Date: Sun, 5 Jun 2011 17:32:27 +0100
From: Alex Carbine <alex.carbine@sky.com>
Subject: Leyland Park School 1

Leyland Park School

by Alex Carbine

Chapter One, An Introduction

His name is Paul. He is a 14yr old and has been at Leyland Park School for
four miserable days. Not that he was not used to being away from home. He
had been a boarder for three years at his previous school, Santa-Maria
Preparatory School for boys. Preparatory for what? Certainly not this! he
thought. His mind drifted back to those last few terms there where he knew
everyone, where he joined in the dormitory sports after light-out, where he
used to wash and be washed by his friends in the showers and
bathrooms. That wonderful time when, in a circle jerk, his little erect
cock spat juice for the first time. Sucking his friends, particularly his
close friend Mark. Paul smiled at the thought of Mark, who, standing in the
showers one evening wanking his erection furiously, did not hear Sister
Julia walk up behind him and give him a not-too-gentle tap on his bum with
the cane she always carried. As she berated him for abusing himself 'in
such a manner' he stood there facing her, wanking and cumming more than he
had ever done before, his cock a veritable spurting fountain, eight or nine
times. All the boys thought that Sister Julia was actually impressed as her
eyes never left his spurting cock and Mark was not brought in front of the
Reverend Mother.  Sister Julia never mentioned it again, but always used to
be there when they had baths, checking to make sure they had washed
themselves 'everywhere'.

Paul sits in the gloom of the basement of India House, one of the four
houses on the Park. Africa, India, Grenville and Hodges. He has no idea why
they have these names, but they do and India is his House. And he is
sitting in the gloom of its' changing rooms, surrounded by new smelling
football shirts and shorts and socks and a smattering of new jockstraps,
and boots. It is a Wednesday, and apparently every Wednesday afternoon,
after lunch and before dinner, every boy did battle on the football
pitches, or, when the pitches were too waterlogged, went for cross-country
runs, a joy he had yet to experience!

He leans back and remembers the football game he has just played. At his
prep-school he thought he was quite good, but in the game he had just
played he had been crap. It seemed that every boy on the pitch but him had
better ball control, better co-ordination, better forward planning, better
everything. He had even fallen over his own feet, but he blamed it on the
fact that his new boots had different feeling studs and were a size too big
("You'll grow into them in a trice," cooed his Mum as she went ahead and
bought them against his protests).

He scratches his balls under the towel he is wearing after his lonely
shower. All the other boys have changed and gone 'upstairs' but Paul is
still undressed. He turns his head to the left and comes face to face with
a jockstrap. He can read the label sewn into the elastic
waistband. 'Jameson'. He has never had a jockstrap. He knew what they were
but had never asked for one as he was shy of asking his mum for one when
she had been buying his new kit. It wasn't as though he didn't need one. He
holds his balls and weighs them. He wonders what it would feel like wearing
a jock.

Paul stands up and lets his towel drop to the ground.  Taking the 'Jameson'
Jock off the peg he holds the waistband open and looks at the inside of the
shaped pouch and the two straps that bend round to the back of the
waist. He bends slightly and steps into it, then straightens up, so it
rides up his legs. He eases the front of the elastic waistband over his
slightly stiffening cock and then feels his balls beginning to be supported
by the base of the fabric pouch. He pulls it all the way up and rubs his
cock through the fabric before cupping his balls. His middle finger slides
over where the two straps join the pouch and finds his bum-hole. He
remembers that the last time he had fingered his bum was his last night at
home. It feels strange being able to feel finger-to-hole contact and have
his cock and balls encased in fabric. He feels the inviting warmth of his
bum on his finger tip.

He sits back down on the slatted wooden bench with his legs apart and leans
back again. Having licked his finger he reaches under and inserts it into
his butt hole. He looks down between his legs and can see the silhouetted
tube of his thickening cock as his erection grows. He manages to get in to
his first knuckle before his other hand starts to slide up and down the
growing length of his cock. The filling of his hole coupled with the
friction caused by the fabric of someone else's jockstrap soon brings him
to his climax and he shoots in the top of the pouch of the jock, feeling
the wetness as it oozes spunk over his flesh and through to the outside. He
relaxes. He sits there laying back against his clothes, his legs wide
apart, wearing a jock with a wet patch now becoming visible, and closes his
eyes.

After a couple of minutes a second sense makes him open his eyes. Someone
is coming. He hastily stands and wraps his towel round himself and tries to
look nonchalant. One of the other new boys walks up to him. "Some of us
were wondering where you had got to," the Newcomer says, and sits down on
the bench. "Why's that?" asks Paul quietly. "Well we were talking about the
game this afternoon and how good you were." the Newcomer answers. "Oh Ha
Ha! I was crap and you know it," sneers Paul. "No really, we were. We were
going to ask if you wanted to join the Newbies' Team. Honest we were." Paul
looked at the Newcomer and saw a pretty face with long eyelashes and a
full, smiling, smile.

Without thinking Paul unwraps his towel and hangs it up, with a view to
getting dressed. "My name's Charles, but most people call me Charlie," says
the Newcomer, his eyes revetted on Paul's' jock-framed buttocks, and then
it's contents when he turns back to face him. Paul realises too late what
he had done, so he just stands there and holds his hand out. "My name is
Paul. Paul Shand. How do you do?" "Oh yes! Right! And I am Charlie
Jameson." Charlie's hand comes up from his lap but avoids Paul's
outstretched hand and continues until it is cupping Paul's balls. "I'm gay,
you know. I hope you are, otherwise I am REALLY making a fool of myself."
As an answer Paul puts his hands on his waist and pushes his package
forward firmly into the grabbing hand. "Thank Heavens something is normal
here," he laughs, "I was feeling so lonely, thinking I was the only gay
here!" And Paul wonders how he is going to get Charlie's cummy jock off
without Charlie realising, until he then realises that the named tape with
'JAMESON' embroidered in green on it is sewn on the front, outside of the
jock's waistband, above the spreading wet stain, at Charlie's eye height.

Charlie gives Paul's balls a slight squeeze, "I think we are going to get
on famously," he says as his head moves toward the hard tube of flesh
contained in the white jock. HIS jock.