Date: Fri, 20 Mar 2015 05:45:59 +1100
From: Robert A. Armstrong <rob.aa@hotmail.com>
Subject: Schoolie - Chapter 39

If you are new to this story, may I suggest that you read patiently from
the beginning, to understand the plot and the characters.

If you are a regular, thank you for your continued interest!

Warning: If relationships between boys and men is not your scene, or if
you're under age, or if it is not legal for you to be reading this, then
please leave, now, before somebody finds out!

Otherwise, enjoy!



From Chapter 38


As I head for the bedroom to collect my `enema kit', I say, "Excuse me,
gentlemen. I believe that I have an appointment," and I give Will a
withering stare.

Marty, catching my expression, turns to Will and announces, "I think that
you're in big trouble, mister!"

When I emerge from the bathroom, some many minutes later, Will and Marty
are just sitting, talking. I say quite emphatically to Will, indicating the
bathroom with a nod of my head, "Your turn!" leaving no doubt in anybody's
mind what my intentions are!


Chapter 39

I ensure that I collect the essentials to take with me into Marty's room -
towels, lube and deodorant then I bid him a `good night', forcing myself
not to react to, or even acknowledge, his knowing smirks, eyebrow raising
and exaggerated winks. Then I wait for Will.

As I lie, face up, modesty unnecessarily protected by the corner of a
towel, I hear him emerge from the bathroom and there is a brief exchange of
voices. Then, "Fuck off Marty!" resonates through the house.

Will strides into Marty's room and stands with arms akimbo, an exasperated
look on his face.

"So, what did he say... this time?" I ask, with a somewhat bemused grin.

"It's not funny!" Will replies. "He said that he hopes that you don't
squeal as much as I did last night."

"That's not so bad," I tell him. "Besides, you can be pretty noisy,
really!"

"Yeh, but then he said that if I couldn't finish you off to call him and
he'd come and do it properly!" Will is not quite hyperventilating, but is
obviously miffed. I'm not sure whether he thinks that Marty is still intent
on `making a play' for me, or if he doubts Will's stamina and
ability. Personally, I think that Marty was just playing with Will's
mind. I hope that's all he's doing.

I try to placate Will with, "Marty obviously underestimates both of us!"
Then I chuckle, "Perhaps we should tease him with lots of noise after all,
just to prove a point. What do you say?"

Will doesn't have to reply. His tacit, devilish and cheesy (as though
posing for a photograph) grin is quite sufficient as an answer.

Our foreplay of kissing, nibbling, licking and sucking is accompanied by
louder-than-necessary oohs, aahs, moans, groans and giggles. I think that
Will and I are enjoying our overt play-acting as much as the physical
stimulation.

However, the real love-making and stimulation soon overwhelm our specious
noises.

The moment that I feel the cool gel applied by Will's loving, gentle
fingers, Marty ceases to occupy any place in my thoughts. Will, his body,
his fingers and his pulsating cock stimulate my senses. The thrill of him
finding my prostate elicits genuine outcries, more guttural than I could
have even imagined myself producing. I become inebriated by the feeling of
him sliding in and out of me, `bottoming out' repeatedly while on my back,
and on my knees and on my side.

While in his favourite spooning position Will unloads in me. His groans, so
genuinely unrestrained, appear to echo, even from the hallway.

After resting, I give as good as I was given - slowly, sensuously and
prolongingly.

With Will on his back and his legs on my shoulders, I push hard, slow and
deep. We not only coordinate our thrusting movements, but also our noisy
breathing and blissful exclamations.

I lean forward and kiss his neck, feel him thrust his hips upwards and I
experience a lot of wetness between us. His anal muscles clamp around my
cock and I spurt deep, repeatedly. He groans. I groan. The echo from the
hallway groans once, followed by an almost inaudible "Fuck!"

I hope that Marty has a towel with him tonight.

There is no nocturnal visitor this time and we sleep soundly, roused only
by the aroma of breakfast. We have even slept through the kookaburras'
pre-sunrise territorial professions.

I use one towel to mop the remnants of fluids from my body and head to the
bathroom for an urgent pee and a much-needed shower.

As I pass Marty, unexpectedly dressed in his favourite `going-to-town'
jeans and blue shirt, I throw him a quick, acknowledging comment, "I hope
that you've saved something for `him' and `her' today, buddy."

Grasping his dressed-to-the-left bulge, he replies, "Still got plenty of
fuel in the tank; don't you worry about that!"

We both laugh, knowingly.

I shower then dress casually.

The aroma of shampoo and a floral-scented soap that surround me are in
stark contrast to the pungent smell of love-making in Marty's room.

"Hey, lover!" I whisper in his ear. "Breakfast." That word is better than
any alarm clock.

He rubs his eyes, scratches his balls and discovers his need of a towel. I
throw him one.

"Clean yourself up and have a shower. I'll deal with the room," I tell
him. I open the window to its greatest extent, spray deodorant profusely,
including aiming one squirt playfully towards Will's arse, which elicits
one of his captivating, boyish smiles. I tell him, "Just shower and throw
something on. Marty's keen to get into Big Town."

"Yeh. I know why!" Will grins. Then he adds, "Just picture it - two
cannolis and cream with donuts as well."

"Donuts?" I ask.

"C'mon, Tom," he chides. "Even you know what's in the middle of a donut.

"Jam?" I tease.

"A hole, Tom! Think about it. Three donuts, a pair of melons and two
cannolis with cream."

"Is that all you think about ... food?" I put to him, smirking.

"Well, that's number two on my list," is all he says. We both know what
really comes first!

"Incorrigible!" I tell him, swatting his firm, naked tail on the way out of
the door.

I pause at the kitchen. Will continues towards the bathroom, but not before
throwing out a "Fuck off Marty!" on the way.

"What was that for?" Marty calls after him.

"For whatever it was that you were about to say!" Will shoots back,
disappearing through the bathroom doorway.

I smile at Marty. "Still a bit early for him to be trading insults with
you. I suppose he thought that he'd just get the last word in, first."

My unlikely challenge this morning is how to keep Will occupied so that he
doesn't get to, and return from, Jake's too early and catch us putting up
the new bed. I expect that Marty will be gone for about four hours -
driving, shopping and for a ball-draining session with `him' and `her',
probably giving up another two or three loads of his Marty seed.

I tell Marty to take off early and that Will and I will clean up. We bump
fists and he heads out back for his SUV. The shops will be open by the time
he gets to town.

As Will re-appears in blue jeans and a Gold-Coast-souvenir polo shirt that
must have been bought at the Mall, I tell him, "If you do the kitchen, I'll
tend to the laundry and bedrooms."

I strip all three beds to wash the sheets, knowing that only one of them is
going to be re-made.

Will and I also spray, wipe and mop the bathroom and the rest of the place
which, when we are finished, smells disinfectantly clean, hospital clean.

Now what?

"Do you know..." I ask Will, "that I've never seen any of the artwork that
I believe you have stored in Marty's spare room?"

He looks at me blankly and then smiles. "I suppose that I do need to clean
all that up too," he says. "I can organise my paints and brushes properly
and then separate the unfinished work and sort the others into some kind of
order - maybe people, landscapes, horses and everything else."

Brushes, crayons, paint, pencils, paper, blank canvases and easel are
aligned orderly along a hallway wall near the `front door'.

Will begins to bring out dozens of pictures which he carefully organises by
subject in the living area.

His landscapes show his clear skill development over a half dozen years in
the use of various media. A number of local buildings and sites appear in
various colours, textures and detail.

His faces are all recognisable subjects, even his earliest ones. I ask him
whether I may sort them by the person for him. He agrees.

The horses, his real passion from the early days, are unique. I didn't know
that it was possible to portray a horse's personality or mood, but Will
seems to have achieved it. Eyes, ears, facial muscles - they are all
significant, and my little brother has been blessed with a truly unique
skill!

However, I don't think that I have ever previously seen pictures of male
horses with their genitalia exposed. Will's sketches and paintings are
studies in equine anatomy.

I don't know much about horses, so I have to take the opportunity to ask
Will about his prolific recording of horse penises in various states of
`extension'.

I sort them into what I roughly consider their chronology of creation dates
and an interesting pattern emerges. The earliest ones simply record the
emergence of the organ from its sheath (hey, I'm not totally ignorant!)
Then, Will has captured them peeing and the later ones show erections. My
initial guess is that they correlate fairly closely with stages in Will's
own sexual awareness.

"When I was little," Will comments, "Uncle Reg had lots of animals -
horses, cattle and pigs and, when I asked him about what I saw one day he
told me how it was easy to tell boy animals from girl animals. `Boys have
pizzles' he used to say, and I remember that I used to point them out to
everyone saying, `That's a boy horse; he's got a pizzle'. At first they
used to laugh at me because it probably seemed `cute' but then I think it
became embarrassing because I remember my mother yelling at me one day and
Sean told me that I'd better quit saying it."

"And it was round about that time that I first remember being called
`Little Willie'. My mother told me that it was because my father's name and
mine were the same so he was `Big Willie' and I was `Little Willie'. But
that's not what Marty told me. He said it was because my pizzle or `willie'
was small, compared with my father's, and the horses and bulls and his and
Sean's and Chad's. In my mind I demanded to have a big willie too. That's
when I started drawing them. But I never showed anyone. Do you know, Tom,
that you are the only person who has ever seen these?"

I'm honoured by the privilege and I take Will in a very emotional
hug. "Thank you, bro."

He continues, "There were times when I wanted to be a horse. When nobody
was around, I even tried getting on my hands and knees to pee. The only
problem with that was that I used to splash mud all over myself. So that
didn't last long."

"Later I realised that I used to get hard just like the horses do, and I
was really happy. I used to crawl around with a stiffy and pretend that I
was a stallion looking for a mare. The difference was that I really didn't
care about mares; I was totally fascinated by penises - horses mainly, but
also cattle, pigs, and my naked cousins. Yeh, I reckon they were real
animals sometimes!"

"Once I even drew Marty's, Chad's and Sean's heads on animals with
hard-ons. I thought that they were pretty funny but I burnt them in case
somebody found them. I was terrified that the three of them would see them
and bash me up."

I comment to Will that he has no picture of horses mating, which I really
anticipated that I would find somewhere.

He replies, "Yeh, well, I used to see them doing it but I was just
fascinated by those long hard rods. I even pretended at night that my
pillow was a mare and I was the stallion. One night it happened! I
discovered what spurting was, and, later, I realised that I didn't need a
pillow to make it happen." We chuckle.

"Then I caught on to what I had seen Marty and his brothers doing one day
when I went over to the weir for a swim. They didn't see me, but I remember
every little detail of it. I could probably still draw it from memory. I
wonder what Marty would say if I did it and showed it to him."

I tell him, "Marty would probably laugh, but I'm not sure about the other
two!"

Will's worried expression turns to a smile. "It's not like they could deny
it!" he cackles evilly. Maybe he will actually do it!

He carefully wraps his `horses-with-genitalia' collection in a black
cloth. Others are sorted. He checks with me, and some in which we agree
that Monika, Uncle Bill's art-gallery-director friend, may be interested,
are put aside for a potential exhibition.

`Unfinished' ones are separated out, including Marty's house in the
afternoon sunlight on which I saw Will working.

Everything is neatly packed away and we head to the kitchen for a
late-morning coffee and whatever we can find to go with it. No custard
tarts, but some fresh cookies (probably courtesy of Anna) will be perfect!
Their quantity is soon noticeably diminished.

I look at my watch - 11:15. Marty should be back within the hour.

I tell Will, "Probably a good time for you to head up and see Jake. I
expect that Di will feed you lunch while you're there and, being Saturday,
who knows what she has baked this morning!" Will smiles at me. I add,
"Don't eat too many scones with jam and cream or Marty will really have a
reason to call you `tubby'!"

"Nah, that's not going to happen! Besides, I can always work off the
calories... at night!" I give him my car keys with one hand and a friendly
swat on the tail with the other. I love his backside - even clothed. It
snuggles so perfectly into his close-fitting jeans!

I'm not sure what to do now. Everything that I had planned, in terms of
cleaning, Will and I have already done.

I could stroll over to Mum and Anna's place, say `hello' and be assured of
something to eat while being quizzed about Tony and Rocco.

Or else, I could climb to the top of the windmill and water tank and take
some photos of Marty's place from up high with my new tablet. On my
previous `visit' to the windmill, I only admired its structure and function
from the ground. I didn't climb the metal ladder, as I have once seen Marty
do to inspect the higher mechanisms. I could probably see Acacia's place
from up there and, maybe, as far as the road but I know that I wouldn't be
able to see The Village and school because the river gums are taller than
the windmill. Yeh. That sounds like a plan!

I go to retrieve my tablet/camera in the bedroom and suddenly change my
mind. Instead, seeing them, I decide to be helpful and disassemble the two
single beds ready to take to Acacia's, thereby leaving space free for the
bunks. I move the mattresses to the hallway and check out the beds - just
two end-pieces with metal slots into which the sprung base drops. I look,
and re-look. No screws. No bolts. The base should just slide out. This
should be easy.

Wrong!

I try, desperately pulling the base up to separate the pieces, and I think
that I might have strained a muscle in my back.

I try hitting it from underneath. My only achievement is bruising the
fleshy part of my hand.

I kick it with an upwards motion. The whole bed lifts momentarily off the
floor, then drops back mocking my sore foot!

I turn it on its side. I pull the end and push the base. It still won't
budge and my back again starts to complain.

I'm beginning to think that some idiot has super-glued the bits together.

My tools are in my car - at Jake's.

Marty's SUV is (hopefully) on its way back from Big Town with Marty and his
tools.

I need a hammer!

I check the garage and shed out back but the only things that strike me as
remotely user-friendly are a large wrench and a length of cut timber. I
take both.

With the bed still on its side, I try gently tapping with the wrench in the
direction that the base must move. Not hard enough! I hit it with full
force and the metal-on-metal reaction vibrates through my hands and up my
arms to my shoulders and neck.

Not happy!

I take the lump of timber and I think to myself, `No mercy!', `Take no
prisoners!' One almighty swing and ... a lot of noise, sore arms and one
intact bed.

I throw the lump of wood onto the floor, recite my entire repertoire of
profanities, retrieve my tablet and head for the windmill.

What a magnificent view of the surrounding land that stretches from the
snaking river gums behind me away to the eastern horizon! I could well
imagine Marty and his brothers perching themselves up here to observe their
Mum's comings and goings at the big house. I contemplate the multitude of
imaginary games that could be played: knights in a castle protecting the
kingdom, the lookout in a crow's nest at sea scanning for land or whales or
pirates, robbers in the Bad Lands keeping watch for the Sheriff and his
posse...

I notice the plume of red dust first, then the small splotch of bright blue
preceding it.

Despite the vehicle being obscured by clumps of trees, when I see no `new'
dust rising, I know that Marty has turned off the road onto the track. I
linger at my vantage point a while longer, catching glimpses of blue
heading towards me as the track wends its way through the grey-greenness.

With my tablet tucked securely into the top of my jeans, the rungs of the
iron ladder seem hotter on the way down, probably because I need to cling
to them more tightly.

Marty's SUV pulls to the back door, and I reach it just after him. He's
beaming.

"Nice morning's work?" I ask jovially.

"Totally stuffed!" he replies. I know that he probably intends it literally
as well as colloquially to express his exhaustion. "But I enjoyed every
minute of it. Let's grab a coffee and I'll fill you in." He corrects
himself, smiling, remembering our previous discussion and use of that
expression. "I mean, I'll tell you about it."

I follow him in and he stops at my bedroom door. Peering in he says, "What
the hell...?"

"Don't ask!" I tell him and walk straight past him to the kitchen.

He takes in the scene and bursts out laughing. "Wrong bed!" he calls, then
follows me.

"What do you mean, `wrong bed'?" I ask.

"That one used to creak so I splayed out the little flat plates a bit. When
you press in the sides at the right place they actually come out fairly
easily. Otherwise it's almost impossible.

"Not almost!" I tell him, and then complain about my back, hand, foot and
ego.

"Come on. I'll show you," he says, still chuckling.

I leave the gurgling jug to look after itself, and I follow.

With the bed still on its side, he leans his full weight on the side of the
base at one end and the bloody little mongrel metal tab just slides out of
the slot. He does the same to the other end. The two on the other side
offer no resistance.

We turn to my bed and, with one of us at each end, the base just lifts
straight out.

"Easy!" he says. "You just picked the wrong one to start with. Now, let's
have that coffee."

Marty describes his morning escapade in great detail. I'm almost
embarrassed listening to it, but it's got me as stiff as a fireplace poker.

He tells me that they often play fucking games, sometimes with `him' inside
her and with Marty behind and inside `him'. Or with Marty and him swapping
positions.

Today, after a great time of foreplay, Marty had `him' and `her' both on
their knees alongside each other. He then fucked each of them alternately,
back and forth, for about a minute or so each, until he eventually blew in
one of them. Today it was `her'. It is often `him'.

Marty said that, with his stamina, he is quite able to satisfy both of them
at once. When the three of them play, Marty and `him' both get to do `her'
and then the guys just do each other. Then the guys always shower together
and sometimes blow again.

No wonder Marty's exhausted! He'll sleep well tonight!

We place all of the bed pieces in the hallway, up past the bathroom, out of
the way. The new flatpacks are unloaded, divested of the protective foam
and all of the pieces laid out. Apart from the single and double bases
there are only the two tubular ends (shaped like curvy slippery slides) and
two optional stabilising cross-rods that go diagonally from top bunk to
bottom bunk at the back, near the wall. The stabilising rods are secured
(because the bed will be getting a real workout) and all bolts are
tightened with the previously-useless wrench. 10 minutes. Simple!

There is an obligatory testing of the mattresses (or at least the bottom
one). I flop down, bounce around a bit and declare it a `winner'.

"What's it like with two?" Marty asks, joining me.

Despite the innocence of it all, now would not be a good time for Will to
walk in!

Linen. Pillows. Finished. I put the new blankets onto the top bunk. I don't
think that they, or it, will get much use in the immediate future.

"Have you had lunch?" Marty asks.

"No, not yet," I tell him.

"Come on. I know where we can get some."

We put the single bed bits and mattresses into the SUV and head to his
Mum's.

Their dogs alert Anna who, in turn, tells her mother. Acacia has one of
those `What do you want, Marty?' scowls on her face, but she switches it
off when she sees me in the passenger's seat.

Hopping out, he declares, "Hi Mum, I've brought you two beds for the
cottage.""

She chirps, "Well, if you and Tom can put them over there, I'll fix us all
some lunch." Marty winks at me. Acacia doesn't ask whether we've already
eaten. Mothers seem to assume that boys are always ready to eat. Not wrong!

Anna jumps up and down and claps. She squeals, "Now, if your friends come,
Tom, they can really stay over here!" Then she skips inside. She reminds me
of a toy wind-up clown! Marty and I just look at each other and he shakes
his head.

Beds done.

We eat.

I describe to Acacia and Anna what I'm sure they each want to hear - Mr
Verdi's prosperity and Rocco's physique. I avoid any discussion of
`marriageability', interposing a few times that Tony and his cousin are
well-mannered young boys - younger than Will. It doesn't seem to deter
either of them.

Unfortunately, I reply too quickly to Anna's question whether I know if
Rocco has a girlfriend. My `no' seems to act only as encouragement for
whatever is in her mind.

For the time being, the mother and daughter are satisfied, as are the
stomachs of the son and the schoolie.

We return to Marty's and tidy up the new-bed packaging, adding it to other
recyclables out in the shed. Sometimes, Marty tells me, the unusable
`rubbish' is simply buried even though it could be burned. Fires out here,
especially with everything so dried up, are such that any escaping ember
could be the cause of a disaster.

Sniffing the air, Marty comments on how fresh it smells and how clean the
place is. "Hey! Nice work. Thanks, buddy," he comments.

I begin to extol Will's efforts when the dogs alert us to somebody's
approach. It's probably Will. I think that the dogs should be accustomed to
my car by now but, then, it's difficult to stifle their enthusiasm in what
must otherwise be boring existence.

I hear Will talking to the dogs.

When he comes in, he plonks himself, in a reclining position, in one of the
corner armchairs, and exhales loudly.

"Good time at Jake's?" Marty asks. He and I both anticipate Will telling us
of some exhausting wrist action and depleting activity.

Instead, Will smirks, then pauses before he says, "Wow... Aunty Di is one
amazing cook! I'm stuffed."

"So are we," Marty tells him.

Will sits up somewhat and eyes us both suspiciously. I can tell what Mr
one-track-mind is thinking!

I laugh at him and say, "We've just had lunch with Marty's Mum and
Anna. So, we're stuffed, too!"

"Oh, is that all!," he comments, leaning back again.

I think that it's time to clear the air. "Will," I start, "You look
uncomfortable every time one of us mentions Marty and me being together. I
want you to know that, even though we've played a bit together like
yesterday, which you already know about, Marty and I have never done what
you and I did last night or what he did with `him' and `her' this morning."

"Oh, and what was that?" he asks, all very falsely innocent!

"Cannolis and donuts," I reply.

Smirking, Will gets it. Marty doesn't, but I'm sure that he can guess the
intent even if he doesn't understand the reference.

Marty says to him, "Come here, cuz!"

Will looks at him with slight distrust - one joker to another - but,
obligingly, he eases himself out of the chair and approaches to within an
arm's length of his cousin. Marty opens his arms, inviting a hug. Will
complies, albeit a little warily.

"Thank you," Marty says.

Will's expression asks the `what for?' question, without the words being
uttered.

"Just for being you!" Marty replies to that which was unvoiced. "You're a
great kid and Tom is a very lucky man! I wouldn't do anything to hurt
either of you. And, by the way, thanks for cleaning this place up while I
was in town enjoying myself."

Will, ever the opportunist and striking while the iron is hot, comes
straight back with, "So, can Tom and I sleep in your bed again tonight?"

"Definitely not!" Marty says, obviously trying very hard to keep a
straight, serious face. "You're both banished to your own room tonight."

"Thanks a fucking lot!" Will snaps, prying himself loose from Marty's arms
and chucking an `exit-stage-left' stomping tantrum towards our room,
mumbling and cursing as he goes.

The stomping and cursing come to an abrupt halt. Silence.

"What the fuck is that?" he blurts out, hastily retreating to where Marty
and I are chuckling together.

"You tell him," I say to Marty. "It was your idea."

"Hey, I didn't want you two wrecking the springs on my double bed, so you
now have one of your own that you can bounce around on."

"Hell, yeh!" Will shouts and grabs Marty in a bear hug, lifting him off the
ground and dancing around the room with him. "Thank you! OMG. Thank you so
much! And I'm sorry for getting angry just now."

"No problem." Marty manages to squeak out, while being squashed.

"Will drops him and runs back to the room, forgetting about me, it
seems. Marty and I follow. He is sitting near the edge of the double
mattress and begins springing up and down.

"Tom," Will says, "come and see what it's like with two people!"

I don't mention that Marty and I have already checked that out. I
crash-tackle him, football style, but gently (if that is at all possible)
and we wrestle and roll over each other. Alternating being on top, we push
our hips into each other or grasp each other's butts. I discern a faint
squeak from one of the springs. We must find and fix that!

"Hey! Don't stop on my account!" Marty says, reminding us of his
presence. "I think that I'll go and have a bit of a cat nap. I feel a bit
tired. Can't imagine why!"

We all laugh and he leaves us alone!

"This is awesome. You want to christen the bed now?" Will asks, rolling on
top of me and pinning my arms above my head.

"Let's do it properly tonight," I tell him. "But there's nothing wrong with
a bit of roly-poly now."

We roll, bounce, grope, hug and kiss. I have to find the source of that
squeak! Will eventually rolls me onto my side, spoons up to me, hugs me
tightly as if to keep me in place, and we indulge in our own contented
siesta.

I wake to the sensation of my neck being gently kissed. I roll over to face
Will and we practise a more passionate version.

"Everything's really quiet," I say. "What do you think about you and I
making dinner tonight for Marty and us?"

"Great idea," he replies and we extricate ourselves from each other and our
new `magic mattress' as Will has dubbed it.

I check out what's in the pantry and the fridge.

"What do you think about grilled lamb chops and roast vegetables?" I ask
Will. "There are pumpkin, potatoes, onions and carrots that can go into the
oven and a bag of frozen peas with corn kernels that I can do on the
stove."

"Great!" he replies. "Anything for dessert?"

"Cannolis and cream with donuts?" I reply. He smiles at me. "Why don't you
check what else we can have," and I begin to assemble out sufficient
quantities for three hungry mouths.

"There's a Custard and Apple Danish and some ice cream in the freezer,"
Will informs me.

"That sounds good," I say. "The Danish can go straight into the oven when
the vegetables come out."

Will disappears up the hallway towards Marty's room and then re-appears,
smiling. "He's sound asleep," Will says. "He must have really worn himself
out this morning!" Then he grins and adds, "And, he's got his jeans off
with his hand down the front of his underpants."

"Happy dreaming!" I say to Will. "I'm sure that I've done that before. What
about you?"

"Hehehe," is all the response that I get. Then he adds, "Well, not since
I've been sleeping with you! I'm more likely to have my hand down the front
of yours."

The Danish is thawing on the kitchen bench. The chops are grilling and the
roasting vegetables are very happily cooking away in the oven with the
others in a pot of water already on slow heat, before there is any movement
from up the hallway.

"What's going on?" Marty mumbles while scratching the back of his head with
one hand and readjusting the bulk in his undies with the other.

"Well, you're always cooking for us, so we thought that we'd poison you for
a change," Will smirks.

"Unfair, Will!" I tell him, then add, "It's a small `thank you', Marty, for
everything."

"Thanks," he says, looking towards me, and then he heads for the bathroom.

"Coffee?" I call, raising my voice to be heard over his loud peeing.

"Thanks," comes the reply.

"Be kind to him, Will," I admonish seriously.

"Yeh, sorry," he replies. "It's just a habit I've developed... from him."

Marty appears. "Sorry, Marty," Will repeats.

Marty nods acknowledgment. "No worries, cuz," he says, punching Will on the
shoulder, which appears to be a little more forceful than the usual playful
jab. Will winces, but says nothing under my withering `you started it'
stare.

Conversation over a nice meal is very friendly and non-provocative.

"Wonderful," Marty says, pushing his empty plate away from the edge of the
table. "Thank you guys."

The spicy aroma of the Danish fills the room as Will removes it from the
oven and slices it into three generous pieces. And he is not stingy with
the ice cream either.

Marty's next piece of information is not so cheerful. "Mum heard a rumour
that the farm which Mr Andersen is managing for its owners is going to be
sold." Then he adds, "Things are getting tougher, without rain. Any buyer
will probably be offering only a fraction of the real value for it." He
carries on about the economics of farming and keeping stock alive but I
don't really hear it. My mind is elsewhere!

I can tell from the sudden change in Will's expression that the penny has
dropped for him as well. Shock becomes sadness and then, almost,
grief. Without saying anything, his eyes fill with water, his bottom lip
begins to quiver, he gets up from the table, walks to the bathroom and
quietly closes the door.

"If Mr Andersen has no job," Marty says almost matter-of-factly, obviously
understanding the situation, but being in no way cognisant of the closeness
of Will and his surrogate `little brothers', Karl and Kurt, "then the boys
will probably have to go back to their mother."

"That's awful," I tell Marty, as I feel myself beginning to choke up.

"Yes," he says. "And it's not the first time that it's happened out
here. We've lost a couple of really good families for similar reasons, one
only last Christmas."

I make three cups of coffee, put them all on the table and tell Marty that
I'll be back in a minute.

I knock softly on the bathroom door then go straight in. Will has his face
buried in a towel and I can tell from the movement of his back and
shoulders that he is crying, attempting to suffer in silence. I close the
door and go to him. I place my hands tenderly on his upper arms below his
shoulders. He spins around and throws his arms around me, still clutching
the towel in one.

"It's not fair!" he blubbers. "It's so fucking not fair, Tom! Karl and Kurt
will probably have to go and live with their mum in Brisbane and we'll
never see them again."

His profusion of tears creates a large wet spot on my shoulder and I rub
his back. Again his vulnerability is exposed. He cares for people but,
emotionally, he is still as fragile as a little kid.

"Do you remember," I remind him, "when we prayed for young Andy? We asked
God to let him live. And he's alive! Why don't we ask God to work out the
situation for Mr Andersen so that Karl and Kurt don't have to leave?"

"Can that really happen?" Will asks, and his sobbing diminishes.

"I don't see why not," I reply. "Anyway, if we don't ask, we'll never
know. Close your eyes and think of what you would like to happen and then
say, `Please, God.' You know," I tell him, "that there are probably
solutions to this problem that we couldn't even begin to think of."

"Like what?" Will replies.

"Well, if I knew that, I'd tell you." I smile at him. He smiles back and
his anguish subsides.

After some reflective moments, I say, "Come on. There's fresh coffee to
wash down that Danish."

An idea, bestowed by some all-knowing force, enters my head. I decide to
keep it to myself for a couple of days.

After coffee, Will and I both `brush our teeth' in expectation of `getting
lucky' in our own double bed.

Later, neither of us is disappointed and, with the door closed, the rogue
spring continues to squeak well past midnight.

Marty is so much more animated than Will and me over Sunday breakfast. He
comments, "You two look as though you had a bad night's sleep. What's wrong
with the new bed?"

"Absolutely nothing!" Will answers. "In fact, if we didn't get enough
sleep, it's all thanks to the `magic mattress' on the new bed."

We all know the truth, so we chuckle over it.

"How many times...?" Marty starts.

"Don't even go there!" I cut him off.

"Just once!" Will volunteers. Marty and I both look at him, dumbfounded. He
adds, "Yeh, once we started, we didn't stop until Tom fell asleep."

Marty nearly chokes on a mouthful of coffee.

He changes the subject. "I'm going over to Mum's to finish the
cottage. What are you guys going to do? Go back to bed?"

Will smiles and I shake my head. "I'm going to see if there are any
emails. I haven't checked since we've been back. Then I'll go up to the
school to make sure that everything's ready for tomorrow.

Will adds, "Yeh. Facebook and email. I need to send some messages to the
friends that I made during the holidays. And, I'd really like to talk with
Karl and Kurt about that rumour and what their dad is thinking of doing."

"What if Mr Andersen hasn't said anything to them yet?" I ask him.

"Don't worry," Marty tells me with a smirk. "If Mum has heard the rumour,
then everyone in the district will know about it by now." Then he adds,
"I'll bet that even the crows and galahs that visit her place will be
spreading it."

We chuckle at his irreverent treatment of his mother. But, hey, he knows
her better than I do!

Marty decides to take the worn-out truck to his mother's `to give the old
girl a run'. I hope he's talking machinery and not mother!

Will and I talk, and agree to do the communication `thing' after lunch, and
to go up to The Village early.

Will puts his hand out for the car keys. "My turn," I tell him and point at
the passenger's seat for him.

"You can drop me near the pub and I'll walk the rest of the way to Karl and
Kurt's," Will tells me. We can see Mr Andersen's truck parked at the
house. Thirty seconds later, as I pull up at the school, I see him just
reaching the boys' place.

I open the windows to give the rooms a final airing. There is no need to
rearrange any furniture because everything works well as it is. I sit at my
desk and begin to check the work plans for all of the cherubs for the
coming week, listing what preparation that I will have to do for each
day. I'm good at planning and am soon totally immersed in it.

During a moment of contemplation, I look up and see him walking along the
verandah. He knocks on the door. "Come in, Kurt," I call. I'm expecting to
see Karl and Will as well but they don't appear. I anticipate that they
won't be far behind.

"Good morning, Mr Grant," he says.

"How are you, Kurt?" I return his greeting.

"OK... I guess," he replies, somewhat anxiously. He's not his normal bubbly
self. I wonder whether the rumour is true and if he's reacting poorly to
it.

He forces a smile. His full set of permanent (`twelve-year-old') teeth,
perfectly straight, flash a brilliant white between his red lips (too red
for a boy). His mop of sandy-blond hair is swept to one
side. Freckles. Dimples. So cute!

"Where's your brother?" I ask. "I'm accustomed to seeing the two of you
together. It's unusual to see one of you by himself."

"Oh, he's helping my day with a few things. I was too, but Will insisted on
giving us a hand and, as my dad often tells us, `two can be company but
three can be a crowd'. So, I decided to leave them and come to see if you
needed anything instead."

"That's very kind of you," I tell him. "Thank you."

Although there is not much for him to do, I don't want to discourage his
helpful attitude. "Well, there's not a lot to be done, Kurt, but you could
check the other room for me if you like, to make sure that everything is
tidy and all of the things are in their correct places."

"OK," is all that he says and he walks through the store room to the craft
room.

I resume my thoughts about the needs of individual children and think of
how Uncle Bill's bringing of technology to The Village might be put to some
good educational purpose.

I blink out of my contemplation and Kurt is standing beside me. I grip the
desk edge and turn my chair to face him. "All OK in there, Mr Grant," he
says.

Something is on his mind, I can tell.

I have to ask. "Is everything all right, Kurt?" I maintain my grip on the
desktop and manoeuvre my chair towards him a little, in an act of interest
and concern, fixing my eyes on his own. Their blue sparkle seems somewhat
subdued this morning.

He steps forward, right up to my desk and his unblinking gaze rivets my
attention. At first he says nothing, shifting his weight from one foot to
the other. It is only then that I realise he has leant himself not against
my desk, but directly against the back of my hand. No, not just himself,
but his boyhood; his boy-bulge; his ample balls and soft penis. His gear
and my hand are in direct contact.

Has he done this unwittingly, or subconsciously, or deliberately? I wonder!

I am about to remove my hand when he speaks, "Mr Grant...?"

"Yes, Kurt. What is it?"

"Something bad, Mr Grant." He continues to shift his weight nervously, back
and forth.

"Can you tell me?" I say with genuine concern, but also aware of what he is
doing with his body.

"It's my dad." He pauses. "He might have to go and find work somewhere
else."

His shifting balance has the effect of rubbing his penis back and forth
across my hand. I think his `little guy' is getting firmer. I dare not look
at it. I maintain our eye contact.

"The owners of the property can't afford to keep paying him and may have to
sell up and move," he volunteers.

His body movements have become regular and, intentionally or not, the
rubbing of his young cock on my hand is making it chunkier. I move the
middle finger of my hand, previously frozen, exploratorily, and confirm
that there is now a well-defined, almost-hardness there, like one of the
thicker crayons that the little kids use for drawing.

He is the one to break our eye contact. He looks down, then back at my face
and he smiles appreciatively. His body movements become more deliberate and
regular.

His body backs away a few centimetres, providing an opportunity to remove
my hand. I don't. He leans against me again and pushes his hips
forward. Then he backs off again. What is he telling me?

In a gesture of openness and sincerity I turn both hands palm-upwards
towards him and I reply, "That's awful, Kurt. I'm really sorry. What will
your dad do? Is there anything that I can do to help?"

He takes full advantage of the opportunity that I have offered and steps
forward, raising himself sufficiently to ensure that his package comes to
rest on my open palm. He says, "Dad thinks he'll have to go somewhere else,
and..., and..."

And his eyes fill with tears.

He's got me hook, line and sinker!

I extend outwards my other hand, inviting him into a consoling hug.

Instead of coming to me face-on, he swivels into my lap, grasping my hand
that is cradling his package, ensuring that the contact is maintained. He
turns his head and rests it lightly on my chest. He presses my hand firmly
into his crotch as he parts his legs. He is no longer chunky, but very
stiff. I place my `free' arm across his body.

He finishes his sentence, "...and if dad goes somewhere else, we'll have to
go too, except not with him, but back to our mum in Brisbane. It's what
she's wanted all along. But we don't want to go. We want to stay here."

I attempt to move my nether hand but he covers it with both of his own
indicating that he doesn't want me to take it away. In fact, he starts to
manipulate it to fondle him. I succumb, and do what he wants, willingly. He
nuzzles his head against me.

I'm feeling as guilty as hell, but enraptured in the sensations of his soft
touch on top of my hand, his twitching cock beneath it, and his young, warm
body pressed against my own.

While I continue to idly play with his stiffness and with both of us
ignoring what is really going on, I say, "I'm sure that it won't come to
that, Kurt. Something will come up for your dad so that you can all stay
here."

"But you can't promise that, can you Mr Grant?"

"Maybe," I reply.

"Dad told us that you should never make promises that you can't keep," he
says.

I reply, "And if I make a promise, I always keep it. And, I promise you
that I'll be very sad if you have to leave."

Without saying anything he stands up and pulls down his shorts and
underpants and sits straight back down, fishes for my hand and replaces it
between his legs on the now-fully-exposed boy flesh. I'm shocked, but
delighted.

I run my thumb back and forth across his small patch of soft, light brown
pubic hair, then I encircle his young cock with my index finger and thumb
while, at the same time, fidgeting to cradle his balls with my other
fingers. I fondle all of him.

Raising his hips momentarily, he relaxes into more of a reclining position
in my arms and his body goes limp against me. He moans
contentedly. Victoriously?

I know that he can feel my own firm cock below his naked round butt cheeks,
but when he slips one of his hands onto it and lightly grasps it, I say,
"Kurt, we can't do this."

Unfortunately, instead of stopping there, I add, "Somebody might come and
see us."

"No they won't!" he whispers, looking up at me. "Karl and Will said that
they wouldn't."



To be continued...

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