took the sting from his last remark, and I joined in. He lifted my
hand and dropped it on his crotch. "Give it a try if you like."

He was hard, very hard. Only his thin shorts and silk slip separated my
fingers from his throbbing flesh, from his stiffy, his hard-on, his
erection. I unbuttoned him and slipped my fingers in. Stephen sighed and
lay back, his head cradled by both hands. For a moment I saw myself as a
doctor making a delicate inspection.

"For God's sake, it won't bloody break. Haul it out."

I hauled it out. I stared at it. The thick shaft. The bulbous head. The
loose foreskin that moved easily back at the touch of my fingers. The
little red eye already weeping.

"You could use your mouth."

Had Stephen actually said it or was it an echo in my mind?

He'd explained masturbation to me, semen, sperms... and the word 'cum'. The
word made sense. When I'd asked what happens when "it comes", he'd
corrected me. "Not when 'it' comes, when I come, or when you come.." It was
protein, he'd explained, perfectly safe, and supposed to be good for the
skin. I wasn't quite sure how it could be good for the skin but I took
Stephen's word for it. I took his word for everything.

I could use my mouth. And when he 'came', what then? Stephen explained it
was best to swallow it, one's own, or a friend's. He also swallowed his
own, he explained. Made less of a mess of his underpant, bedsheets, towel,
socks, handkerchief, or whatever was available.

I could use my mouth. So I did. I leaned forward and kissed the head of
Stephen's penis. Kissed it again, aroused by the shape, size, texture,
smell. With the tip of my tongue I flicked away a clear drop, let it rest
on the tip, and then rubbed it onto my lips and in, like a frog taking a
passing fly. Not much of a taste. Maybe a hint of saltiness. Nothing
offensive. I sighed, bent to my task and closed my lips around the head,
resting them where the foreskin bunched along the shaft. It was strange but
it seemed the right thing to be doing. I let my head fall and let Stephen
slip deeper inside my mouth. "You can suck it if you want," so I did.

Three or four inches slid into my mouth. I felt Stephen's pubic hair brush
against my lips. I went down till my lips rested on his pubis. Rose and
slid down again. Instinctively, I applied more
pressure. "Tighter... faster," I heard a whisper instruct me from above. So
tighter and faster it was. "Play with my balls," so I did. I played with
Stephen's balls -they didn't seem that much different from my own - and
sucked his penis as it slid deep into my mouth, then out to the tip, then
in deep again.

"Touch me there."

I hadn't the faintest idea where there was, and I was in no position to
ask. I felt him take my free hand, my non-free hand was grasping the last
inch of his shaft, and push it into the cleft below his balls. "There,
there, down there."

Did he really mean where I thought he meant?

Stephen knew best, and I let my fingers slide beneath his balls and
beyond. Along the sweaty seam that divides a boy in two, then on to the
hot, sweaty, moist darkness of his... I blushed as I tried to find an
acceptable word. There was none, so arsehole it was. I'd never thought of
the arsehole as erotic; before Stephen I'd never thought of anything as
erotic; but now it seemed as fascinating as the Interior of Darkest Africa
must have been to Stanley and Livingstone. I remembered a medieval map we
had in school, and the Unknown Continent on whose mysterious interior was
emblazoned 'Here Be Dragons'. Intrepid explorer that I was, I ventured on.

The tip of my middle finger touched a hotspot, and I jerked it back. A hiss
from on high renewed my courage. I slid my fingertip over flesh that gave
way to my touch: it was an arsehole! But it was Stephen's arsehole and that
made it beautiful, and I wanted to make it mine. Suddenly I was not alone!
Stephen's hands, I presumed they were Stephen's hands were there, pulling
his bumcheeks apart. What was that phrase mum used: 'In like Flynn!' I
hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about, but if there was ever
a call to be 'in like Flynn' this was it. I pushed and probed, and without
warning my middle finger slid in to the knuckle. A groan from far off told
me I was on the right track. Up the Congo I would go!

I did what came naturally. I sucked faster, harder, and at the same time
drove my middle finger in and out of Stephen Martin's bottom. The sounds
above my head told me I was doing okay. I continued the process with
vigour. Stephen's body seemed out of his control; his hips jerked
spasmodically, his bottom lifted clear from the bed. Was this the 'demonic
possession' hinted at in one of my Sherlock Holmes' stories? Who gave a
fuck? Certainly not Stephen, certainly not me.

Stephen's body arrested itself with his arse fully off the bed. The
position held as his hips jerked frantically. I felt spurts of liquid hit
the back of my throat. Two, three, four. I'd no time to taste them. There
was no time for the swallow reflex to kick in. The spurts hit the back of
my throat and went straight over. I jammed my middle finger as deep into
Stephen as I could and held it there. The palm of my free hand felt his
tummy flutter uncontrollably. I wished I could see his face, his
expression.

His body stilled. I gently withdrew my finger and had a sneaky sniff. A
little bit shitty but nothing offensive. For a moment I went to suck my
finger. Fuck no! That must be perverted. I was tempted but I didn't want to
be a pervert. Stephen eased my head off his wilting cock, and pulled me up
level with him. I put his arms around me and snuggled me tight. I was
grateful for that.

"Gosh, I needed that," he whispered. "Thanks a mill."

"Nothing really," I whispered back, unable to think of anything more
appropriate to say. Then added "Anytime," and blushed as I realised the
import of the last remark.

Stephen giggled.

"I'd do you now, but I'm knackered. The shopping - and you - really took it
out of me. Hey," he added as a thought struck him. "You've got a million
little Stephens swimming in your tum." He slipped his palm under my t-shirt
and rubbed my stomach. Then slipped his fingers down further. "Breathe in."
I breathed in deeply. He slid his fingers beneath my shorts, beneath my
underpants, and let them settle flat on my hard-on. "I'll bet that's
tasty," he whispered. "Not as tasty as you," I whispered back.

I sometimes wonder if I'd left things there if it would have turned out
differently. But I couldn't. I was Sherlock Holmes and I had to know, had
to solve the riddle of those missing hours, when Stephen disappeared from
my life and closeted himself with Dan in the stable block. Did Dan show him
crummy movies, share his lager, and mess around with Stephen, my Stephen? I
tried to tell myself I wasn't jealous, to tell myself that I only wanted to
know, that I wouldn't do anything about it. I was here for the summer, a
companion for Stephen. My mother was a housekeeper, a servant; I was the
son of a servant; it wasn't my place to interfere, and certainly not in the
life of my employer, my master. Still, I had to know, I just had to.

Thursday afternoon was hot, probably the hottest afternoon of that long hot
summer. I lay on Stephen's bed reading 'The Hound of the
Baskervilles'. Reading is an exaggeration. My eyes skimmed over the text
but I took very little. In the morning we'd swum; a light salad for lunch;
then Stephen disappeared. No sign of Dan. I let the book fall, slid from
the bed, and hung out of the bedroom window, my gaze fixed on the stable
block and the wooden stairs that led to the wooden door. My imagination was
feverish. Was Stephen's face even now being forced down onto Dan's huge
horse cock, was he choking on the man's cum, was a long thick middle finger
jammed up my friend's bum?

Those wooden stairs, that wooden door; they were not only way into the
stable block. I'd reconnoitred the scene just as the great SH himself might
have done -though he'd probably have sent faithful Dr Watson to do the
donkey work. And what had I found? An inside staircase, not so much a
staircase, as wooden structure leading from the old stables to the loft
above. They'd probably used it get the stored bales of hay down from the
loft to the equine beasts in the stables. I loved that phrase: the equine
beasts, very Holmsian.

The thought was father to my deed. I crossed the lawns, the gravel path,
and slid, liquid as a cat into the stables. Sweat trickled down my back. I
climbed the wooden structure. It wasn't very difficult but the sweat on my
palms made good gripping difficult, and I was relieved when I reached... a
wooden trapdoor! and it could only lead to one place, Dan's room. I pushed
against it with my head, certain it would squeak like ten bats out of
Hell. In fact, it slid up with ease and elegance. Dan was a lot of things,
a first class handyman being one of them.

I don't suppose I would have seen that much if Dan's bed hadn't been a
mattress on the floor. As it was, I had a clear unobstructed view. I didn't
understand what I was looking at. I sensed something under my skin. An all
over prickling you feel when the air, heavy and humid, is charged with
electricity. Light filtered through the fine dust making what I saw more
unreal.

Dan lay on his back, his legs either side of the mattress. Naked. Stephen
straddled his thighs. Dan held Stephen's hips. Urged on by Dan's big bony
hands, splayed against the tanned ivory of Stephen's skin, Stephen rose and
fell, rose and fell. His hair hung down over his face, dark hair, wet with
sweat, the fringe clinging to his forehead. Dan's back was off the mattress
as he pulled Stephen's face and shoulders into his own. The man's thick
tongue penetrated the boy's lips, his mouth, his throat. Now, of course, I
can interpet what I saw, but at the time I could only guess because what I
saw didn't seem real, didn't seem possible.

As Stephen rose and leaned forward, I saw it. A hard column of flesh that
miraculously appeared from my friend's bottom, his bum, his... I had to
believe my own eyes... his arsehole. And as Stephen slid downwards, the
column of flesh, obscenely glistening, an ivory running baton, disappeared
until the boy's bum nestled in thick dark hair that could only have been
Dan's.

Was this happening in silence? Probably not. But I heard nothing, saw only
the moving images. I couldn't see Stephen's face but I could read Dan's:
ecstasy, cruelty, delight, determination flickered across the man's face
with a hundred other emotions I couldn't interpet.

This was fucking.

I'd heard about fucking; Stephen had told me, but he'd told me about men
and women, boys and girls, and this was different, this was man and boy.

I'd seen fucking; or some semblance of it in Dan's crummy movie. But the
window cleaner and his ladies had nothing of the grim determination I was
looking at now. And I could understand how a woman could take a man; after
all, I knew where babies came from. But how could Stephen take Dan? How
could he take that huge hard horsecock deep inside him? Surely it must
hurt, must be terribly painful. Why wasn't he screaming? He rode up and
down on that slippery column of flesh, and, apart from a few grunts and
moans, the rest was silence.

I couldn't watch anymore. The hatred for Dan leapt into my throat as sudden
and quick as the vomit had. I wanted to climb through the trapdoor. Run to
the mattress. Scream and shout in fury. Tear Stephen off that thrusting
pole, and smash smash smash Dan's smug face to pulp. But I knew I
couldn't. I knew I was only a boy, and this was an adult's world.

Like Sherlock Holmes I would retreat, bide my time, take stock, ponder my
next move. To separate Stephen from Dan. To remove Dan from the world I
shared with Stephen. To have Stephen for myself. To have and to
hold. Stephen. Stephen. Stephen. Let it be me.

That evening I stayed in my room. My mother told the Martins I was flushed
and feverish, obviously I'd taken too much sun. Obvious, but not
true. Stephen looked in on me but I turned my face to the wall and feigned
sleep.

Next morning I knew I'd do something. I'd no idea what that something was,
but I'd know it when it came, and it came much sooner than I could have
anticipated.

It was early afternoon. In the morning we played tennis; Stephen
won. Lunch. A short siesta. A swim. Then I to my room and my Conan Doyle;
Stephen to his rendezvous. Around three o'clock there was a gentle tap on
my door. Mum? Lemonade! "Come in."

Mrs. Martin stepped into the room. I was started and sprang from the
bed. Mrs. Martin rarely talked to me, rarely acknowledged my existence. She
was never unkind, simply distant. She smiled Stephen's smile and pushed
some stray hair from her eyes, a mirror image of a Stephen-gesture.

"Robert, forgive me disturbing you. I'm looking for Stephen. I know you and
he usually go cycling in the afternoon, but your mother told me you'd taken
too much sun yesterday - typical boys - I thought Stephen and you might be
resting in his room. No sign of Stephen there, so I tried here. I'm sure
you'll forgive the intrusion." Mrs. Martin was nonplussed by my failure to
respond. I realised I was being rude.

"Terribly sorry, ma'am. I've no idea where Stephen is. We never go cycling
in the afternoon. Morning, yes, after breakfast. Sometimes in the
evening. Never in the afternoon. It's been just too hot."

"But then what do you do in the afternoon?" I could hear the puzzlement in
her voice.

"I stay here. I read Sherlock Holmes." I thrust the volume of stories at
her as if it was an alibi.

"But Stephen? What on earth does Stephen do? I can't see him reading all
afternoon. The sports pages in the Daily Telepgraph, perhaps, but not
a... book." She spoke the word 'book' as if were akin to a dog turd on the
lawn.

"So what on earth does he do?"

Given time to think, I might have prevaricated, dissembled, found a
suitable cover story.

That's a lie.

I didn't need time.

With the blandest expression I could muster, I cold-bloodedly said:
"Stephen spends every afternoon with Dan."

"With Dan?"

"Yes, Mrs. Martin, with Dan."

"Doing what?"

"I don't know. Stephen doesn't tell me."

"Surely not helping Dan around the place. Stephen's got as much interest in
mending a fuse as he has in reading a book. And I haven't seen them
together around the house. Come now, Robert, you must know where they are,
what they're doing?"

Was the woman entirely stupid? The Bank of England was falling round our
heads, and she hadn't even heard a penny drop.

"Maybe he's helping Dan in the stable block, in Dan's room. I don't
know. I'm not invited there."

Mrs. Martin's face was expressionless, yet I could read her face as easily
as any of my beloved mysteries. Expressionless, yet cold, as cold as the
winds that whipped our high rise block back home in February.

"Leave this matter to me."

She turned and swept from the room. I waited a few moments, then crossed
the corridor into Stephen's room.

I watched from the window as she strode across the lawn, reached the stable
stairs, paused, then climbed the stairs with purpose, reached the door,
failed to knock, flung the door open, and stepped out of the light into the
darkness.

I didn't see Stephen, but I saw Dan leave. Shoulders hunched. Battered old
suitcase banging against his leg. On the road to the village. He could
catch a bus there.

Which one? Who cared? I didn't. I'd done what I had to do. I'd saved
Stephen and I'd saved the last two weeks of summer - for us.

Stephen didn't appear for dinner. I was terrified he'd been sent away,
maybe even run away with Dan. That was too awful to think about. But
finally he did appear, about ten o'clock in my room.

"You fucking little bastard. It was you, wasn't it. Y ou jealous little
piece of shit."

Stephen was furious, the fury increased by his sibilant whisper. He stood
there in his crimson slip, ready for bed. I stood there in my baggy
Y-fronts. His body was as taut and tight as an overwound bicycle
chain. Even in the lamplight, I could see the blue vein throbbing in his
temple.

I spluttered something incoherent. Something about saving him, protecting
him, loving him.

"You fucking moron. I wanted it. I started it. Me... me... not him. I
seduced 'him', not the other way around. Last summer. And we were happy,
happy till you came along, you stupid little..." He struggled the to find
the word, then spat it out: 'servant'.

"But I..."

I lowered my eyes, afraid to face the disdain, the derision in his voice.

Stephen was hard. I could see his erection outlined beneath his slip, the
shaft slanting to the left, his balls two silk-covered globes. I felt
myself harden in response. Oh, no, not now. I tried to think of the Hound
of the Baskervilles, charging across the moor, ripping the throat out
of... but that only made things worse. I couldn't help looking at my
growing self.

Stephen laughed, but there was no warmth in his voice.

"So that's what the little boy wants?"

He stepped forward and pushed me backwards towards the bed. Part of me
wanted to resist, but the greater part wanted to give in. The backs of my
legs hit the edge of the bed, buckled, and I went backwards under Stephen's
weight. He lay full length on top of me, skin to sweaty skin. I felt him
reach below and rip away my underpants. He was already naked. I felt his
hot hard erection push against my belly. He stretched my arms and pushed
them above my head. I was helpless and wanted to be.

I felt Stephen's lips slide down my body. His lips fastened on my belly
button and he sucked hard. It should've been silly but it wasn't. The hot
fierceness of his lips, the sound of sucked sweaty flesh, the grinding of
his crotch against mine... made me harder and harder until I ached. His
lips were lower, my legs pushed wide apart by his hands, my penis engulfed
in his mouth. What wonderful shame. I covered my eyes with one elbow, my
free hand sought his tousled hair. The sucking motion increased in
intensity. I could feel his lips slide the length of my penis until his
lips kissed my pubis, then slide back until he held only the head of my
cock vbetween his lips. Then down again.

He found my sac and manipulated the eggs inside. His fingers went
deeper. He probed at my most intimate place. I'd done the same to him,
once, but I couldn't anticipate the pleasure and pain I felt as he rudely
jammed his middle finger up my arse. Pain, yes, but the pain became
indistinguishable from the pleasure. One finger, two fingers... no, no, not
three. Yes, yes. His fingers sawed into me rhythmically; his mouth pumped
my penis. I felt a pleasure beyond description well up in my groin, spread
itself throughout my body, reach my brain, and set a thousand alarm bells
ringing. This was it. I was going to CUM! Stephen'd explained the theory;
I'd seen him 'cum'; I'd watched his arching body as he rode Dan. But
nothing, nothing had prepared me for this.

Nobody should be present when another person cums. It is too open, too
revealing, too naked, too bare. Nothing is left but pure surrender. It was
late. My mother was only a room away, but I began to howl. I was a wild
wolf and it was my night to howl.

Stephen jammed a hand over my mouth. Sucked faster, harder; fucked me
faster, harder.

I exploded. Fragmented. Become a million pieces of light. Self smashed into
smithereens. My hips bucked. My arse rose clean off the bed. My back
arched. I spurted, squirted, spat, and spattered into Stephen's throat.

I felt I was dying, and dying was so exquisitely desirable. I lay there
exposed, open, wanton.

I heard Stephen's voice from afar. I could hear the tears.

"There. That's what Dan gave me. Now you know."

I heard the door click as he went.

Next morning Stephen was gone. I didn't see him go. Mrs. Martin explained
Stephen'd decided to have the last two weeks of the summer at his aunt's in
Scotland. He would send a postcard, but, knowing Stephen, best not to hold
my breath waiting.

Mrs. Martin was leaving, too. That afternoon. To spend a fortnight in
Paris. My mother would be paid for the whole summer. We were welcome to
stay on at the house for two more weeks.

We didn't.

We left the following afternoon.

Summer was over.


STILL LIFE WATER COLOURS

A warm afternoon in June. The sun still streaks the lawns but the fierce
heat has ebbed away. A gentle breeze ruffles the lake. You hang out your
second floor window drinking in the scents of summer. Voices carry on the
breeze to tell you that last bus is pulling out of the school grounds. Only
the boarders remain and even they've retreated to the indoor swimming
pool. The boarding house is yours and yours alone.

Not quite.

Finger nails drum at your door. You sigh and call, "Come in."

The door swings open. It is Toby. Still in his cricket whites. You'd
forgotten the Under-13 cricket practice was on. You're no cricketer. Tennis
is your love; tennis and boys. "Waiting for mum, sir," says Toby with a
confidence showing how comfortable he is to be here with you. "May I wait
here, sir?"

Toby doesn't feel the need to give further explanation. He has the
self-assurance that beauty brings. Besides, he knows you like him. Boarding
boys know when a master likes them. Especially the 11, 12 and 13 year old
boys. Their antennae are as finely tuned as their penises, ever alert to
possibilities. They know they're attractive and can use their cuteness to
flirt outrageously in the hothouse of a junior boys' boarding house. Toby
is the top pupil in your English class. Certain for a
scholarship. Confident but never arrogant. For all the certainty that
beauty, sporting prowess and academic ability bring, Toby is rather
lonely. Lonely because he has no father; a mother and two sisters, but no
father; and like all adolescent boys he is drawn to older males, to older
brother, older father figures.

"Make us some lemonade. There's a good lad," you smile. "I need to get out
of these whites."

Toby makes for the refrigerator. He knows where the lemonade us, knows
where the ice is, knows where the glasses are. All the boys do, boarders
and non-boarders. You are known for your open-house; you are strict when
you have to be, but otherwise you are open, easy-going, friendly. After
all, there's no reason for you not to be. You are in paradise and you know
it.

Ninety-nine boys, 8 to 13. Two floors. Six boys to a dorm. And you are
assistant Housemaster. You live in. The Matron lives in. But you're the man
of the house; the boys are in your charge, under your orders. It is you who
gets them up in the morning, watches them shuffle sleepy-eyed to the
showers, watches them as they strip and hang their pyjamas on the brass
hooks, watches them as they stumble like blind baby mice under the spitting
shower heads, gasping until the cold water turns to a warm embrace
enfolding their naked vulnerable bodies, the water coursing...

"A splash of gin, sir?"

"Excuse me?"

You're standing in tight white underpants and white socks, your tennis
shirt and shorts carelessly discarded. Toby does not bat his long, lovely
eyelashes; you are all men and boys together. You reach for track-suit
bottoms and a fresh T-shirt.

"Gin, sir. In your lemonade, sir? In MY lemonade, sir?" The emphasis on the
'my' makes Toby's request half comic, half serious.

"Neither," you reply. "Do you want to get us both into trouble?"

"Nobody here, sir, just me and you. We can do whatever we want." The stress
on the word 'whatever' can hardly be accidental.

"Well, getting you pissed isn't something I want to do, young man. Lemonade
will do. Now park your arse over there while I get dressed."

It almost slipped out. "Park your 'lovely' arse," almost slipped out. The
quicker you're into clothes the better.

Toby settles down on the three-seater couch, buttermilk with thin brown
stripes. The boys love it. Four can share it, sprawl across it, fight for
possession, and treat it and the room as if it were their own homes, their
own room.

You settle down on the carpet in front of the boy. You are comfortable, he
is comfortable. Outside all is stillness, songbirds drowsed by the
afternoon sun.

The conversation is fitful, desultory, haphazard as if being together were
enough. Toby finishes his lemonade, lays it aside and picks up your new
calculator.

"What's this?"

You lay aside your drink and reply, "It's my new calculator. But it's also
a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a translator. It translates English into
French, German and Spanish."

"Cool," smiles Toby and begins to explore the possibilities.

You are sitting directly in front of him. He is tall for his age, maybe
5'6" or 5'7", and slim, the kind of slimness that is elegant. Toby is
elegant. Longish face. Wide-set blue-green eyes. Eyebrows are brown slashes
counterpointed by the rosy pink slash of his lips. His skin is flawless,
creamy porcelain kissed by the sun. His skin is translucent. His cricket
shirt is open to the third button and you notice how translucent the skin
is; you can see blue veins beat in his neck. His long legs, white
flanelled, are crossed at the ankles.

You reach forward and idly draw his knees together and apart, together and
apart, together and apart. You watch the creases of the fabric in his
crotch and you wonder about the skin below; how pale, translucent and
fragile it must be. You realise what you're doing and stop.

"Don't stop... that's nice."

You look up. Toby's eyes are fixed on the small screen of the calculator.

"It's nice... I like that... don't stop."

Together, apart, together, apart... you recommence the rhythm.

The white fabric across Toby's crotch is tenting, or are you only hoping
that it is? Lazily, with a sigh, you run your thumbs along the inside of
each thigh, moving towards the tent. Toby, eyes fixed on the calculator,
widens his legs and keeps them open.

"You have beautiful skin," you hear yourself whisper.

There is no reply, but the boy shifts along the couch as if making room for
you. You slide from the carpet to the couch. You sit alongside the boy. You
lean your head on his shoulder as if to share the calculator. You drink in
his smells: sweat and milk, that's what you're reminded of, sweat and
milk. You reach across and push the slash of straight brown hair from the
boy's eyes.

You reach down and slip open the fourth button on his white shirt, then the
fifth. You tug the shirt gently open on both sides. Toby shifts to make it
easier. You are fascinated by the translucency, the fragility of the boy's
skin. Creamy ivory. His nipples are tiny pink starfish reminding you this
boy is not long into puberty. You run your fingertips over his nipples;
they are hard little nubs; your fingertips pass over the skin of his chest,
his tummy, the stretch of white skin above the belt of his cricket
flannels. A bead of sweat is hidden in his tummy button. You retrieve it,
bring the moisture to your lips, and lick it away.

You want to explore further, but your erection is uncomfortable. You need
to straighten it. You rise for a moment, and...

And Toby reaches out and traces the length of your erect penis between the
thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. You look down at him. You
blush. You're about to push his hand away when he pushes his face hard
against your erection. He moves his face side to side; his nose fences with
your hard-on. You hear a whispered, "Please, sir, please."

Half in terror, half in desire, you place your hand on the top of Toby's
head, run your fingers through his thick straight lustrous brown hair. Toby
has one hand on your buttock, pulling you towards him; the other hand is
measuring your erection in tiny squeezes. You can feel your hips begin
reflexively to push your groin into the boy's face. He is making tiny
whines, moans and grunts.

It is becoming more and more difficult to think.

Then Toby's hands and fingers are on either side of your waist, edging down
the track suit bottoms, and again comes the whispered, "Please, sir,
please."

The track suit bottoms have built-in underpants. They are coming down,
too. In a few moments you will be naked, exposed, your arousal impossible
to deny.

Toby is kissing your pubic hair. Running his lips side to side along the
hair, all the time sliding down the bottoms inexorably. The head of your
stiff penis bobs up as if for air; you can feel the hot flesh against the
cool of the boy's cheek. Then as more and more of you is exposed, you can
feel the shaft pressed the length of one side of the boy's face.

A sudden jerk and the track suit bottoms are below your knees.

You want to step away. You want to kneel and pull the boy's trousers and
underpants down to his knees. You want him to be equal, to share
equally. You know this elegant boy will have an elegant penis, that it will
be as hard as a boardmarker, hot, hard and tasting of heaven.

Toby is tasting you. Licking the length of your erection while one set of
long cool fingers gently kneads your scrotum. How can this boy, so young,
know so much?

Now the boy is taking you in, sliding the length of you deep into his
mouth, towards his throat. You are not hugely endowed. You are a
respectable 7 and something inches, but your penis is thick and you worry
Toby may injure himself. But the boy settles for half your penis and begins
to bob happily up and down on the shaft. You feel his warm saliva running
along its length. You look down and see the boy is squeezing the tent in
his crotch. You should be doing that for him but he refuses to allow you to
manoeuvre; Toby is in charge; you are there for the ride; go with it.

You won't be able to go with it for long. The boy's mouth is warm and wet,
his lips tight on your shaft as they slide its length again. You can feel
the pleasure across your entire groin.

Suddenly, without warning, your hips begin to buck; they are beyond your
control even if you wanted to exercise control. And the boy below you is
bucking, too. You squirt and spurt uncontrollably. You haven't cum like
this for a long time; your body and brain make the most of it.

It's all too sensitive. You pull back. Frantically try to control your
senses. You look down. Two lines of semen drip from Toby's lips and
chin. Another two are splatted across his chest. A large gob of semen
obliterates his left nipple.

The boy's eyes are glazed.

He's licking the semen from his lips.

With his fingers, he rubs the semen on his chest into his skin.

You look down.

The tent is gone, but there are stains across his groin. Wet stains from
within the fabric rather from without.

Toby is grinning.

"Shit," he half-whispers. "That's better than any boy."

He looks at you. You look down at yourself. Your dripping semi-tumescent
cock is hanging over your track suit bottoms. Damn, you wanted to wear them
for tennis later.

Toby stands up.

"Sir, sir, could you do me a favour? I'd better take my cricket stuff off
here. Change here, I mean. Can you throw it in the school laundry, please?
Mum's not dumb. She'll know what this stuff is." He points to the stains on
his shirt, his trousers. "Sir, sir, are you listening, sir?" The boy is
stripping already. "You, too, sir, you, too."

You pull yourself together.

"Yes, you're right. When's your mother picking you up?"

"Five thirty. About half an hour. Hey, maybe we should take a shower,
sir. Together, sir."

By now, you're both naked. You were right. The boy's penis and balls are
beautiful. He is beautiful. Every square inch of his body and soul is
beautiful.

You join his laughter.

"A shower, yes. Together, no. We don't want people to think we're a couple
of perverts."

"I'm too young to be a pervert," he laughs. You smack his bare ass as you
head for the showers.

In the showers, separate showers, you can't resist asking: "Toby, have you
ever done anything like this before?"

"Yeh, sir. With Ben. Me and Ben are bumboys. The whole dorm knows that."

"But why me, Toby, why me?"

A prolonged silence. You begin to doubt if the boy can put it into words,
but he tries. "Not sure. But I knew it would be okay with you. I mean, if
you wanted to, it would be great. But if you didn't want to, you wouldn't
go all 'tut tut' on me. You don't think I'm... weird or queer or anything
like that, sir, do you?"

You step from your showers to his. You take the boy in your arms. He looks
up into your eyes. You recognise the question. You pull him into you and
lower your lips to his. He kisses you hungrily, almost desperately,
open-mouthed, seeking to devour and be devoured.

The following day is hot.

At lunchtime you seek the shade of your sitting room and stretch out on the
buttermilk couch with its thin brown stripes. You close your eyes and play
back what took place with Toby. You saw the boy this morning; he smiled
shyly as he passed; you nodded and returned the smile. But this is not
exceptional; you smile at everyone, and most everyone smiles at you. You
hum happily to yourself and stroll on to your next class.

You lie back, close your eyes, and remember the touch of Toby's skin on
your lips. Ah, those butterfly kisses.

Rapping at the door. Brief but insistent. The door flies open. In bursts
Ben. As always Ben is in a hurry. As always Ben is on fire.

"Wimbledon, sir. On the radio. HE's playing! Oh, do let's listen,
sir. Where's the radio, sir?"

"Ben. Calm down." You swing yourself reluctantly from the couch. "Sit
down. Shut up. I'll get the radio. It's in my... the other room."

You almost say 'bedroom'. Every boy in the House knows it's your
bedroom. But there's a silent agreement, an understanding, a conspiracy
that no one shall call it by that name, so your bedroom is 'your other
room'.

"No time, sir. HE's playing NOW!"

And Ben is out of the sitting room, across the corridor, and through the
other door. You follow. You aren't worried. The cleaners have come and
gone. It's Matron's day off. The place will stand empty, drinking in the
odour of lavendar polish, until ninety-nine boys come crashing through the
double doors at 3.30.

You follow Ben into the other room. He is stretched full length on your
bed, face down, head resting on his arms, your small radio on the pillow by
his cheek. You notice he's in his tennis shorts, shirt and socks. He's
already kicked off his trainers; how considerate, how thoughtful. You
remember the U-13s have a match this afternoon, a match against
St. .....'s. You remember that you are umpiring two of the doubles
matches. How could you have forgotten? Must be the heat, or Toby, or both.

"Sit down, sir, sit down," urges Ben patting the space he has left for you
at his side.

If Toby is exotic, Ben is pure English peaches and cream - though he, too,
has been kissed by the summer sun, and his freckles are more pronounced
than ever. His high forehead is fringed by thick corn-coloured hair with a
central parting that varies from day to day. His skin is blemished by
nothing but freckles. His cornflower-blue eyes are wide set and
generous. His lips pinkly inviting. Ben is a well-built boy, not heavy set,
but with the upper shoulders of a weight lifter and the waspish waist of
the first class swimmer. He is also a bundle of pure energy.

You pull your attention away from the sheer physicality of the boy and
comment, "That's not Wimbledon. That's Radio 1."

"Yes, sir, I know, sir. Wimbledon's not on till 1 o'clock, but I got bored,
and anyway I've got a bit of a crick in my back, sir, low down, sir."

"See Matron," you advise.

"Matron's day off, sir. Thought you could help, sir."

Do you detect a slight giggle, a note of triumph? Hard to say since Ben's
right cheek is pressed into the pillow, his voice muffled. There is a
pause. Then... "And you helped Toby yesterday, sir. After cricket, sir. You
helped him lots."

Despite the heat, a cold shiver runs through you.

"It's my back, sir. Be a sport, sir."

Radio 1 is playing Queen. "Another one bites the dust..." You can't
remember the name of the song; you don't think much of Queen, but Ben is
humming along happily.

"Be a sport, sir. Just a little massage. I'm playing in the first match
this afternoon."

Behind you the door is closed. The House stands empty, listening only to
the memories of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of boys who have graced its
Spartan dorms.

You run your right hand under Ben's tennis shirt. His skin is warm and
moist to the touch. Your fingers trace patterns in the moisture. You need
and squeeze the flesh across his shoulders, his upper back. Your fingers
run the length of his spine. You try to be business like but the flesh is
warm, moist, and so alive. You can hear your own gentle breathing and Ben's
occasional sighs. You could sit here like this, doing this, forever.

"It's lower, sir. Lower, sir. Please, sir."

You let your hand slide down to the boy's slim waist. You can almost span
his waist with one hand. The edge of your hand comes into contact with the
boy's tight white tennis shorts. The shorts are filled, stretched by two
spheres of living flesh that make you ache just to look at them.

"I'll help you, sir. Let me help you, sir."

And Ben raises his bottom from the bed, raises his hips, slides his hands
beneath, slips open the buttons, pushes the shorts to his knees, and
collapses into the quilt again. Those spheres of living flesh lie below a
millimetre of pure white cotton that leaves little to the imagination. But
the imagination is enough to make your cock harden and lengthen until it
begins to ache.

You run the fingers of both hands along either side of the elastic band
that keeps the boy's underpants in such a tight and loving embrace. Ben
raises his hips from the bed. There's nothing for it. Slowly you ease the
boy's underpants up and over his buttocks, then tug them down to join his
shorts around his knees. You begin to knead those beautiful buttocks,
marvelling at the warm flesh in your hands, flesh that becomes even warmer
as your fingers part his buttocks to expose his most secret, his most
intimate place.

"That's it," whispers Ben. "Around there. That's the place."

Absorbed, you part his buttocks, your fingers pressed against the inner
flesh of each one. You expose the tiny hole at the centre of his being. You
remember what another man in another time in another place did to you, and
you wonder if it will give the same pleasure to Ben.

Your part his buttocks again and again, slightly wider each time; each time
letting the length of your thumbs slide down until they feel the heat at
the centre of the boy's being. At last your thumbs are parting Ben's anus
ever so slightly; you wonder what Ben is thinking, what he is feeling. You
know what you want to do. The small pucker is ravishingly beautiful;
there's no reason why it should be when you consider its function; it
simply is. You adore it. You want to lower your lips and kiss the flesh
around it; you want to smother it with kisses, tiny butterfly kisses. But
now now. You have no idea what Ben is thinking or feeling, and the last
thing you want him to feel is disgust.

Suddenly Ben's giggles and turns himself, throws himself over. His tennis
shirt has ridden up his body. He is exposed. He is fully erect. He is
uncircumsized; the head of his young dick is hard and purple, thrusting its
way out of the hood of flesh that normally conceals it.

"Shit, sir. I can't play tennis like this, can I?" A smile lights up his
face. "It's your fault. You got me like this. You've got to do something
about it."

You are surprised by the size of Ben's cock. It must be around 5 inches
long and at least 2 inches round. There is a straggle of fine blond hair at
the base and sizeable patch in the pubic area. The boy's balls are the size
of walnuts, the sac itself marked with the lines of late puberty. The shaft
is pale though the head itself is purple with engorgement. Two blue veins
circle the length of the shaft, entwine and fade into the scrotum. The heat
from the boy's penis is palpable, and you imagine you can feel the faint
beating of a pulse beneath your fingertips.

You stroke the boy's cock, bringing the fleshy hood over the head again and
again. The little eye opens on the downstroke, closes on the upstroke. You
can feel him harden and lengthen beneath your touch. You feel how the
muscles in his groin push and contract in time with your stroking. You look
at the boy's face. His head is thrown back on the pillow, matted hair
across his forehead, eyes closed but fluttering beneath the lids, face
flushed, lips slightly open.

You lower your face to the boy's straining shaft, circle the head with your
lips and apply gentle but insistent pressure. Little moans escape the
13-year-old. Your tongue probes at the weeping eye and you taste the boy's
early seminal fluids. Sweet, nothing salty. You suck and work the
shaft. The boy's legs, one straight, one drawn up in a half circle, open
wider as if in invitation. You slip your free hand between his legs,
beneath his sac, along the crack of his buttocks until you find his anus,
and with the flat of your middle finger you rub back and forth across the
little lips. You are suprised by the heat and slickness of the area, and,
as the boy begins to writhe on the bed, your press your fingertip against
the opening and let half your finger slide in.

You begin to fuck the boy with your middle finger as you speed the rhythm
on his cock. You take in the full five inches, feeling the head touch the
back of your throat, feeling your lips against his pubic hair, feeling the
slickness of your own saliva and the pre-cum run down the shaft.

Ben is no longer in control of himself. He is pushing hard off the bed,
raising his hips to push his cock deep into your throat, then lowering
himself to drive your middle finger into him as deeply as possible. With a
sudden convulsive thrust, he raises himself, drives deeply into your mouth
and throat, and holds himself there, as he spurts again and again inside
you. Five, six, seven little jerks. Then he falls back onto the bed, his
face buried in the pillow as if ashamed at his own uncontrollable pleasure.

You hold him steady in your mouth for a full minute as he slackens and
softens. You let him slip out. His penis remains semi-tumescent. Gently you
lick the head, squeeze gently and lick again. It wouldn't do to have his
tennis whites stained during the match.

You edge up the bed and place your head on the pillow. You are worried. How
will the boy feel now that the drive of desire has been satisfied? How will
he feel about himself, about you?

Ben's eyes flutter open. They're glassy. Then he raises his trademark left
eyebrow and grins.

"Thanks, sir. I think I'll play really well this afternoon... now that
I'm... now I feel so... relaxed."

Your faces are inches apart. You want to kiss Ben but something tells you
that Ben is not a kisser, not a romantic like Toby. Ben wanted sex and came
where he thought he could get it.

That afternoon Ben wins both his singles. Toby arrives in time to see him
close out his second match. After tea, the two friends stroll off
together. You are slightly rueful, slightly lonely, but happy for them, and
you feel that whatever happens, things aren't going to be the same.

You wander by the lake as the light fades. You ask yourself what you think
you're doing, once again risking everything. You try to face the fact that
you seduced Toby and Ben, but seduction doesn't seem to fit the facts. You
recall your own seduction, but how could it have been seduction when you
chose to stay, you chose to let it happen?

You didn't say no; you didn't protest; you didn't jump from the car when it
was stopped, when he parked below the great oak tree, when he laid his hand
on your knee, even when he said you were "such a handsome boy". You were
scared, yes, but you were also thrilled that this man, this grown-up man
wanted you as much as you wanted him. It was you who'd gone walking in the
park, on your own, towards the spot where 'the queers all meet up'. That
was well known at school; that was a standing joke; softer boys were teased
about 'going up the park for a bit'. You were never quite sure what 'a bit'
was, but whatever it was, you wanted some of it.

So when the car pulled up beside you, and he leaned out, and he asked for
directions, asked if you'd show him the way, you got in, you let him pull
away, you let him park under the great oak tree. Don't say you didn't
know. His eyes undressed you, his hand brushed your thigh, his fingertips
carressed your thigh - 'such a handsome boy'. Only an idiot wouldn't guess
what he wanted; and you wanted it, too. You'd wanted it for such a long
time, but only now could you put a name to it. You wanted 'him'.

Oh, you could have messed around with other boys at the school. It was,
after all, an all-boys' school. Older boys, boys your own age, even younger
boys had 'made a pass at you', but they weren't what you wanted. You wanted
him; you wanted a man; you wanted a grown-up man. You didn't want to be a
queer, you didn't want to be a poof, but you did want a man; you wanted him
to hold you, hold you tight, crush you to his chest, drink in his smell,
feel the brush of his unshaven chin against your cheek, feel his smokey
tongue force its way into your mouth, feel his hands...

So when he parked the car, under the old oak tree, the warmth of summer
seeping from the leather, when he ran his fingers across your thigh, your
knee, your crotch, you couldn't help it, you blurted it out, like the boy
you were you blurted it out:

"You can play with it if you want to..."

The words make you smile now.

The words take you back to another 'now'.

The 'now' of Dean.

Dean, you shatteringly honest little muthafucka, where are you now? Married
with a mortgage and four, no, five kids, and as happily honest as you were
back then.

It's mid-afternoon. It's also mid-winter. Snow mixed with sleet starts to
fall. Dean and you come running in from the sports field. Dean is the goal
keeper in the school soccer team. A different school, an international
school, far removed from the Toby's and Ben's protected English
heaven. You're the team coach. You've been giving Dean some extra practice,
taking pot shots at goal while Dean swan-dived into the sleety mud.

Dean is just fourteen, not an instinctive goalkeeper, but dedicated,
committed, brave, fearless, demented as most goalkeepers are. And, yes, he
is good-looking. Thick dirty blond hair. Hazel eyes. Strong
eyebrows. Slightly oval face. Shortish but beautifully built.

"Come on, Dean, let's get inside."

"Just another ten minutes, sir. Just another..."

"No, I'm freezing my..."

"bollocks"

"off."

Dean and you have become something of a double act since September. You
like each other's company. You find it easy to talk to each other. You have
a shared passion for David Bowie. You've spent several afternoons,
especially boring Sunday afternoons, in your room listening to Bowie at
full blast. You will always think of this as the 'Year of the Diamond Dogs'
and of Dean as your 'Rebel Rebel'.

The school is a small international residential community slap-bang in the
middle of nowhere. It is owned and run by two middle-aged spinster
ladies. Rumour has it they share more than the top flat in the main
administrative and dining room building. They certainly share bottles of
sherry by the half dozen. But they are good-humoured, relaxed and
tolerant. They gave you the senior boys' dormitory to look after - "Just
don't let them get too pissed" and "Make sure they don't frighten the
help." They toddle off into the dark, arm in arm.

Dean is too young for the Senior Block, but he comes and goes as he
pleases. No one seems to mind. The senior boys have hidden their cannabis
and whisky out on the roof. You know where it is. You steer clear of them
on a Saturday night before the disco; they appreciate the gesture and never
comment on your 'guests' or how long they stay.

You head towards the Senior Block.

Here you should part company with Dean, but...

"Sir, can I shower in the Block? They'll have used all the hot water in JD
(Junior Dorm). I'll be like this till 8 o'clock. Please, sir, please."

Those hazel eyes - they do it every time.

"Well, if the seniors don't mind, I don't. But ask first. And don't bend
over for the soap."

You almost kick yourself for that remark, but Dean just grins and is off
and running.

By the time you get to the Block, Dean is in the shower. You know because
Bryan, a senior, tells you have way up the stair: "Wilson's in the shower,
sir. Said you'd said okay, if we said okay, and we say okay. Okay?"

"Okay, thanks, Bryan."

You get into your flat, slip off your track suit, and the et ceteras, bang
on some Bowie, and turn on the shower full blast. It's Friday, film
evening, and you're not on duty. Hot needles ping off your skin. You give
your dick a few friendly pulls; it perks up with anticipation, but you give
it a slap and warn it to behave. Soaped, showered, towelled, you pull on a
pair of shorts and a fresh t-shirt. The room is warm, almost hot; they've
fixed the CH. A whisky over crushed ice with just a splash of mineral water
is in order.

The door bursts open.

It's Dean Wilson.

You hear the crack of skin on skin. Highland (Bryan) has slapped the boy's
bare arse. Dean yelps, pulls the towel around himself, and jumps into your
room, shouting "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" (Last Friday's film was 'The
Hunchback of Notre Dame' - Laughton's Quasimodo. The 'Spinsters' are big on
the classics; they are also cheap to rent - the classics, not the
spinsters.

The door opens again.

Dean's clothes, including his boots, come flying in after him.

The door closes.

Dean Wilson is breath-takingly beautiful. He stands there, half-naked, hair
still damp, beads of water slide down his chest, face flushed by the heat
of the shower, the heat of the chase. Without the slighest trace of
self-consciousness, he begins to towel his hair, leaving himself naked to
your gaze. Broad shoulders, a waist less than waspish, a convex tummy,
strong legs, big feet, and a heavy swinging penis. Puberty has come and
gone; this is a young adolescent awash with his own sexuality. Dean's
entire body is honey-coloured, bar a tiny bikini strip across his
crotch. Dean spends summers with his family; they are based on the island
of Bahrain in the Persian Gulf; even an English winter cannot rob him of
his splendour.

Bowie begins to sing 'The Man Who Sold the World'. Dean joins in and begins
to sway his body, his hips in time to the music - "Who knows? Not me. I
never lost control. Your face to place with the man who sold the world."
The music is wonderfully sleazy, wonderfully suggestive, and Dean's body
responds to it. You gulp down some whisky and almost expect him to begin a
dance of the seven veils using his heavy blue bath towel. YOUR heavy blue
bath towel! How the fuck did he get his hands on that?

Dean does a goalkeeper's swallow dive and lands on your spare bed. Not
'your' bed, but one of the school's narrow iron beds, antique enough,
original enough, aesthetic enough to keep in your sitting room, draped with
an 'Aztec' throw-over. He lies back, head on the backboard, towel modestly
positioned, and grins up at you.

"Hair's still damp," he announces. "Can't go out like this. I'll catch my
death." You still find it difficult to get used to the American twang most
international students develop. "Maybe I can stay here for tea. You're not
on duty today."

"Like Hell you can."

You grab a hot handtowel from a radiator, bounce onto the bed, grab his
head, those thick dirty blond locks, and begin towelling vigorously - just
like your dear old mum used to do.

No protest from Dean.

Your fingers rub against the skin of his shoulders. The smells of soap, hot
water, perspiration and 'pure boy' drift up to me. Your cock begins to
swell, lengthen, stiffen. Traitor! And damn these fuckin' shorts. Your
erection can run but it can't hide.

Your erection is not alone.

You chuck the towel away, ready to hound Dean homewards. You look down. The
blue towel is gone. The boy's penis is lying across his thigh, thickening,
stiffening, supported by a scrotum that looks stuff with a pair of ping
pong balls.

"Continue," he commands.

You look at his erecting penis, his balls, the thick patch of dirty blond
hair. You look into his eyes. There isn't a trace of shame or fear there,
just a naked, hungry desire that mirrors your own. You surrender and pull
the boy towards you. He resists. You're not sure why. Then you realise he
is tugging up your T-shirt, tugging down your shorts. "Skin to skin," he
whispers, and you're flattered by his indrawn breath as he strips you of
your shorts.

You inspect each other minutely. That's the only way to describe the next
fifteen minutes. Instinctively you refrain from too much contact. You are
on the edge of cumming, of exploding, of squirting and spurting, and you
both want to save that for later, to keep the electricity between you as
fully charged as you can for as long as you can.

With your hands, you signal to Dean that you want him to turn over.

Halfway over, he turns his head to look at you and whispers, "Are you going
to fuck me? I've heard it hurts. Does it hurt bad?"

You smile.

"No, I am NOT going to fuck you. I..."

"You can if you want," he says with the solemnity of a child, "but if it
hurts too much, can I....?"

You kiss his forehead in assurance.

"No, sweetheart, I am NOT going to fuck you. I'm going to go on looking at
you. I love looking at you, every single little bit of you."

"Oh, is that all?" Dean sighs. "Go on then. Help yourself. I could do with
a kip."

You turn Dean over. He rests his golden head in the crook of an elbow. You
see for the first time what a powerful young man he is becoming. The sweep
of his back, the breadth of the shoulders, the muscles in his arms, the
power in his legs. And the beauty of his backside, his buttocks, those
globes on which you could rest your entire world.

You're fascinated by a boy's buttocks. You have no idea why. Maybe one day
you can analyse it, work it out, why this fascination for this particular
part of the body. You lean forward and kiss Dean Wilson's bum, both
cheeks. There's a little giggle from above. You can't help blushing. You
part his cheeks. There are a few minor pimples scattered around; they only
serve to make the boy more vulnerable. Even beauty such as his is at the
mercy of nature. You touch them with the tip of your tongue. Dean opens his
legs wide, letting one hang from the side of the bed. You marvel at his
lack of shame, his openness, his trust.

The eye of his anus is pinkish brown set against the dirty ivory of the
surrounding skin. It is unutterly beautiful. Lust vincit omnia. You
separate the cheeks, lower your face into the boy's crack, and fasten your
lips, as much as you can, to the small puckered lips that smile back at
you.

You've read about rimming, of course. You've seen it in porno pics, and on
grainy cinema screens in Soho. But nothing has prepared you for this, for
the sheer erotic thrill than runs through you, that makes your penis ache,
and your tongue stiffen like a second erection.

Why? Why? Why?

Is this the ultimate giving, the ultimate surrender or male to male, this
sheer naked vulnerability that says I trust, and, above all, I trust you? I
can give you this part of me, this most intimate part of me, and know that
you will love it, adore it, as you love, adore and respect all of me.

Mystery of mysteries, all is mystery.

Dean rolls over and pulls you down to him, onto him. Who is master now, and
who is student? It really doesn't matter. Lips to lips, chest to chest,
belly to belly, knees to knees, you begin a strange kind of horizontal
dance. Dean is open-mouthed. His tongue forces its way into your
mouth. Nose against nose, mouth against mouth, you can hardly breath. You
seem to breathe through your bellies, each branded by the hot hard erection
of the other.

You can feel Dean's knuckles grind into your back. You hear him whimper. Or
is that you? He begins to buck? Or is that you? He is cumming and cumming
hard. No, that's you. That's him. Both spurting together. You raise your
hips slightly and feel his squirts against your belly; you know you are
squirting against his. You shudder against each other
uncontrollably. Dean's hand is across your mouth. Why? You realise you
started to call out: "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." and that certainly would alarm
the hired help.

You collapse onto each other. You feel the squelch between you. You raise
your belly: squelch. You lower it: squelch.

Simultaneously you begin to laugh. Simultaneously you hear the Bowie song:
'Under Pressure' --- "give love one more chance..." leading to a fit of
giggles.

"Sir, sir..."

"Yes?"

"I've got tea in 20 minutes. I'd better be there. I'd better get
dressed. But can I come back later, during the film, I mean? I'll say I'm
helping you choose the disco music for tomorrow. Please, sir, say yes,
sir."

Yes - yes - yes.

The House is empty. Everyone has gone to the Saturday night movie. You and
Dean have the House, and each other, to yourselves.

"Oooof... Ah..."

"Hey, take it slow. You'll hurt yourself and you'll hurt me too."

Dean grins down at you, flicks the hair from his eyes, and presses your
shoulders down into the bed. He sits still for a moment, stradding your
groin, a knee on either side, looking down into your eyes, then eases
himself down a millimetre more. A millimetre more of your rock-hard shaft
penetrates his sphincter muscle, the head of your cock pops into his anus.

"Ah, ah, that's it," the boy gasps.

You continue you to manipulate the boy's erection moving the foreskin back
and forward across the swollen head. You expect the boy to lose his
erection because of the pain of his arse hole but it remains as hard as
your own. Ah, the libido of the fourteen-year-old.

"Take it slow. You could tear my foreskin before you get deeper in."

Dean laughs.

"Not with the amount of Nivea I put on you and up my bum. I must've used
the whole jar."

And he did. Lathering huge swathes of cream around your erection,
fascinated by its shape, texture and the heat it gave off. "Shit, it's a
big one, sir. Do you really think I can get that inside me? Mind you, I've
done shits as big as this, so it should be okay." Ah, the delicacy of the
fourteen-year-old. "And you did a good job on my hole before you even
started with the cream," he adds, "but don't think I'm gonna lick you back
there, you dirty bugger. Ooops, sorry, sir."

This time you laugh along with Dean who eases himself down another half
inch or so. He leans forward with his elbows on your chest, wiggling his
bottom to keep the movement going. He brushes the tip of your nose with
his.

"Does this make me a homo-sex-shual, sir?" He makes the word 'homosexual'
into a joke. "Play with my balls, sir, please, sir."

"No, actually, I don't think it does."

"Explain."

The movements of the boy's bottom, the friction on your shaft, the heat of
his rectum combine to keep you almost painfully hard.

"Well, because you've never shown any interest in any of other boys at this
school, or from anywhere else for that matter. Usually when you're horny,
and I've learned to spot when you're horny, you talk about girls, about
women. In fact, this whole thing's come as a bit of a surpise to me."

"Then why am I doing this?" He asks the question, he grunts, twists his
bottom downwards and grunts again.

"You're doing this because... well, because you can. Because you're 14,
your hormones are going crazy, and because, well, because... I'm
available."

"There's more to it than that." Dean pushes down hard; it's almost an act
of punishment. "Lots of the boys in JD are doing it. They're not actually
fucking each other, but wanking and sucking, there's lots of that. In our
dorm we've got a competition; it's called 'Last One's a Wanker'. That means
the last one to cum, to shoot his stuff before lights out is a wanker. And
if you take a shit after lights out, you can sometimes hear a couple of
guys in one of the cubicles, and they ain't taking a shit together."

Dean pushes down again.

"Hey, I'm sitting on you. You're all the way in. I can feel your hair."

"Sit still for a few minutes. Let your rectum get used to it. How does it
feel?"

"It feels like I've got a huge log up my arse. But it's a nice full
feeling. Wonder how far up inside me you are. Must be nearly eight
inches. Work on my cock a bit more, sir."

Dean begins to rise and fall, levering himself up on his knees, then
sinking back down again. He is sweating, beads of perspiration dot his
shoulders, hang from strands of hair. Open-mouthed, he throws his head back
and shakes it from side to side. The friction on your shaft is
wonderful. As Dean rises, you push up and into him.

Higher he rises, and slips down again, higher and down again. You know his
arse-hole is splayed open. You can both hear the cream and other juices
squelch and fart between you. Higher he rises, and falls, again and again,
faster and faster, until he is sliding almost the full length of your
shaft, keeping only the head locked inside his stretched and stretching
anus. There are no words now; just deep concentration; deep ecstasy. You
match his movements with a faster rhythm on his distended cock; you are
jerking him off ruthlessly now; matching his ecstasy to your own. You're
glad the music is loud, glad the house is empty, the boys off to the movie,
or hidden in the upper attic with their whisky and cannabis.

You force your eyes open. Dean is lost to you now; rising and falling,
forcing you in deeper and deeper. He is going to cum soon; you know because
of the speed he is working your shaft; control is gone; you surrender
yourself to the ecstacy. You should stay silent but you can't; you grunt,
you moan, you mutter obscenities; you mouth Dean's name:
Dean... Dean... Fuck... Dean...

You're spurting now. Deep inside the boy you're spurting. Dean's spurting,
too. His semen fires and arcs its way to land on your nose, your lips, your
chin. "Come together, right now, over me." And that's what you're doing,
both of you, as you hang onto each other, riders of the storm, into a new
world born.

How long has Dean been lying across you, slumped, almost unconscious? For a
moment you are worried. Then his eyes flutter open.

"Fuckin' hell. This is a lot better than a movie. Can we do it again?"

And you do it again. But not then, not that night. Half of winter remains,
all of Spring, and half of Summer. And you were right about Dean. Dean
doesn't want to fuck you; Dean wants to be fucked, and fucked hard. But
that doesn't matter; that really doesn't matter at all; because you've
learned - take happiness where you can find it... that's what the young do,
that's what makes them happy.

Preserve your memories; you have their photographs.

Take out a photo album. Turn the pages.

There is Karim. His thick brown hair spread against the pillow. Smiling up
at you. He's been in bed for three weeks. Broken leg. Skiing. On your
skiis. He'd never been skiiing before; he'd never seen real snow
before. You bring his meals from the school kitchen. You help him do the
toilet in the portable potty. His initial embarrassment doesn't last
long. You bathe him while he is reading. Thick penis, circumcised. Big
balls. Thick brown pubic pair. He grows long and hard at your touch. You
kiss the beautiful skin between his belly button and the hair. "Mmmmm..."
You lean forward and take him in your mouth. "Mmmmm..." He doesn't last
long. His balls rise in his tightening scrotum. He spurts into the back of
your throat.

"Hey, listen to this," he says. He reads a particularly horrific passage
from his book; it seems to be about cunts and crucifixes. You wipe your
lips and wonder if a 14-year-old boy should be reading 'The Exorcist'.

Here's Nicky in his Playboy T-shirt. Nicky with a smile as permanent as his
Lebanese tan. Nicky stretched out on your narrow bed. You turn and see the
T-shirt is gone and that the top of his tiny shorts are open. You take him
round the world and he asks, "What else can we do?" And later Nicky finally
takes a set from you. There he is in the photograph, racquet held high
above his head in triumph; there he is skipping back in triumph across the
sports field. And later that night, your last night together, you open the
door of his room and find him snuggled down in an armchair with a very
pretty girl. Her blouse is open. His flies are open. Nicky grins up at you;
you smile back and gently close the door behind you.

Here's Matteo. Of the huge brown eyes. Matteo, whose classic Italian looks
turn the heads of people in the street. Matteo who says, "I learn the more
English with you than tutti lessons in the classes." Matteo who is
exuberantly experimental. Who wants to try it this way, and that way; who
tells you he's been able to suck his own dick since he was 11 years
old. And shows you that he can still do it.

Ah, the Italians. There's little Luigi. He's only 9. In the streets people
can't help smiling at Luigi, golden hair, blue eyes, baggy jeans always
slipping down his bum. You draw the line at Luigi and kick him out of your
bedroom. That night Luigi goes missing. You find him in Matteo's bed, under
the summer sheet, at the bottom of Matteo's bed, between Matteo's legs. You
can't understand the Italian but you can understand the giggling.

You turn the pages of the photograph album, and you realise what they have
in common. No, it's not their beauty though all of them are beautiful:
cute, handsome, pretty. All of them are individuals. All of them have
strong personalities. All of them have minds of their own. But that's not
it. What they have in common breathes from the page: they are ALL
happy. They are all secure in their own happiness. They will all go on and
be happy whether they knew you or not, but, with a little luck, they may
just be that bit happier for having known you.

Is this a justification? No.

You can't justify why you stepped into that car for your first time. You
can give a hundred reasons why you shouldn't have stepped into the car. You
were only 12, but you knew the dangers, the risks, the sheer stupidity of
what you were doing. But what was the real choice? To lie in bed night
after night knowing what you wanted, knowing where you could get it, but
doing nothing. You took a chance and you were lucky. You'd warn any boy not
to do something so utterly stupid, but that's easy for you to say - now.

There are hands on your shoulders, they squeeze the tense muscles at the
back of your neck, they knead the tension in your upper back. A kiss on the
back of your neck. You don't have to turn round; you know those hands, you
know that kiss so well.

"Close that fucking computer. Come to bed. Let's celebrate. Let's make
love."

It's January 1st.

It's almost 9 a.m.

It's William.

William is 21. You've known William for 8 years. You've been together for 5
years. William will graduate this year and go on to become 'something in
the City'. William intends to get rich; you know William; you know he will;
William gets what he wants. And a long time ago William made it clear he
wanted you.

So you close down the computer and wonder if you'll send this story, these
stories, on to Nifty. You want to share them. Like Nifty, you want to show
there are many ways of loving and being loved. Perhaps one day you'll put
them all together. Perhaps one day you'll even write a book and get it
published. Unlikely, but you can dream. You can dream and you can
remember. And you remember William.

***

"Sir, sir, are you asleep? Sir, sir?"

The boy's whisper became more insistent.

I lay there in the dark. I knew the boy was only 3 feet away from me. Three
feet away, in the twin bed usually occupied by his younger brother, but
occupied on this balmy Easter night by me, his teacher and family friend.

Only three feet, but that small space was an abyss, a Black Hole into which
I could so readily fall, so willingly fall, and all it needed was a single
word.

"Sir, sir, I know you're not sleeping."

There was the tinkle of laughter in William's voice. No surprise. There was
always the tinkle of laughter in William's voice. It was there at 12 when I
first met him, eyes finding each other across a crowded school dining hall,
and it was still there on the last night of his 13th year.

"I really enjoyed today, sir. It's great you're back. Wish you could
stay..." Forever? "...longer."

Longer wasn't forever, but it would do.

"I can't get to sleep, sir. Too excited, I guess. Don't mind me
talking. You don't have to listen. But I know you're not sleeping, sir."

William was in full flow now. Babbling away like a busy brook.

"It's not the same, sir. I... I mean, we miss you. I haven't played
practically any tennis since you moved. Actually, I haven't played any
until today. You saw that today, didn't you? I was crap, utter crap. But I
miss it, the tennis, I mean, I miss it, I really do.

"I know I could go down to the club on Saturday morning. But it's not the
same. You're not there and I know I'll just fuck it up if I try to
play... Ooops," the boy giggled. "Sorry about the four-letter one, sir. It
just slipped in, but, fuck it, I mean it.

"Do you remember me standing on your head?"

Yes, I remembered.

William would deliberately mis-hit a tennis ball so that it flew into the
upstairs viewing balcony. The area was locked. The only way to retrieve the
ball was to stand on someone's shoulders, their head, and scramble over the
wooden railing and onto the balcony.

William chose my shoulders, my head.

Did William know his baggy shorts and his even more baggy boxers gave an
unrestricted and inevitable view of his privates, his genitals, the
ping-pong-balled scrotum and the sleepy little snake that hung over them?

He did. I know because I made a joke more than once about the view as he
wobbled precariously on my shoulders and on my head. The knowledge
encouraged him rather than detered him, and even at 13, when William was
becoming a big big boy, every session would have its moment when a mis-hit
ball flew up into the viewing balcony. It became a ritual. And the ritual
grew until it included William sliding down to 'safety', the length of his
body pressed against mine.

Like many young teenage boys, William shied away from talking about sex but
seized opportunities to express the growing urges in tactile ways. Once
when I was taking digital photographs of William on a hot sunny day racing
round the tennis court on his bicycle - strictly forbidden - he threw
himself to court as if shot and lay there motionless on his back. His shirt
rose way up to his chest, his shorts hung low on his hips. William reached
to pull his shirt down, then in a moment pulled it back up again. He knew
what I wanted, and, as long as it was never expressly mentioned, it was
mine for the taking.

"'Course it's been winter, and I've got the band."

For two years I'd coached William in tennis. We'd spotted each other across
that crowded dining room, enchanted even though it wasn't evening, and both
of us had burst out laughing.

For me it was those huge hazel eyes. The straight unfashionably-long
hair. The straight nose. The cheekbones. The flawless skin. The strong but
not heavy build that made most of the other 12 year olds look like refugees
from a junior school. And the supreme self-confidence of the genuinely
beautiful.

Were we meant to be? Who knows? But if I hadn't chosen to take a stroll by
the sea that weekend, I wouldn't have come across William playing
basketball along the path. I might never have realised we lived so near
each other. I'd never have found out his mother was desperate William learn
to play tennis, nor that the public tennis courts lay equidistant from our
homes.

Two years.

Two years of sunny, mostly, Saturday and Sunday mornings on the tennis
courts. Two years of being a family-friend. Two years of fun and laughter
and barbecues on the beach. Two years of sharing William through those
magical years.

And now there was William, on the night before his 14th birthday, now 6
foot tall, his hair at shoulder length, his body that of a powerful young
man, but still my boy, still that forever-tinkling laughter, describing the
chords in the band's latest composition, and still happy to be with me
though I'd been gone for 6 months.

"Shit, I can't sleep. And I think I pulled a muscle. And you're no
help. You're not even listening, are you? Well, are you?"

My words were muffled in a sigh.

"There, I knew it!"

William was triumphant.

"I knew you weren't sleeping at all, sir."

"William,..."

"Yes, sir."

The eagerness in the boy's voice was comical. I knew he was on his side
now, leaning on an elbow, chin cupped in one hand, staring happily across
the gap, anticipating a conversation that might prove endless.

"William, stop calling me, sir. And, William, shut up."

"I have to call you 'sir'. You said I couldn't call you JK."

"I said you couldn't call me JK when I was a teacher at school. I haven't
been a teacher at your school for six months. Or haven't you noticed?"

Ah, the sarcasm of teachers' ... inexhaustible.

"Okay then... JK."

The silence that followed was for me to fill. I couldn't fill it. I could
hardly breathe. William's face was 3 feet away from mine, and I had an
erection that was beginning to ache.

"William, roll over and go to sleep."

"Can't. Told you I'm too excited. AND I think I've pulled a muscle." The
second remark was pronounced like the clincher.

"I suppose I could... you know..."

"I know what?"

Silence.

"Have a wank. That always helps."

No giggle, this was deadly serious. This was a new William.

"Have a wank then," I said, as unfazed as I could manage. "But keep it
quiet. You've probably already woken up your mum and dad."

"Don't be stupid. They're at the other end of the house. And George" -
William's younger brother - "he wanks as well. He still tries to keep it
dead quiet like he wasn't doing it, but I just get on with it."

"Well, get on with it," I whispered, my hand reaching inside my pyjama
shorts, while I wondered if I could be as quiet as George.

"It won't be enough," continued William, "and besides I told you I think
I've got a pulled muscle."

"How can you 'think' you've got a pulled muscle? You'd know if you had a
pulled muscle." I was wide awake and happily exasperated.

"Well, I know I've got a pulled something, and you should help me with it."

"Why the fuck should I help you with it?"

William cheerfully tut tutted my 'fuck'?

"'Cos you're my tennis coach, and that's what coaches are supposed to
do. They're supposed to tend to the players' needs."

For a moment I thought William was taking the piss. Then I realised he was
deadly serious.

I heaved another sigh.

"And just what do you expect me to do?"

"At least check it out."

"William..." I made one last effort to avoid the Black Hole. "...William
it's one in the morning."

"Yes, and everybody's asleep --- except US!"

I had nothing left to argue with.

"What do I do?"

"Slide over here. On my bed. Look, I'll make room."

I heard William budge over. I heard the curtains slide back. I saw the
moonlight slash across his bed. I edged out of mine and slid over to his. I
sat there looking down at him. Christ, he was beautiful.

He lay there, head on pillow, his long thick hair splayed beneath him. His
pyjama top was open. The duvet pushed down to his waist, the edge of his
blue boxers revealed. His torso was long, his chest sculpted, his belly
completely flat, his hips like butterflies, his belly button indented.

I adjusted myself to hide my excitement, glad of the moon-struck gloom.

"Where is it then?" I asked stupidly.

"It's between my legs, of course," William giggled, then added, "no, it's
my stomach, I mean." He reached for my hand and pressed it against his
stomach - smooth, firm, warm. He moved the palm of my hand in circles
against his stomach. Once I had the rhythm, his hand went under his head to
cup his other hand. I sat there facing up the bed, looking into
William'eyes as my hand circled and caressed his stomach. I was pleased
that he kept his eyes open, seeking to absorb my face as much as mine did
his.

"Mmmmmm, that's nice," the boy sighed. "That's really nice."

I couldn't think of anything to say. There didn't need to be anything to
say.

I let my hand circle up to his chest. There didn't seem to be any medical
justification for this. I knew I shouldn't do it. I knew I would do it. My
finger tips ran across William's right nipple, a hard little currant in the
middle of a pale brown aureole. I slid across to his left nipple, worked it
a little, and then slid down to his stomach again.

"It's a bit lower," he whispered, leaving 'it' unspecified.

"Duvet's in the way," he added.

William reached his right hand to the duvet, raised it, and flicked it to
his knees.

I'd like to say I gasped. That would be an erotic note, but I didn't. I'm
not sure I had the breath to gasp.

William had an erection.

That doesn't do justice to it at all.

William had a big hard cock, not only outlined against his thin boxer
shorts, but raising his boxer shorts so that fabric was stretched into a
tent. The middle of the boxers were pulled down into a V. What I saw opened
my eyes wider.

William had hair - down there.

Hardly suprising when you're six foot tall and almost 14, but surprising
when the boy still has the face of an angel, and you last saw 'down there',
in the shower after a tennis match, when he was 12 years old.

"Please."

There it was. That one single word that cleansed the doors of perception,
and opened the way to heaven or to hell or to a combination of both of
them.

William raised his bottom from the bed, and left the decision to me,

I slid my fingers below the elasticated waist, raised the boxers and slid
them to his knees. His prick, released to the night air, literally bounced
into view. Around my head I could hear the angels sing in chorus: "Free at
last. God almighty, free at last."

Behind me I heard William giggle and flutter his lips.

My fingers and thumb closed round the boy's erection, his hard-on, his
stiffy. The shaft was hot. No nonsense about burning my fingers or any of
that nonsense, but it was hot, and it was pulsating. Ah, sweet 13. Then I
realised... sweet 14. William had slipped into his 14th birthday without
either of us noticing it. How could we have missed that?

William was BIG.

At 14, he was a tad over 6 feet tall, big hands, big-boned feet. I don't
know if there's any relationship between overall size and dick size, but
William had the right size of dick for his body.

His cock was 8 inches long. His cock was not slim; it was not a little
boy's cock; it was a man's cock with all the sweet innocence you might
expect from a boy's cock. William wasn't circumsized, few English boys are,
and the foreskin slid back easily to reveal a clearly-defined little pink
mouth. He was already wet and slippery. Two blue veins twined up from his
balls disappearing onto the shaft an inch or so from the slightly bulbous
head. The urethra was also clearly defined. William's legs were open, and
his balls had already risen in his scrotum. I wondered how long he had lain
there playing with himself, gathering the courage to take me where he
wanted us to be.

I held the shaft, gently squeezing, easing, then squeezing again. My free
left hand pressed against William's stomach that was taut as a washboard. I
could hear his breathing quicken and deepen.

"You can kiss it if you want to."

I loved that. Not 'play with it', 'wank it', 'suck it', but 'kiss it'. That
was so appropriate, so romantic, so...

"Then you can suck it."

... fourteen years old!

Yes, sir, no, sir, Three bags full, sir, In for a penny, In for a pound.

I lowered my face, breathed in deeply, and slid my lips over the head,
almost immediately tasting the boy's excitement. I thought I heard William
sigh behind me, but it could have been me.

Those who have sucked the erect penis of a 14-year-old boy will know that
words can never do the experience justice. Those who haven't sucked a boy's
penis, but who have wanted to, will never reach that calm ecstasy through
words. There is just something so right about it, especially when the boy
initiates it because then you are assured you are giving as much pleasure
as you are taking, and that's what makes it right.

It's odd to think that only two years later, the moment William was 16,
that what we were doing would be entirely legal. Society has to draw its
lines somewhere. The Age of Consent has to be arbitrary, but in some sense
it is sad that it slashes right across that time when a boy is at the peak
of his powers, the height of his needs. I don't mention girls because of
the added complications on undesired pregnancies, but I know that, as a
boy, I was often infuriated and frustrated that I couldn't go out and do
what I wanted with MY body with someone who liked me and wanted to share
HIS with me!

None of which was in my mind as I sucked William to orgasm.

I kept it simple.

I wanted to search between his legs, find his anus, push my slick middle
finger inside him, find his prostate gland, and give him an orgasm he'd
never forget. But I didn't. That was too associated with MY desires and not
with his. I have to admit I wasn't entirely sure what William's 'desires'
were until later when we discussed and analysed what had happened.

For the moment I concentrated on giving my sweet William the first, as far
as I knew, and best, hopefully, blow job he'd had in his young life. I
didn't kid myself that William loved me or was 'in love' with me. He
wasn't! He was 'in love' with his guitar, his band, their brand of heavy
metal, with his appearance, and with being a teenager. And that was exactly
as it should be.

I was an experiment, a ship in the night, definitely worth boarding for a
little while, but probably not worth staying on till it hit an iceberg.

William's body trembled and shook. His buttocks rose from the bed. He
pushed himself deeper into my throat. His knees would have knocked together
if they'd been near each other. His tummy tightened and fluttered
uncontrollably. His hands gripped my hair, pushing my head into his groin
until his pubic hair stuck up my nose.

Three - four - five - six times he forced me down while he bounced up to
meet me. I tasted nothing. His semen by-passed my taste buds completely. He
fired his sperm straight down my gullet. Ah, the young are so immediate.

I lay there gasping and spluttering like a landed trout. Then I realised
with some degree of unncessary shame that I'd cum, too, and cum forcefully
at that. I risked a glance up at William. He lay there with his elbow
across his eyes. I couldn't read what he was feeling. I looked down his
body. His cock had softened but was still a solid if floppy snake.

I slid from the bed. Found my overnight bag and a fresh pair of underpants.
Slipped into the bathroom - en suite, thank God - changed. Padded back to
bed and stuffed the messy pair into the bottom of my bag.

Again I risked a look at William.

He was sitting up in bed, grinning from ear to ear, the duvet still thrown
back, but his penis tucked back inside his boxers.

"Get into my bed for a little while - pllleeeaaassse," he smiled. "Let's
chat about when you're coming back, and when you're starting my tennis
lessons again. I miss them - and I miss you."

I climbed into William's bed, took him in my arms, and knew it would be a
long long time before I left it - even if I had to remember not to fall
asleep that night, first night with sweet William mine.

 
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Nifty - Gay - Young Friends - Loving Boys