Date: Tue, 28 Dec 2010 15:36:20 -0800
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Hillview Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Oh, whatever. If you're going to read it, you're going to read
it. A man and a thirteen year old boy play the sort of games men and boys
have been playing for millenia, and telling you not to read this won't stop
it happening. Just enjoy the thing, and please email me if you liked it:
zackmcnaught@hotmail.com

Cheers,

Zack


Hillview, chapter 1: Matthew

I had retired to my rooms, the day's work done, the boys safely in their
dorms doing their prep and under the supervision of those whose duty it was
to care for them as surrogate parents. With a pile of marking looking at me
accusingly, I poured myself a good double measure of gin, dropped in a
slice of lime and a splash of tonic, and retired to the comfortable chair
in my living room with the intention to look up some thoroughly erotic
literature of a kind quite unsuitable for someone in my position.

A gentle knock at my door roused me from my reading, and, careful to shut
the lid of the computer so that it locked itself, I went to the door to see
who might be interrupting me at this hour. Standing on the far side, in
mufti wear of jeans and a t-shirt, trainers untied on his feet, was Davis,
one of the second year boys. I had for some time been cultivating a
friendship with the boy, as he showed quite an interest in the physics I
taught. That he was the very kind of gorgeous young morsel I longed to bed
was of little relevance to our friendship, though it did little to
discourage me from occasionally stepping over the line and putting an arm
around his shoulders in class as I explained something to him. If the other
boys noticed the extra attention he received, they said nothing, at least
not to me. He clutched his physics textbook by his side and smiled up at me
hopefully.

"Good evening, sir."

"Good evening, Davis. What can I do for you?"

"Well, sir, I was hoping to ask you a question. Only, it might take a
while, so can I come in?"

I should point out that whilst there was no actual prohibition against me
letting him into my rooms up until nine o'clock, it was extremely
unusual. However, confident that no-one had seen him enter, I stepped back
and beckoned him in. He went straight to the sofa in my living room, where
he had sat before whilst under extra tuition. I noticed immediately that
the textbook was discarded on the table without a second thought. I moved
to my chair and sat, careful to set down my drink out of the boy's sight --
it didn't do to let them see you drinking, especially at seven in the
evening.

"So, Davis, what was it you wanted to ask?"

For a moment, the boy sat seemingly paralysed, his eyes looking my way but
his mouth unable to work. Then he seemed to surmount whatever hurdle it was
that prevented him from speaking.

"Sir, you said a while ago that I could ask you about anything."

"Yes, I remember. You asked whether that meant anything at all, and I
replied that yes, it meant anything. Would I be right in thinking you have
not come to ask me a physics question?"

His cheeks coloured and he glanced down. "Yes, sir, that's right."

"Well, I did say `anything', and I meant it. What do you want to ask?"

Again he paused, seemingly uncertain whether or not now, at the last, he
could back out. But some internal resolution steeled him, and he continued.

"Sir, it's against the rules for boys to do stuff with other boys at
school, right?"

"By stuff, I assume you don't mean playing cricket, yes?" He nodded. "Then,
yes, the rules state that you should not be caught in activity of a sexual
nature with another boy. The penalty is suspension for the first and second
offence, expulsion for the third. Have you seen boys engaged in such
activity?"

He shook his head. "No, sir, not that. Do boys really get expelled for it?"

At this point I could either follow the party line and repeat the rules to
him, or I could be honest, and dispel some of his obvious nervousness about
the situation. I chose to be kind.

"Davis, not one boy has ever been expelled for it whilst I have been at
Hillview. And as far as I know, there was not a case for several years
before that."

"Oh."

"Yes, `oh'. We don't actually expel boys for doing what comes naturally,
Davis. If we catch them at it, we usually make sure they know to cover up
better next time."

"Oh, I see."

"Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, sir, at least sort of. But I have other questions."

"Ok, then, fire away."

"What if it was a master and one of the boys, sir? Would the boy get in
trouble? A master is much more serious than another boy."

I suppressed a laugh at the logic, and also a wince at the degree to which
the boy appeared institutionalised already.

"It is more serious, Davis, but in that case it would be the master who got
punished."

"Why, sir?"

"Because it would be an abuse of trust. I can ask you to do something and
unless you do it you are breaking the rules. You have to trust me not to
ask you to do something you really don't want to do, like playing those
games. If I did ask you, you would feel compelled to agree, yes?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"In which case I would be abusing your trust, Davis. I would be thrown in
jail for a long time if anyone found us playing those games."

"But I wouldn't get in trouble?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Let me ask you a question, now, Davis. Why did you want to know the
answers to these questions? Is a boy you know playing with a master?"

"Oh, no, sir. No, nothing like that. I was just curious."

I could tell that he was keeping something from me, but it was hard to tell
what. I didn't think he had lied in response to my last question.

"Don't you think you should be getting back to prep now, Davis?" I asked,
and with a nod and a smile and a `thank you, sir' he was gone.

***

Two days later, Davis was in my room once more, at roughly the same time,
and interrupting yet another refreshing G&T. The conversation quickly
picked up where it had left off the last time. Davis, it appeared, was a
young boy desperate for answers.

"What if the boy really wanted to do it?" he asked. "What if the master
didn't have to tell the boy, the boy just did it because he wanted to?"

"Well, that's no different in terms of the rules. The master would still
get in lots of trouble if they were found out."

"Even if the boy really wanted it, sir?"

"Even if the boy begged the master to play the games, Davis."

"Is it really wrong, though? If a boy wanted to play with another boy you
said the school would ignore it. If he wanted to play with a master, you
said it was a problem because the master was making the boy do something he
didn't want to do. But if he wanted to do it, why is it a problem?"

To give him his due, he was a bright lad. He's followed the argument to its
logical conclusion, one which many before him had reached, but few at the
tender age of thirteen.

"The rules are clear, Davis. But some people think they're wrong, of
course. Some people think that if the boy really wanted it, it should be
allowed. The people who make the rules don't think a boy your age can make
that decision properly."

"But I could, sir, if I wanted to! It would be my choice to do it!"

He blushed a little, partly because of his outburst, and partly because by
the words he had used he had given himself away a little. He wanted the
answers for himself, because he was trying to reconcile his feelings for a
master. For some reason I let the devil in me ask the next question.

"Which master is it, Davis?"

He turned and fled.

***

Three days later there was a note in a sealed envelope in my pigeonhole. It
had come internally, and the handwriting was not that of any of my
colleagues, and so I was intrigued as to who could have sent it. I thanked
my lucky stars when I finally did open it that I had not done so in the
staff room, because it read simply:

"It's you, sir. And you can do whatever you want to me, I promise.

					MD"

At least he had initialled it, rather than signing his name, thank
God. What do the Americans call that? Ah yes, `plausible deniability'. A
neat phrase. `MD' could be anyone, but I knew it to be Matthew Davis, and a
cursory examination of his handwriting in a recent assignment proved my
hypothesis.

Jesus.

***

What do you do when you're sent a love note by a thirteen year old boy
whose little body is something you have lusted after for some months?
Actually, love note is too soft and sentimental a pair of words to use. I
can't think of the right phrase, but it's not `love note'.

I loved my job, because each and every day I had the opportunity to be
around young boys going through the tumultuous roller-coaster ride that is
puberty, and my goodness that gets the blood boiling. For six years I had
managed to resist becoming involved with the boys. I knew that some had
lusted after me in their juvenile way, but never before had I been so
sorely tempted to shred the rule book and take advantage of the
situation. I had no fear that Matthew was going into this with his eyes
closed. He was smart enough to know what he wanted, and with the internet
available was informed enough to know what a physical relationship
meant. But there was still the fear of discovery, and the loss of
everything I had worked so hard for. Was he worth taking the risk for? I
still didn't know the answer to that when I invited him in to my rooms for
a chat.

"Sit down, Matthew."

He went straight to his normal place, and this time instead of taking up my
place in my armchair, I joined him on the sofa, a safe distance away but
still close enough to feel the slight tremors sent out by his shaking,
nervous body.

I pulled out the note and dropped it onto the table, watching his cheeks
colour as he realised what it was. Before I could speak to reassure him, he
had already gone on the defensive.

"I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have written it. I didn't mean it."

He was nearly in tears, and the shaking had amplified until he could hardly
control his words.

"Matthew," I said, soothingly, laying a hand on his arm, "it's OK. I'm not
angry. You're not in trouble."

He managed a weak smile, but the shakes were still there, and he looked
quickly away, back down to his feet.

"It's dangerous to send me something like that, though. Not only could I
get in trouble, but if your classmates found out they would tease you all
the time about it."

"I know, sir. I'm sorry."

"Matthew, look at me." He did so, eyes red rimmed, a tear on one
cheek. "Look, it's not a problem, OK? It's nice that you feel that way
about me, but we can't do anything. I would feel wrong."

I could see his world falling apart, but he managed to force a few words
out.

"I thought you liked me like that, sir. I thought you liked me."

Once again I was at the crossroads of empty rhetoric and the truth. God
knew I had fallen madly in love with the boy over the past few weeks, and I
desperately wanted to share that with him. But there was so much to lose. I
stood on the edge of the precipice. And then, with eyes wide open and a
heart full of hope, I leapt.

"I do, Matthew. I do like you. Like that."

Hope springs eternal, they say, and in that moment the source of the Nile
of hope was in Matthew's eyes.

"Then it's OK, we can be boyfriends?"

I hated to crush him, but I had to shake my head.

"It isn't right, Matthew. I would be taking advantage of you."

"But you wouldn't! I want it, sir! I want you."

Some men are utterly resolute. Some show steely determination not to give
in to temptation. I admire these men, but God knows I'm not one of them. I
looked at the boy, with his scruffy, dirty blonde hair, deep blue eyes and
rosy cheeks divided by the button nose of dreams, and I crumbled
pathetically.

"I want you, too, Matt."

Our first kiss was better than I had dared to hope it might be. He was so
soft and compliant, his lips full and plump, his tongue lively in my mouth,
betraying if not experience then at least practise. I held him close to me,
arms around his ribcage, as we went at it like two hormonal
teenagers. Well, I suppose at least one of us was exactly that, even if the
other was a thirty-something-year-old man. Our second, third and fourth
kisses were pretty extraordinary, too, and by the time we were half way to
double figures we were lying full length on the sofa, side by side, and my
hands had begun to roam.

The fly of his jeans sat atop a raging hardness beneath, and the fact that
I could feel it gave me hope with regards its size. He pulled away from the
kiss and pushed me away when my hand alighted there, his own fingers
desperately fumbling with belt and zipper until with a massive tug he
pulled jeans and briefs down below his knees and kicked them off. He
plunged back into the kiss, wrapping arms around my neck to hold me in
place, while my lucky, lucky fingers found his hot, hard flesh.

When I moved to kiss his neck he gasped and moaned at the sensations,
writhing beneath me. His reaction steeled my mind, and I knew that I was
going to fulfil a fantasy I had nurtured almost since I had met the
boy. Breaking our kiss, I slid to the floor by the sofa and readied myself
for the main event.

His boyhood was no longer nor thicker than my middle finger, and the crease
at its junction with his taut belly was home to but a smattering of short,
soft, light brown hairs, but to my eyes it was perfection itself. It fitted
the warm cavern of my mouth as if moulded for that purpose and no other,
and the sensations it gave him drove him to gasp and buck beneath me as
with my lips I unsheathed it and with my tongue tormented its most
sensitive part. He continued to writhe and moan until with a short, sharp
jerk of his hips and a throbbing of his organ I was rewarded with three
small, slimy, salty and utterly heavenly droplets of his juvenile essence,
which fizzed across my taste buds like no claret ever could.

I nursed it to softness, using my lips once more to replace its protective
covering, and only then allowed it to glide from between my lips to fall
with a gentle bounce against the top of his thigh. I glanced upwards to
gauge his approval, and found his eyes still pressed tightly shut from the
agonising pleasure, and the small pink tip of his tongue, so recently in my
mouth, wetting lips made dry by his panting. When his eyelids unglued and
his bluer-than-blue pupils were revealed, his glazed expression told me it
would be some time before he came fully back to the present.

I leaned in to kiss his soft, hot lips, an attempt at resuscitation, or an
expression of erotic intent, or perhaps a sign of my love for him. As I
pulled away, he smiled warmly up at me and then fell into a blissful sleep.