Date: Sat, 22 Aug 2015 15:31:30 +1030
From: Robert A. Armstrong <rob.aa@hotmail.com>
Subject: Schoolie - Chapter 45

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 44

I'm aware of the shower running although I don't recall hearing Will turn
it on.

My phone rings in the bedroom. I jump at the suddenness of it. Finally!
Uncle Bill.

I hurry to answer it before it rings out, savouring a glimpse of Will's
wet, defined musculature as I pass the bathroom door.

Looking at the screen, I see that it's not from the person I was expecting
and immediately wonder what the reason is for the call.

I answer, "Hi Mum. How are you? What's up?"


Chapter 45

Knowing that she has been in hospital, I'm feeling really bad that I
haven't kept in touch with Mum. But, things can't be too bad, if she's
calling me! Or can they? Is she dying and wants to say good-bye? Why else
would she be ringing so early in the morning?

Dad and Amelia are probably still in bed.

"Thomas, it's so good to hear your voice," the phone tells me. Mum's voice
sounds weak. "I've missed you."

Uh-oh! Here it comes.

"I've missed you too, Mum," I say, feeling a little emotional and
uneasy. "Are you OK?"

"I've been better," she tells me. "But it's nothing to worry about. I know
that Amelia told you about me going into hospital, but I wanted to let you
know that I'm back at home now. Your father picked me up last night and I
had a good sleep. It was good to be back in my own bed. Oh, I hope that I
didn't wake you! Sorry! I'd forgotten how early it is. I'd become so
accustomed to the hospital routine that I've been up for ages."

"No, it's all good, Mum," I tell her. "I've almost finished my first cup of
coffee for the day too." I know that she loves her first cup of coffee in
the morning. I hear a faint titter of laughter from the other end. She
knows my body-starting routine in the morning (well, the coffee part,
anyway!).

"I just wanted to let you know that the doctors have decided to delay the
chemotherapy for a while. The reason I was in hospital was not the cancer,
but the flu. It was so bad that everyone was scared that I was too weak for
any other treatment. Because it would possibly finish me off. They don't
know me very well do they? I haven't told them what else I'm doing. They
wouldn't be happy." Knowing Mum's sense of humour, I have to giggle a
little which evokes a similar response from her end. Like a shared joke!

"That's so good to hear," I say, breathing a little easier. "You worry me,
you know!"

"I think I'll be around for a long while yet," she says. "I'm really
looking forward to hugging you and that handsome young brother of yours
again. How is he?"

A sense of propriety prevents me from telling Mum exactly what I'm thinking
and from commenting on Will's energy and stamina. "He's great, Mum. He's a
very popular kid. Everyone out here loves him. But he does like to sleep
late." I don't tell her why. "I don't know what will get him up when he no
longer has to go to school." That's not exactly true. I know exactly how to
get him `up', and what to do with him when he is up. There are two separate
conversations going on here: one into my phone and a completely different
one in my head.

"And what about you?" she asks. "I think of you every day. Are you happy?"

"Happier than I've been for years," I reply. "I love my work with the
little cherubs out here, and the people are all wonderful. After Uncle Bill
gave them a ride in the helicopter, many of the parents have invited me to
visit their homes for a meal." I instantly think of the tragedy which
followed the `joy' flights and I pause, collecting my thoughts as to what
to say next.

"Ah, yes," Mum says. "You know about the helicopter crash?"

"Yes, we do," I reply on behalf of Will and Marty too. There are many who
do not know - especially the children and their parents to whom I will say
nothing right now. It could freak them out. "Our architect, Ashley Cook,
has told us that Uncle Bill has taken the loss of his friend very hard."

"He certainly has," Mum adds. "Bill was here last night. He and his friend
were close mates. Your father and I knew him well too: a wonderful man, so
generous with his money and his time and advice. We talked with Bill for
hours about `old times' and about the four of us growing up
together. Talking seemed to help Bill to deal with his grief. He said that
he will ring you Friday night and talk to both you and Will. Oh, that's
tonight, isn't it? I really don't know where the days go!"

There is a pause. I'm not sure where to take this conversation next. It
could become very morose. Then I hear, "Thomas, I have some good news for
you."

"More good news? Apart from the fact that you are out of hospital and your
chemo treatment is delayed?" I say, again reinforcing my relief at her
improved condition.

"Yes," she says quietly. "Young Andrew Thompson is sitting up and
talking. His mother and I have become very good friends. She visited me
every day while I was in hospital, sometimes twice, while she was there
seeing Andrew."

I feel myself choke up with positive emotion at this development with young
Andy, but I manage to get the words out, "Mum, how is he? Are there
any... effects of his trauma?"

"Unfortunately," she begins, "yes, there are. His mother says that he's
lost his senses of smell and taste and that his speech is not what it used
to be, a little slower and indistinct. I went to see him myself yesterday
before I came home. He seemed OK and he asked if his `friend, Tom' was
going to come and see him. I think that your kindness and concern had quite
a positive impact on him."

"I don't know whether to be happy or sad," I say. "I should be happy that
he's alive and awake but it upsets me that he's having problems, and that I
can't be there to cheer him up."

"Definitely be happy, Thomas," Mum says. "The doctors are hopeful that some
(if not all) of his functions may be fully restored, in time. It's just too
early to tell. I told Andrew that you had gone back to your school, but
that you might phone and talk to him some time. However, I don't think that
he has a phone in his room at the moment and his mother doesn't have a
mobile phone."

I think about it and add, "The next time that you go to see Andy, can you
please take your phone with you, let me know, and I'll call you so that I
can speak with him?"

"Good idea," Mum says. "I'm not sure when that will be, but, in the
meantime, why don't you send him a `Get Well' card? He would think that was
wonderful."

"I don't think that I'll have a chance to buy a card any time soon, but
I'll write him a letter tonight and ask Marty to post it when he goes into
town tomorrow morning," I tell her.

"Wonderful!" she comments, then says, "I'd better go. It sounds as though
the family is rousing. Look after yourself, honey! Love you! And love to
Will! Oh, I'll ask Amelia to message you Andrew's hospital address. Bye."

"Love you too, Mum. Take care. Thanks for calling." I disconnect and ponder
everything that I've heard. And I rebuke myself for not calling her. I must
do that, often. I have to remember that I now have a phone that I can use
out here. It shouldn't take me long to get back into the swing of my
previous university telco-habits! Now, with a tablet and a Facebook account
I think that communications with `the outside world' may all ramp up as I
connect with friends again.

My thoughts are interrupted by a pair of arms around my chest and the
warmth of a naked body behind me. For once, his wiry pubes on my butt are
more discernible than his still-growing, and usually-hard, manhood. I love
the feel of both. "Hey, bro!" Will says. "Where were you?"

"What? Just now?" I ask, thinking that I must have `drifted off' again.

"No, when I woke up. I don't like waking up alone!" he says, playfully
acting miserable.

"You know, maybe you should try getting more sleep," I tell him, relishing
his tightening embrace. I lay my own hands over his.

"Hey, it's not all MY fault!" he remonstrates, nuzzling my ever-sensitive
neck. "If you weren't so damned sexy, maybe I would get a couple of more
hours of rest!"

Then, from the doorway, we hear, "Oh, god! Are you pair still at it? Isn't
half the night enough for you two?"

"Very funny!" Will says to Marty, releasing me. "Let's see what you are
like the next time that Ash is here!"

Instead of trading their usual banter of insults, Marty, jiggling his gear,
responds provocatively with, "Yeh! I see your point! As you were, soldier!"

"Yes, sir, sergeant, sir!" Will responds standing to attention. Joker! Then
he makes to take hold of me again.

"Sorry, private!" I tell him. "You have lessons to learn. Mess hall in 3
minutes!"

We all laugh. Marty leaves. Will turns his back to me and reaches for his
school clothes. I wrap my arms around him, just as he did to me.

"Hey!" he says. "You heard the sergeant. Get dressed!"

Before I release him, I whisper, "Young Andy's sitting up and talking. Mum
just rang to tell me."

Will spins around and gives me a powerful hug. "Wow, Tom! That's
fantastic!"

"Oh, one more thing..." Marty says as his head pops around the
doorway. Then he looks at us, exhales heavily as in exasperation and says,
"Cut that out, will you! Now, what was I going to say? Oh, it doesn't
matter! I'll tell you later." And, he retreats to the kitchen.

Will whispers in my ear and we both call out in unison, "Fuck off,
sergeant," then, with our arms still wrapped around each other, and our
pubes meshed, we fall onto our bed, laughing.

We recover ourselves, dress hastily and march into the kitchen. We click
our heels and salute. "Reporting for breakfast... Sir!"

"Righto, you two clowns, dig in!" Marty says. "I was only going to give you
sausages and eggs this morning but I guess that both of you might have had
your fill of those already, eh?"

We all laugh and eat heartily. Will, sucking a chunky piece of sausage,
skewered on his fork, comments, "Hmm, almost as good as my midnight snack!"
Marty just shakes his head. We continue to joke well into our toast and
coffee.

I share that Uncle Bill has spent time with Mum and dad and that he will
ring tonight. Marty tells us his deferred information - that Acacia has
some `jobs' for him to do.

Will and I clean up and head off to school.

The air seems noticeably cooler this morning. Not cold, but different to
`usual'. The familiar early warmth is missing.

Will drives. He doesn't have to ask any more. We both just accept that he
has become the `keeper of the car keys', and my personal chauffer. Unlike
so many young drivers that I've seen around the Gold Coast, Will seems to
enjoy a slower pace. He also takes the time to point out local
fauna. Having just passed a couple of overdue-for-shearing stray sheep, he
indicates a few rabbits just off to the side of the road. On our approach
we see three while tails bobbing into a burrow.

Then Will stops the car. "Wow!" he exclaims. "Look at that!" I follow his
outstretched arm towards the sky but see nothing that warrants such
attention. He opens his door and gets out. I feel obliged to do the same.

"What?" I ask.

"Look at them," he replies, pointing.

I see two birds.

"That's rare!" he tells me.

Now before I make a real city-slicker fool of myself and ask the obvious
question, having seen more than two seagulls together and pairs of magpies
and dozens of squawking cockatoos, I look hard at the floating duo.

"Amazing!" I say. "They aren't flapping their wings at all." I hope my
comment is appropriate and conveying a semblance of intelligence.

"Yeh," Will says. "Wedgies don't need to do that much. They just use the
air currents."

I think, `wedgies'? The `wedgies' I'm most familiar with are grabbing a
guy's underpants or shorts from behind and wedging them up his crack,
causing obvious discomfort at the front as well - the bigger his balls, the
greater his anguish. But, hey, I'm not altogether stupid. These are
wedge-tailed eagles!

"They're large, aren't they?" I ask, hoping that they are not actually
small specimens of the species. I wouldn't know!

"And there are two of them!" Will comments, adding, "I've rarely seen two
together like that; they almost seem to be dancing together. Every move by
one is matched exactly by the other one. Hovering, turning, rising. That's
beautiful. I've got to paint that!"

I stand with Will and observe the mesmerising motions above our
head. "Those rabbits had better watch out," he says, climbing back into the
car as the eagles glide into our line of sight to the sun. "Or they're
going to be on the wedgies' breakfast menu!" He chuckles. We continue
driving. There is a look of concentration on Will's face, as though he
might be committing to memory details that are to be transferred to canvas
later.

A routine Friday at school! We spend the last hour of the day playing games
with teams as evenly matched as possible with Jake and Jane as `captains',
Karl and Kurt separated, and then members allocated by age. We have relays,
tunnel ball and soccer.

Will and I are the `official umpires' but we sometimes provide intervening
help when necessary, despite howls of protest from the `opposition', until
it's their turn to benefit from a bit of assistance, then the roars of
disapproval come from the other team.

Nobody wins, or should I say, nobody loses. A great time is had by all.

It's wonderful to see everyone capering off for the weekend, smiling and
happy.

Reg checks with me that everything is still OK for tomorrow. We agree that
Will can drive up and collect Jake and bring him back to Marty's so that I
can talk to both of them about `girls and stuff'. Then I'll drive up to his
place for my riding lesson, leaving Will and Jake to their own devices (and
each other's) for a while. They'll have plenty of time alone together to
`compare notes' and, if I know them, put a bit of theory into practice, in
their own appropriate way! When I return home, Will can drive Jake back to
Thunungara and be treated to some of Di's best morning tea treats.

"All good, Reg," I tell him. "See you in the morning." He chugs off with
Jake and Jane waving, leaving the twins with Will and me to close up.

Windows are closed and blinds pulled down. I'm surprised to see all three
boys heading towards the door when Will says, "Kurt, would you mind helping
Tom with a bit of other stuff please? I noticed that the sports gear is
pretty messy and that the store room could do with a quick straightening
too."

Will looks at me and winks. He has planned this all by himself and hasn't
even let Kurt in on it.

Kurt, though, has intercepted his wink. He turns to me and shrugs
ignorance, obviously thinking something quite different to what Will is
thinking. "Sure," is all that he says, heading for the Craft Room and
sports equipment. Will and Karl close the door and head down along the
verandah.

I hear my car drive away. Then, Kurt, almost immediately, returns and says,
"You know, Mr Grant, that Will and my brother just want to spend some time
together... alone... without me watching them!" His comment has the air of
both clear deduction and disappointment at his exclusion.

I look at him and comment, "Yes, Kurt, it sounds as though they
deliberately made the place a bit untidy so that they could leave you here
with me to help fix it, to give them enough time to have a bit of fun
together. How long do you reckon they need?"

He begins, "Gee, I don't know, Mr Grant. I suppose about 20 minutes or so."
Then, like the morning sun emerging from below the horizon, a smile of
realisation brightens on his face... he has some time alone with me,
without them. He says nothing but hastily retreats to the other room and I
hear things being moved around.

"I'll get the store room, then," I call after him. Stacks of books appear
to have been deliberately skewed. It takes me only one or two minutes to
set everything straight again.

I return to my desk, thinking.

I'm ready for what may ensue, but what about Kurt? I don't want to shock or
upset him.

I contemplate the emptiness of the classroom. The tidied desks are devoid
of the familiar books, colouring pencils and various knick-knacks in which
children take pride or comfort (including David's `lucky' rabbit's tail,
unluckily for the rabbit). The chairs, so recently full of bobbing
vitality, sit aligned and lifeless. The drawn blinds cast an
almost-depressing greyness over the whole room.

Suddenly, everything is lit up by a little animated ray of sunshine in the
person of Kurt Andersen. "It's all done, Mr Grant," he chirps, smiling and
bouncing up beside me.

"You were quick," I compliment him.

"Want to come and see?" he asks, obviously seeking my approval, as if to
reinforce his worth as a still-valued twin.

As I stand, this adolescent Adonis slips his hand into mine and leads me
through the store room to the craft room. He walks me around, pointing out
his every effort, with his hand still attached to mine.

"Hey. Nice job, sport," I say, and ruffle his hair with my free hand,
whereupon he draws his hip against my thigh and gives me a hug.

"Thanks," he says.

I turn to walk back to my desk. Again, he takes my hand, this time trailing
slightly behind me. As we pass through the store room, he tugs me to a
standstill and comments, "Hey. Nice job, sport!" I look at the cheekiest of
grins on this most angelic of faces - gleaming blue eyes, dimpled chin,
shining white teeth, blond ruffled hair.

"Thanks," I parrot his own words to me then reach to tickle his ribs. He
cackles with laughter and throws his arms around my neck. I try to break
free but he persists in holding on, as Jan commented that he sometimes
likes to do when he's in a playful mood.

I straighten up, lifting him a little off the floor as he bends his knees,
thinking that he would release his grip. Nope!

Instead of returning his feet to the ground and letting me go, he lifts his
legs and wraps them firmly around my waist.

"You're a cheeky imp," I comment to him, ruffling his hair with both of my
hands this time. "So you won't let go, eh?"

"No way!" he chuckles.

"I'm not holding you up, you know. What if you fall backwards onto your
head?" I put to him.

"I won't," he quips, then adds, "It's not a long way down, anyway. Besides,
you wouldn't let me hurt myself, would you?"

"What if I tickle you? You'll have to let go then," I tease.

"No, I won't. Betcha!" He's taunting me.

I find his ribs and tickle, gently, cognisant that I actually relish how
he's gripping me, and that I really don't want him to let go. I'm enjoying
the interplay as much as he is. He squirms a little and giggles but is
insistent that he's not going to uncouple himself, "no matter what you do
to me". Provocative!

I run my palms down his sides and cup his firm, round buttocks. He relaxes
his body onto my hands as if settling onto a comfortable chair. I squeeze
his glutes a couple of times. His only reaction is to lean his body against
mine and, while maintaining his hold on my neck, allows his body to slide a
little lower - his legs now around my hips.

My hands are firmly gripping his butt cheeks now and I am aware of the
proximity of his `guy stuff' to my own, down there.

With each step that I take, he presses his crotch against that part of me
that I know is starting to chunk up. I can feel it; so can he.

Instead of stopping at my desk, I keep walking, beginning to bob up and
down with each step. He keeps rubbing, assisted by my hands, gripping and
pressing him. I keep firming up, taking rhythmic paces around the perimeter
of the room.

By the time I make it back to my desk, his shirt has worked itself free of
his shorts and I am fully stiff, uncomfortably confined. I contemplate that
if we were both naked, with every step my upright cock would rub over his
hole and press into the underside of his round, adolescent balls. He's not
ready for that!

"I'm going to sit down," I tell him, "so be careful of your legs. I don't
want you to get hurt. He unwraps his legs and positions them so that, as I
sit, he eases himself onto my thigh, his legs between mine. He wriggles as
close to my torso as it is possible to get.

I picture him as a ventriloquist's doll and run my hand up his back, inside
his shirt. He shudders a little and finally releases his grip on my
neck. He casually lowers his hand right onto my waiting stiffness and
reclines a little to display his own prominence to me.

"So, you want to play a bit, do you?" I ask.

"Uh-huh," he replies. "I'll bet that Karl and Will are already playing with
each other by now."

Turning slightly so that he can relax his back against my body, he sits,
almost side-saddle, on my thigh, with his legs parted invitingly.

As we had done previously, we engage in mutual fondling and squeezing. He
concentrates on trying to manoeuvre my stiff rod around while I run my
fingers over, under and around his far-from-small, well-rounded balls. I
cup them and, using my thumb and forefinger, occasionally feel the length
and girth of his erection - not overly long, not thin - dancing and jumping
to my every touch, rub and squeeze.

With his `unoccupied' hand, he lifts the front of his shirt, exposing his
navel, lower abdomen and the waistband of his white underpants riding just
above his school shorts. Is this an invitation?

"Go on!" he says, and looks at me expectantly.

I oblige by pushing my fingertips between his undies and his shorts. They
explore the white cotton deeper and deeper until my palm cups him
completely. He taps my hand, indicating that he wants me to move it. I
withdraw. He holds the white waistband away from his body. He and I both
know what that is suggesting.

I don't rush it. I rub his lower abdomen and, gradually moving lower and
lower, I encounter his hair. I rub back and forth, at the same time causing
his firmness, pressed onto the back of my hand by his underwear, to dance
across my knuckles.

I separate various pairs of my fingers and press downwards, `trapping' his
hard penis between them. As I reach towards his balls this has the effect
of causing his rod to stand upright, straining against the white cotton. He
jumps off my knee and, in (seemingly) one quick motion, drops his shorts
and underwear to the floor, steps free, then regains his former position. I
resume my fondling, skin on fully-exposed skin, and he purrs.

Then, without a word, he one-handedly locates my zipper and pushes it
down. I stop moving my hand and look at his face which is entranced by what
we are doing. "I wouldn't want you to mess your pants, like last time, Mr
Grant," he tells me cheekily, as if an explanation for his action was
necessary.

"It's OK, Kurt," I say, releasing my belt and top button to give him full
access. I feel my cock contract and look down to verify what I suspected -
a dark, wet patch on my pale blue underpants.

"Just in time, by the look of things," he giggles. He slips his hand inside
and `feels around'. The stimulation causes another release of pre-cum. He
knows what to do with it and uses it to massage my head and shaft. I have
to keep reminding myself that he has experience, after all, with my own
little brother.

"Hop off a minute, sport," I tell him and I shuck both layers of my nether
clothing. We restart playing with each other, savouring the freedom of
unconstrained, lower-body nakedness.

I wet my hand using my own pre-cum then begin to masturbate him. He matches
my action stroke for stroke. "You like this too, don't you, Mr Grant?" he
asks me without looking at my face, focussing, instead on his handful of
me.

We continue and both make unrestrained moans of pleasure.

Then he says, "You know what you did last time, Mr Grant?... After I shot
my stuff? You know... how you cleaned me up?"

"Yes, Kurt," I reply. "Did you like that?"

"Hell, yeh, Mr Grant. I told you that it felt so good that maybe I might
shoot again." There is a pause. "Would you do it to me again this time?
Please?"

"What do you think about me doing it a bit sooner this time? Before you
shoot? I think you'll like it," I put to him.

"OK," he replies, perhaps a little hesitantly as he mentally processes the
concept, but still displaying his full trust in me.

I stand, pick him up and sit him on the edge of my table. "Lean back," I
tell him. He places his hands behind him, reclining to about 45 degrees. I
stand between his legs. His handsome, straight cock is pointing directly at
the ceiling, that is until I bend forward and lower my lips to engulf it.

He gasps. I spend a few seconds massaging the head with my tongue and
lips. He moans. I suck him all the way in, with my upper lip making contact
with his hairs. I move my face from side to side, overtly `feeling' his
silky pubes. The lateral movement of my mouth adds to his stimulation. When
I start to slowly work up and down his shaft, he lets out a loud ""Ohhh!"

Pausing for his response I ask, "You OK, sport?"

"Oh, don't stop, please, Mr Grant," he rasps. "That feels sooo good!"

I continue sucking. He continues moaning. He closes his eyes and lets his
head fall backwards. I cup his balls with one hand and gently caress
them. At my touch, I feel his muscles tense. His balls contract.

"Mr Grant..." he gasps in warning, probably anticipating that I would pull
my mouth off him. "Mr Grant..., I'm gonna..., Mr Grant!!"

Instead, I tighten my lips over his head and push slowly down his
length. He trembles.

"Aaargh!" he lets out and his whole body spasms. I grasp his shoulders and
lower him backwards onto the table. I swallow. It's nowhere near as much as
Will produces but it's sweeter. To avoid any hypersensitivity I use the
tissues on my table to make sure that he is clean and dry.

He lies motionless except for his heavy breathing. I move in close to him,
with my rigidity lying alongside his balls in the crease of his thigh. I
caress his abdomen and chest, up under his shirt. He reaches down, grasps
my cock gently and opens one eye.

"Oh, Mr Grant, that was so... so amazing. Thank you." Then he adds, "Can I
finish you off? With just my hand?"

"Do you want to, Kurt?" I ask. "Only if you want to."

He doesn't reply but closes his eyes and begins to move his hand on my oily
shaft. He's good. He's had practice at doing this. Will has taught him
well!

I take in the splendour of his youthful body. I caress his
semi-nakedness. His hand is working magic. I take hold of it, stop his
movements and commence thrusting into his fist. Then I release my grip and
say, "Finish me off now, buddy. I'm very close" He re-commences his hand
movements and quickens the pace.

"Will likes it when I go fast at the end," he chuckles. The thought of him
doing this with my `little' brother heralds the beginning of the end for
me. I grab a handful of tissues and hold them close so as to not spurt any
onto his shirt. I gasp. I grunt. I close my eyes. I moan. I shoot. I cum so
hard that it almost hurts. What exquisite pain! When I open my eyes I see
him, propped on one elbow, staring at me, smiling at me.

"Are you OK, Mr Grant?" he asks, genuinely concerned.

"You have no idea, Kurt," I reply. "Thank you. It was..., you
were... wonderful."

I let him use the tissues on me as I begin to go soft.

"I think you liked it even more than Will does," he comments, grinning.

He wraps his legs around me, pulling me close and holding me tight. He
motions to reach for my neck. I oblige, lowering my head and he takes a
firm grip. I stand and he hugs his body close to mine. I begin to walk
around the room, as I did earlier. His is still quite erect and he thrusts
against my abdomen with my every step. I'm glad that I've slackened off or
I would be poking right at his hole.

We return to my desk and he shocks me. "Mr Grant, can you do it again,
please?"

"What, Kurt? Walk around the room again?" thinking that he must be enjoying
the stimulation of the movement of our two bodies together.

He looks deeply into my eyes, grinning, but almost pleading, "No, Mr
Grant. Use your mouth to make me shoot again."

"Do you think that you can do it twice?" I ask, recalling what Will told me
about him only cumming once.

"I just feel like I want to," he replies. "Please."

"OK, buddy, but if it starts to hurt you have to tell me to stop. All
right?"

"Sure, Mr Grant, but it'll be OK."

The last thing that I want is to overstimulate or abrade the skin on his
sensitive young pole.

I settle him, and me, into position then run my fingers from his nipples to
his knees, up and down to sensitise his body. Then I begin slowly,
gently. It's not long before he moans, groans and bites his bottom
lip. Then it happens. He jerks and shakes and lets out a sound that is a
cross between a cry and a howl. His cream empties into my mouth and, lying
on the table, he jerks like the aftershocks of an earthquake, or as if
experiencing a seizure.

I'm worried. Is he breathing? The first thing to move is his mouth -
stretching into the broadest of grins. Then he gasps, taking in a huge
breath. "Oh, my god!" he whispers. "Oh, Mr Grant." He pauses, then follows
with, "Ohhh!" and "Wow!"

"Tell me you're OK," I say to him.

"That's the first time that I've ever shot twice. Now I know why Karl likes
Will to make him do it a second time." He sits up, stretches up to my face
and kisses me on the cheek.

"I think we'd better get dressed," I tell him. He just exhales, lays
himself back down, closes his eyes, hums and smiles - no, he beams!

I dress, then help him to stand. He lets me dress him as if he was a mere
infant.

"Now, what am I going to say to Will and Karl?" I ask myself as much as
him.

"Nothing!" he shoots back. "Tell them nothing."

"But they're surely going to be thinking that something has happened!" I
protest, "And they're bound to ask!"

He confesses, "Mr Grant, I've dreamed about doing this and I know exactly
what to say. Let me answer them both."

I reluctantly agree but silently admonish myself for the cowardice of
leaving the disclosure to a 12 year old! This will be more than
interesting! What on earth might he say?

"I need to pee real bad," he says. He collects all of the soiled tissues
and heads off towards the toilet. I take the opportunity of raising one of
the blinds - Will's suggested signal.

As Kurt returns, I hear my car starting up. Kurt says, "Mr Grant, I've
changed my mind. If Will asks you anything else, tell him the truth. Tell
him exactly what we did. He'll never believe you anyway!" He chuckles at
his own words.

"Are you sure that you would want me to tell him?" I ask, unconvinced.

"Yep. Trust me. You'll see. I've known him longer than you have." I have to
admit that he's right there! So are there things about Will which Kurt
knows that I haven't learned yet?

By the time we've locked up and reached the front gate, Will and Karl are
already waiting.

From the car Karl grins knowingly, or maybe hopefully, at me and he moves
from the front seat to the back. Kurt piles in beside him. I get into the
vacated passenger's seat, leaving Will to drive. He looks at me
questioningly. I give him a `don't-ask-me' shrug.

The anticipated questions from Karl and Will don't come, and Kurt is the
one to break the silence by asking his brother, "So, did you and Will have
fun? Without me watching?" His question is answered by an audible thump
from Karl.

But Kurt persists. "What did you two guys do today?"

"What we do every day," Karl snaps, with a touch of annoyance as though it
should not be spoken of in front of me. "And, what about you and Mr Grant?"
he flings back.

"What do you mean...?" Kurt replies, feigning ignorance of the real
question.

Will butts in. "Come on, Kurt. Did you and Tom do anything like Karl and
me?"

I ask, as if I'm not supposed to know, "Why, what did you and Karl do?"

"He knows!" Will says emphatically, indicating Kurt, without dobbing in
Karl for anything specific.

"I can't tell you," Kurt replies, acting embarrassed. "It's rude."

Will looks at me. I'm not sure whether it's a smile or a scowl.

Karl says loudly to his brother, "You'd better tell us, or I'll squeeze
your nuts till your eyes pop!"

"Do I have to?" Kurt implores, knowing full well what the answer will be.

"Yes!" both Will and Karl reply together and becoming a little agitated.

"I'm sorry, Mr Grant," Kurt says, generating an apologetic tone. "It looks
like I have to tell them."

He begins, "Well..., you see..., Mr Grant and I tidied up the mess that
SOMEBODY made, then he went off to the toilet. I sneaked up after him. When
I crept in he was peeing. He was just hanging out, letting it go. I asked
him if I could just hold it for him (so I could feel it) like at the
weir. He protested a bit but finally said `OK', so I put my hand around it
till he finished then he put it away. I took mine out to pee too and asked
Mr Grant to hold mine for me. Fair swap! He did for a while and then took
his hand away when I started to get hard."

"That's it?" Will asks.

"Yes," Kurt replies. "What did you think we did?"

"I don't know," Will says, shaking his head. "Maybe something else."

Karl is silent.

We drive to their house. Kurt stuns me with, "Are you going to come in,
Will, and do something for me too, like you did for Karl?" Karl thumps him
again.

Will says, "Sorry, mate, not now, but definitely you first, next time."

"OK," Kurt says, putting on a false pout. "But I really wanted you to do it
today, instead of me doing it myself later."

This kid could give acting lessons!

We say our good-byes and Will drives off.

He contains himself until we are about half way home. He turns his head,
looks at me and says, "So what did you and Kurt REALLY do? You don't expect
me to believe that he was satisfied with just what he said, do you?"

I deliberately pause then tell him, "OK. I could never hide anything from
you, could I? If you really want to know... we both took our pants off. I
let him jerk me off and I sucked him off... twice!"

There is a moment's silence.

"You're a bloody awful liar!" Will laughs. Taking one hand off the steering
wheel he elbows me in the shoulder. "You did fucking nothing of the sort!"

I don't respond. Then he tells me, "Firstly, he's never been sucked off
before, so he wouldn't let you do that. Secondly, I know that you didn't
jerk him off even once, because he can only cum once. If you'd jerked him
off he wouldn't have asked me to go inside and do it for him just
now. Think about it! So you're lying. You'll have to learn to do better
than that!" He pauses, "So, did you actually feel each other's cocks,
then?"

"Isn't that what Kurt told you?" I ask. "What? Does he tell lies?"

"Well, at least Kurt seems happy with that much, at the moment," Will
replies. "Just make sure that you don't make him cry again because he
thinks you don't like him. You should do whatever you can to make him
happy." I can tell that Will is disappointed at not hearing some juicy
details, but, then, I did tell him, didn't I? He can believe whatever he
chooses to.

It appears that the precocious young Kurt not only knows what he wants but
that he is smarter than I have given him credit for! I wonder how long we
will be able to keep the pretence going. The charade in itself could become
a challenging and enjoyable game.

Back at Marty's, it suddenly registers with me that the pub patrons don't
know that the Jintabudjaree curse has claimed its next victim. Even if they
have heard about the crash up in Cunnamulla, they probably would not have
connected the two. I'll have to drop in and tell them - perhaps after my
horse riding tomorrow. Standing up at the bar with the locals and imbibing
a little alcohol may bring some relief from my aching backside.

I decide to write to Andy before dinner while Will makes a start on his
painting of the wedge-tailed eagles.

I boot up my tablet and begin... <<Dear Andy, ...>> then I stop. I realise
that I don't have a printer, so it's pointless typing it into a Word
document. And I can't email it to him, unless I send it to Mum or Amelia
and get them to print it and... But, then... I'd have to keep it really
`clean' and `clinical'. However...

Oh, hell! I'll have to use 20th Century technology - pen and paper -
instead. I scratch through my folders and find a blank sheet. Locating a
pen is easier.

<<Dear Andy, I am so happy that you are recovering well from your
fall. Yes, I know that you didn't actually fall, but it's easier to call it
that.

I think about you every day, and wish that I had been able to prevent what
happened to you that night.

I'm sorry that I didn't take you to the hospital when I had the chance. It
haunts me. I blame myself for what happened to you and for your pain. I
hope you can forgive me. I want to do everything I can to help you.

You are a very special young guy and a gifted surfer. My sister, Amelia,
and her school friends think that you are really cool. Actually she told me
that you had a great body and were really cute. So, more `hot' than `cool'!
She would either die or kill me if she knew that I told you that! LOL.

I look forward to seeing you again and to seeing you smile, and to catching
some waves with you. We can even do some tandem runs, if you like.>>

He will know exactly what I mean by that last comment, but anyone else
(like his mum) reading the letter, won't.

<<Take care, my young friend. Get better soon, eh? Write back and tell me
exactly how you are doing and feeling. Mothers are not too good at passing
on that sort of information correctly, are they? Haha.

Hope to see you soon.  Love and best wishes, Your friend, Tom.  (hugs from
Will too)>>

I check for messages on my phone, address the envelope according to
Amelia's instructions, seal it and even find a stamp, secluded at some time
past into a corner of my wallet.

I ask Marty if he could post it in town tomorrow, and explain the
circumstances to him.

"Sure thing, Tom," he says obligingly. "Although, I'd really like to be at
Reg's to see your introduction to riding a horse; a REAL horse!"

We laugh about it, and, after Reg gets through recounting my efforts to
Will and Jake over a cup of tea, I'm sure that there will be a surfeit of
humour at my expense tomorrow night!

We have almost finished dinner when my phone rings. "Uncle Bill," I
immediately think, aloud.

Will is quicker off the mark than I am. "I'll get it,"" he calls, heading
for the bedroom. "Dad!" I hear him say. The floor board which I usually
avoid between the bedroom and the bathroom creaks on his way back towards
Marty and me.

"No, it's Will. Tom is still stuffing his face with dessert," he lies,
smirking. I glare at him. I consider showing him a throat-cutting sign but,
instead, opt for one of ball scrunching. He grabs his crotch and nods,
upwardly, as if to say, `come on; go for it!'

Cheeky bugger! That's one of the many things I love about him.

I hear one side of what is being said, a monologue, so I indicate to Will
that he should activate the `Speaker' function so that I can take in the
complete conversation - both sides of it.

Will sits close to me, placing the phone on the table between us. We both
lean forward to hear, and be heard, as clearly as possible.

Uncle Bill tells us that he's OK, having endured the initial shock of the
crash and his friend's death. He expresses his concern at the unthinkable
disaster of something possibly going wrong while the school children were
on board, or with him, Will and me, or even with Ash and Helen.

"The preliminary investigation can find no real cause for the helicopter to
just fall out of the sky," he tells us. "It had been fully serviced only a
few days beforehand and it wasn't short of fuel. It's a mystery. What is
really weird, though, is that they found an old aboriginal boomerang in the
wreckage. Nobody knows how it got there, unless it belonged to one of his
passengers. They also did an autopsy on Danny to see whether he had
suffered a heart attack. Nothing."

It's the first time that I've heard mention of his friend's name.

He fills the next ten minutes with snippets of his impressions of The
Village, the children, their parents, the building project, Jan and the
twins and `the O'Brien clan'. I note that he mentions Acacia more than a
few times. Then he remarks about Ash, "It appears that my young architect
is very keen to get back there, and I suspect that it has a bit more to do
with something other than his passion for restoring the pub!"

I gulp, hoping that he's not referring to me or Will. What has Ash said?
"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I could be wrong," he says, "but the fact that Ashley mentioned `Martin
O'Brien' and `Marty' more than a dozen times during the trip home..." He
leaves the upward inflexion and doesn't have to say anything else. I look
at Marty's face. I've never seen it so red!

What do I do? Do I confirm his thoughts? Or play dumb? Should I even
comment at all? "It will be good to have Ash back," I say. "He certainly
livens up the place!" I leave it at that. Marty gives me the `thumbs up'.

Thankfully, Uncle Bill doesn't pursue that topic further. He says, "Thomas,
Will, it is quite possible that Danny's funeral will be next Friday
afternoon in Cunnamulla. Is there any chance that the two of you would be
able to drive over? I'd really appreciate it if you could be there with
me."

"Can I get back to you, Uncle Bill?" I ask him. "I'd like to be there for
you, and I'm sure that Will would like to as well. I'll need to check some
things about closing the school and then to advise the parents."

"It's been done before," Marty whispers. "I don't see that there'd be a
problem, if you don't ask official permission. The parents will be fine
with that, especially after you gave them the helicopter experience."

"Dad," Will says, "Marty thinks that it will be OK with the locals."

I add, "Can you let me know as soon as you find out what time the funeral
will be, Uncle Bill? Then I'll make the necessary arrangements at this
end."

"OK, boys. Thank you. It will be good to see my two handsome sons again,
even though it's only been a few days."

After Uncle Bill has disconnected, Marty comments, "When my dad died, the
schoolie closed the school. He told Mum that it would be much easier to beg
forgiveness if the Department of Education found out than to ask
permission. Nothing was ever said. And there have been a couple of times
since then when it has been closed for the day. Nobody from The Department
ever comes out this way. I've never seen an `inspector', or whatever
they're called, in all my years here."

We finish dinner and clean up. Our after-dinner coffee is full of
disparaging comments by Will and Marty - for once, not directed at each
other. Tonight I am the target: among other things, my ability to know
which end of a horse to hang onto is questioned as is, rudely, whether Will
or the horse is likely to treat my backside more harshly!

As if to test out their notions and determine that the conclusion is `him'
and not `it', Will is a little more active in bed than usual. Actually, a
lot more!

After he's drained me in the same manner as I did to Kurt, Will has me in
various poses, beginning slowly with his favourite spooning position, then
face down, on all fours and, ultimately, on my back with my legs on his
shoulders.

"Can you guys keep the noise down?" we hear at one point from Marty's end
of the house. This acts as nothing more than waving a rag in a bull's face,
and Will makes a point of being very vocal about his sensory
stimulation. At the point of his release he actually screams out, "Oooh,
yessss!"

This is followed, almost immediately by a great splash of cold wetness upon
our naked bodies. Will and I both jump and squeal in shock.

"It's always worked on the dogs," Marty laughs, "so I thought that I'd try
it on you two animals!" He adds, "Now settle down and let me get some
sleep!"

"Fucking hell!" Will retorts. Then he warns, "You'd better sleep with one
eye open, cuz. That's all I can say!"

"That'd be twice as much sleep as I'm getting at the moment!" Marty
replies, and he retreats hastily. We hear his door close.

Will and I both needed a hot shower anyway!

There is hardly any residual wetness on the mattress as we had laid towels
beneath us earlier. Besides, Marty couldn't have used more than a coffee
mug full of water.

Sleep and dreams are sweet! Will isn't the only young guy who figures in
mine.



To be continued...

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