Date: Thu, 22 Apr 1999 23:59:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: bpell@anon.nymserver.com
Subject: Chronicles of St.Barnabas chapter7
7. Colin Murchison, R.N.
As the daily routine of boarding school life resumed, my
Times Square adventure faded into the realm of never-
never. Only if I had come down with a dose of the clap would
I have been convinced that the entire episode hadn't been a
daydream. The trouble was that, particularly from the iso-
lated vantage point of St. Barnabas, it was hard to believe
that in the middle of the twentieth century in the richest
country in the world you could walk down the main street of
New York and encounter boy-prostitutes ready to sell their
bodies. You could only believe it if you were there. Once
back at St. Bamabas, they no longer seemed real. How could
our nice clean little boys who call you "Sir" even belong to
the same species as those grubby little creatures who read
magazines while being fucked in the tail? Surely these here at
school were the "real" boys, and the others just some other
species which superficially resembled them. All I am saying,
of course, is that the little boy-prostitutes belonged to a
world I never knew; whereas, here at St. Barnabas were boys
I could talk to and understand because their world was,
more or less, what mine had been as a boy. Through them I
could relive my own childhood; besides, except when I was
feeling really horny, a bit of fooling around with one of these
was worth as much as a quickie fuck with a raunchy hustler
who asked you what time it was when you were all ready to
shoot into his previously twice-fucked posterior.
The fact is, I really enjoyed my little kids at school, with
their silvery voices and their silly schoolboy jokes which
never varied much from year to year-"Sir, what has six legs
and flies?"-but which I can never remember from year to
year.
"Sir," said Jim Dodge one day, "what has eighty-six teeth
and holds back a monster?"
"I don't know, Jim, what has eighty-six teeth and holds
back a monster?"
"my fly.
"Oh, you flatter yourself, Dodge," I said, although hav-
ing seen the boy half-erect in the pool not long before, I had
to admit he was developing quite a prong. I wondered if he
had been able to find a suitable orifice for it among his
school-fellows, or whether he had to settle for "self-abuse".
If the eighth-graders were concerned with the relative
sizes of their cocks, the younger boys were more anally
oriented. Anything to do with bottoms was always cause for
interest. If some boy farted in class, the others all giggled
uncontrollably, choking and clutching their throats as if
suffocating from the deadly fumes. Spanking games were
ever popular, and I used to play a game of Tickle-Spank
which afforded both the boys and me much titillation. All
little boys love to be tickled, of course, and some would
claim not to be ticklish in order to get me to tickle them. So
of course I would. I'd tickle a boy's ribs until his legs came
up to his chest in a sort of reflex action, thus making his
bottom a nice target. I'd spank his bottom, and down would
come his legs to protect it. Tickle his ribs, up they come
again. Tickle. Spank. Tickle. Spank. It's a fun game that can
go on until you get tired of it. The boy never does.
What strange creatures little boys are! So innocent! And
yet so knowing! So trusting! But can they really be trusted?
Sometime late in February a flu epidemic swept through
the school. The first to catch it was little Timmy Tucker. Not
surprisingly, his bosom pal Eric Ladd came down with it the
next day.
It was Saturday afternoon. The school was going in to
Boston by bus to hear a concert. Halfway into town Timmy
came up to me and leaned against my seat and said, "Sir, I
feel sick."
"Are you going to throw up?" I asked.
"Maybe I am," said the little boy.
"Driver! Stop the bus!" I shouted. The bus came to a
screeching halt and I led Timmy up the aisle. I explained the
problem to the other masters, and said I would take him
back to school. We got off, and after he assured me he wasn't
going to throw up after all, we hailed a cab and went swiftly
back to school, Timmy nestled against my shoulder the
whole way.
"I'm sorry I made you miss the concert," he said to me at
one point. I had just been thinking how glad I was. I would
much rather ride in a cab with a little boy nestled against me
than sit in a stuffy hall listening to a concert.
Back at school at last, I led the boy into the infirmary and
knocked on Miss E.'s door. There was no answer. Of course!
She had gone to the concert too-by car.
I led Timmy back into the main room, where the little
beds were, all starchy-white and smelling stiff and clean.
"How are you feeling now, Timmy?" I asked the blonde,
blue-eyed, snub-nosed little boy.
"Kind of rotton, sir. My head aches and my tummy aches
and I kind of ache all over."
"We'd better get you into bed," I said. "You'll feel better
then. Here, sit up here on the bed and I'll help you get
undressed.' '
I noticed the little fellow was shivering as I unbuttoned his
shirt, and his skin felt very hot to my fingers. He sat there
passively and let me do most of the undressing. He didn't
even mind when I unbuckled his belt and undid his pants.
"Lift up," I said, pulling off his pants. Then I skinned off
his underpants. I admired his pink, soft body. He was only
nine, one of the smallest of the Squogs.
He sat there naked on the bed while I found a pair of
infirmary pajamas, a bit too big for him, which I helped him
put on. I put him under the covers and felt his forehead.
"I'd better take your temperature," I said. "I'll get the
thermometer." I went into the dispensary and found one.
I approached the bed again he suddenly flopped over on his
belly. I stopped dead in my tracks. Obviously, I was holding
the wrong kind of thermometer. There could be no mistake.
Or could there? Why else would he present his bottom when
I approached, thermometer in hand?
"Umm, ah, just a moment," I said, "I forgot something."
Back in the dispensary, I looked for the other kind. Sure
enough, there was one. It had a stubby bulb and was clearly
marked "rectal". Next to it there was a jar of Vaseline.
When I returned with these, Timmy was still lying belly-
down. His behind twitched under the covers. I placed the jar
of Vaseline on the nightstand, where he could see it. There
was no reaction. I sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled
back the covers. Still no reaction.
"Let's just slip these down," I said, trying to sound nurse-
like, as I peeled the pants down over his hips. There came
into view an exquisite little bottom, pink and soft and nicely
shaped. I gazed at it for a while, watching it twitch now and
then ever so slightly. There were tiny goose-pimples on it, no
doubt from being exposed to the air. I remembered what it
was I was supposed to be doing, shook down the thermome-
ter, unscrewed the jar of Vaseline, dipped the stubby bulb
into the jar and worked a small glob onto it, then turned to
face his bottom again. He was lying with his arms folded
under his chin, just the way my little Times Square hustler
had. I parted the soft hot cheeks of his delicate behind and
located the target.
"Now, this won't hurt a bit," I said rather foolishly.
"I know," said the boy matter-of-factly. I took aim and
gave a tentative shove, reflecting that if what I was inserting
had been my cock instead, the Times Square analogy would
have been perfect, for little Timmy just lay there as passively
as Buddy had.
I located the hole on the first attempt, for the thermome-
ter slid into Timmy's bottom with very little assistance from
me. He didn't flinch. Maybe, I thought, my cock had been no
more than a greased thermometer to Buddy. When I had
inserted the thermometer a couple of inches, I held it be-
tween my fingers like a cigarette, cupping my hand over his
hot behind. With my other I mussed his hair, and said, "You
know, Timmy, you're almost old enough to have your tem-
perature taken in your mouth."
"Oh, I know, sir. I've had it taken that way lots and lots of
times."
"But you didn't seem surprised at my taking it this way?"
"Oh, well, sir, that's because Miss. E. always takes it this
way with us fourth-graders."
"Do you mind it?"
"Oh, no. It doesn't hurt at all. Besides, you can talk at the
same time."
"Yes," I said, giving the thermometer a little twist, "that's
true. Still, some boys object to having things stuck into their
bottoms. I guess you're not one of them, though." While
saying this, I twisted and turned the small glass rod inside his
bottom.
"No, sir, though it does feel funny when you do that."
"Do what?"
"Well, moving it around. I can feel it."
"Oh, this?" And I poked it in and out, twisting it at the
same time.
"Yes, sir, that feels funny."
"Do you mind it? Sorry. I won't do it any more."
"Oh, I don't really mind it, sir. It just feels kind of funny,
Taking this as a request for more, or at least for permis-
sion to resume, I pushed it in and out some more, very
gently, turning it now and then. In response, he squirmed his
bottom just a little.
"Does Miss. E. take all Squogs' temps this way?"
"I don't know, sir. All I know is she does mine, and Eric's,
too. She always takes his this way."
"I guess she doesn't trust you and Eric to keep it under
your tongues, so she puts it in your behinds where you can't
do a thing about it."
"I guess so, sir. It's pretty hard to cheat this way."
"Impossible, I'd say," I replied, pushing it in and out
some more, causing him to squirm anew. After a few more
twists I went to get something to wipe it off with, leaving it in
his bottom. When I returned I noticed the rod moving
slightly. Apparently, the clever little lad had figured out how
to give himself a little tickle by moving his sphincter muscles.
Ah, how rich and varied is the sex life of children.
I gently pulled out the thermometer and wiped it off. A
hundred and two.
"What do I have, sir?"
"I shouldn't tell you."
"Please, sir!"
"A hundred and two. But that's not much. It's always a
degree or so higher in the rectum."
'Oh."
"I'll give you an aspirin so you can go to sleep now," I said
giving his bottom a pat before pulling up his pants. I gave
him an aspirin and tucked him in. His face was flushed.
"Warm enough?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. Too warm, but at the same time I'm all shivery."
The poor kid really had the chills now. Now, what would a
good nurse do in such a case? Ice-bag? No-that was for
hangovers. Ah! I had it! A rub-down! I would give him a
nice, soothing backrub. By the time I finished, the aspirin
would have taken effect and he would be drifting off to sleep.
I went into the dispensary and found the alcohol and a towel
and came back.
"What's that? Oh. Are you going to give me a rub-down,
sir?"
"Yes, it might help bring down your fever. Does Miss. E.
ever give you a rub-down when you're sick?"
"Sometimes she does, sir. It feels good. I like it."
"Good. Then you get into position," I said, pulling down
the covers again. Timmy plopped over on his belly and
pulled his shirt up. I helped him.
He winced as the cold alcohol touched his hot skin. I
smeared the liquid around his smooth back and started
working it in, kneading the flesh with my fingers. I massaged
him from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. Then I
pulled his pants just a few inches down over his hips. I
splashed some alcohol there, and some of it trickled down
between his crack.
"How am I doing?" I asked.
"Fine, sir. Just as good as Miss. E. Better, even."
"How far down does Miss. E. go?"
"Sir?"
"How far down your back? Does she stop here, or does
she go further down?"
"She sometimes goes further down."
"How far?"
"All the way, sometimes."
"Okay. Shall we go all the way?"
"If you don't mind, sir."
I didn't mind. I pulled his pajamas all the way down to his
ankles, admiring once again the trim little pink body. Then I
started working upward, massaging the fluid into his calves,
then into his thighs, massaging the hot, tender area of his
perineum as much as I dared. As I anointed this sensitive
area, he spread his thighs apart as if inviting me to explore
deeper these secret regions. But could I be sure? I splashed
some alcohol over his bottom and watched it trickle down
between his cheeks. Then I massaged the smooth mounds
which felt so delicious to the touch. Over the mounds, down
between them, under them to the perineum, and back up to
the top. I thought how simple it would be to fuck this boy.
My fingers strayed down toward his hole. It was still slippery
with Vaseline. I fingered the entrance. My God! The kid just
lay there like putty in my hands! I, could do absolutely
anything to him!
For one brief moment I considered taking the full mea-
sure of pleasure from his behind. I felt sure that if I had
spread apart his legs and driven in my cock he would not
have objected in the slightest, except to point out perhaps
that this was one form of massage Miss. E. never performed.
Sitting there with my finger pushed against his willing hole, I
was sorely tempted to do it. But then I came to my senses.
This was not Times Square, after all. This was a little fourth-
grade boy at St. Barnabas Choir School, lying sick in the
infirmary. If I were to fuck him he might in all innocence go
boasting to his little chums about the wizard thing Mr.
Murchison did to him in the infirmary, that if you thought a
thermometer tickled good, you should try this! But maybe
he wasn't that innocent. One never knew about kids these
days. Maybe in his feverish state he wouldn't even remember
it, especially if I slipped him a mickey of some kind. But
what kind? And what if he did remember?
Tempting though this small morsel of boy-flesh was, I
decided, for better or worse I shall never know, to resist
temptation. Oscar Wilde said, "The only way to get rid of
temptation is to give in to it." But look where he ended up.
No, I would play this one safe.
I massaged the lovely bottom a bit more, then, with a sigh,
pulled up his pants, tucked him in again, tousled his hair and
gave him a kiss on his hot cheek. Quickly he turned and
kissed me back, then said, "Oh, sir, I shouldn't have done
that. You'll catch my cold."
"You can give me your cold anytime, Timmy," I said,
kissing him again. "Good-night now, and pleasant dreams."
"Good-night, sir. And thank you."
I felt like saying, "Thank you for being so sweet and
pretty, thank you for flopping over on your belly for your
temperature, thank you for lying there quietly while I got my
kicks and you got yours, thank you for giving me the oppor-
tunity to rub your back, thank you for getting sick today,
thank you for being alive."
I left a note for Miss. E.: "Tucker in bed No.4. Temp.
102(per rectum), 2:15. Rx: One aspirin, one backrub. Colin
Murchison, R.N."
I pinned the note to her door and left. I lay down for a
while, daydreaming about the incident, and doing in my
thoughts what I had come so near to doing in the flesh. If my
genie of fantasy can be believed, the boy was an unbelievably
delicious fuck.
Later on I looked in on the boy, so recently ravished in my
mind, and noted that he was sleeping soundly, on his
tummy. I watched him for a while, listening to the regular
breathing, watching his body rise and fall gently with every
breath. Little boys are irresistible when they are asleep. I sat
down on the edge of the bed and placed my hand very gently
on his behind, of which I could just make out the contours
through the covers. Should I take his temperature again? I
decided not to lead myself into further temptation. I kissed
him again, right next to his ear. He made a small sound in his
sleep. Perhaps he thought I was his mummy.
Later, when everyone was back from the concert, I drop-
ped in on Miss. E. to make sure she had seen my note.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Murchison," said the good
dame. "I'm afraid you were put to a great deal of trouble."
"No trouble at all, ma'am. Any time."
The next morning, after breakfast, I looked in on the boy.
He was sitting up and looking quite chipper. The jar of
Vaseline, I noted, was beside his bed.
"Have a good night?"
"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. Not really. I had a lot of bad
dreams."
"What were they about?"
"There were these people who kept on chasing me, and I
would fall down, and it happened again and again. And then
I had other bad dreams I can't remember any more."
"And speaking of bad dreams, here comes another!" I
said gaily, for through the door came Miss. E. bearing a
steaming hot enema, holding the large black nozzle before
her like a lance. I slipped Timmy a wink and left him to his
fate.