Date: Sun, 8 Apr 2007 19:01:10 -0700 (PDT)
From: Michael Smith <wetswimboy2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Shivering Schoolboy

The Shivering Schoolboy

By: Michael Smith

Author's Note: I would love to hear what you think,
please write me at wetswimboy2000@yahoo.ca


This boy with thick brown hair stands in my bathroom,
half of his clothes on the floor, steaming water flowing into
the marble bathtub.  Still fully dressed myself, I stand
behind him, and run one of my fingers down the centre of his
chest, tracing the outline of his stomach until my hand is on
the front of his belt.  I begin to kneel down, brushing my
face against the side of his torso as I go lower, unbuckling
his belt and putting it on the floor with the rest of his
clothes.  I unbutton his pants and pull them down, so that he
is standing in a puddle of grey.  I stand once again, and bend
over a little, placing my hand on his chest and my mouth near
his ear.  "Are you okay?" I whisper to him.  He nods his head.
I am about to do something I have been waiting to do now for a
very long time.  But as my hands grasp the waistband of his
shorts, I hesitate, suddenly not believing that I am
undressing a fourteen year old boy, especially one so
innocent, one who is so much like I was.  His body shivers,
partly with fear and partly with excitement, and like a movie
playing in fast motion, the events leading up to this moment
stream through my mind's eye.



It was a busy summer.  I had just finished my
undergraduate degree in literature with top marks, and I
decided to take it off before entering graduate school.  I
wanted to have the time to read on my own and settle down, and
so I took on a part time job, frequented libraries, and moved
out of my parents house into a condominium in an expensive
part of the historic city in which I lived.  It was close to
the university, and had all the amenities which allowed me to
revisit a love aside from books--water.  I made a routine of
swimming every morning as early as possible, because I found
that making myself rise early helped immensely towards not
wasting the day.  And so it was here, in the changing room,
that I first saw Marcus Smith.

I barely noticed him when he first walked into the
changing room, after I was already prepared for my swim.  What
did make me notice him was that after that first day, I saw
him every day after that, at the same time.  I did not pay
much attention to him, but I was impressed.  I had guessed
that he was thirteen or fourteen, and I found his discipline
of rising so early every morning to swim quite remarkable for
a boy his age.  Inside the swimming pool, as well, he showed a
similar, structured activity.  He swam in laps, like I did.
Again, I did not pay very close attention, but I did notice
that he tried very hard to time his breathings and to make
sure that he was properly moving his arms and legs.

After around one month, he began to say "good morning" to
me, very quietly and shyly, and I would reply in kind, both of
us too tired at that time of the morning to put any more
effort into our communication.  He would always leave the pool
after I did, but one morning he must have either been in a
rush, or tired quickly, because he climbed out almost
immediately after I did.  We emerged from the showers around
the same time as well, and discovered our lockers very close
to one another's.  I smiled to myself when he took his clothes
and found a private area in which to change.  It was odd, that
morning, walking down the corridor to the elevators and not
saying anything to each other.  Though we had never spoken
before, and I was around ten years older than he, we felt like
we knew each other.  What was even more strange was that
neither of us even gave each other a knowing smile when we
discovered, inside the elevator, that we both resided on the
same floor.

I did, eventually speak with him of course.  My presence
was required at the university only two days per week, and on
a fine Thursday afternoon, as I was returning, I heard a voice
hurriedly asking me to hold the elevator.  I could not see who
it was, but I quickly pressed the button and a schoolboy ran
into the elevator, three or four other boys chasing him and
calling him names like "bookworm," and others that were much
ruder.  The door to the elevator closed, and I saw Marcus for
the first time in his black oxford shoes,  grey pants, blue
blazer with a school crest, white shirt and maroon tie with
white stripes.  Aside from looking slightly dishevelled
(apparently because of his run in with those other boys), it
was apparent that Marcus took the same care dressing as he did
rising early and swimming.  His shoes were nicely polished;
his clothes were well-ironed and his tie was in a tight
Windsor knot.  I was impressed, as schoolboys in those days,
whilst still required to wear uniforms, had moved onto baggy
pants, black sneakers and loose ties.  Many schools were
increasingly allowing such slackness in dress, much to the
dismay of many.  What made Marcus' good dress habits even more
pleasing to me was the fact that he dressed that way in his
own effort to look presentable.  One can always tell with boys
when they are wearing clothes in a manner that their mothers
prescribed, and Marcus was not.

"Thanks," he said to me, holding a book that had been
almost completely torn apart.  He did not look at me, he was
staring at the book, looking ready to cry but obviously trying
to hold in his tears until he reached home.

"Did those boys do that to your book?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," he answered sadly.

"That's a shame.  Which book is it?"

"My favourite one, Bram Stoker's Dracula."

"That's a favourite of mine as well," I replied
truthfully.  I held out my hand for the book and he gave it to
me.  "What a handsome edition you have too," I said.

"My father gave it to me for my last birthday," Marcus
said to me.  "Right before he passed away.  And they've ruined
it."  His voice was shaking as he said this, and I could tell
he wanted to cry even more.  It was at that moment, when he
opened up to me so willingly, that I suddenly saw myself in
him.  I remembered myself as a schoolboy, reading all the
time, a love affair with books which made the other boys pick
on me as well.  I wanted to tell Marcus that it would be
alright, that when he became older others would value reading
more and he would make friends, he would not be so alone.

"I'm sorry to hear about your father," I said.  I handed
back his book right before the elevator door opened.  "You
know," I said to him, "I deal with old books a lot for my own
studies, and I've learned to keep a few things handy.  Your
book looks in pretty bad shape, but believe it or not I've
seen much worse.  We can try and put it back together, and
even if I can't do it myself, I might know a few people who
can.  I'm just a couple of doors down from you.  Why don't you
check with your mother if it's alright, and you can come by
any time and we will try and fix it."

"Really?  I will!  Thank you very much sir," he said,
much happier than he was a few minutes prior.

"You're welcome.  And there's no need to call me sir.
It's Larry."  I shook his soft hand when he introduced himself
as Marcus.  "That's a very handsome name Marcus.  Anyway, just
knock, and we'll see what we can do about that book."

Marcus' mother sent him over later on that evening with
his book and a dessert to thank me.  My apartment was
furnished with antique, Victorian furniture and books covered
the multitudes of shelves I had brought in.  Marcus looked
around the apartment with an open mouth, amazed at everything
I had.  He began to ask me questions about books, the
furniture, myself; we settled down, after repairing his book,
and ate some dessert with hot chocolate.  And this is how we
became friends.  He became something I had missed when I was
his age--a friend--and I became that for him.

I felt no sexual desire for Marcus.  He was merely a boy
who had befriended me.  I did, however, every morning feel a
want to see parts of his body covered by his swimming trunks.
He persisted, even after we had known each other for a while,
to go to a private area of the locker room to change. Every
morning, only when we were changing, a sudden desire came over
me to have Marcus change there in front of me, so that I could
see every part of this handsome boy.  These thoughts did not
worry me, because I attributed them to the simple
psychological fact that one generally wants what one cannot
have.  So, I wanted to see Marcus naked simply because,  for
no reason other than his shyness, I could not.

He had began coming to my place after school instead of
going home directly.  At that time of the evening, for a few
hours before supper, I would always be reading and working
myself, so it gave him a quiet place to do some homework
whilst at the same time, he would not be alone.  On this
particular day, we sat on my couch, both of us with a book in
our hands, with some tea and biscuits on the coffee table.  As
we read, I saw him shift his leg over very slightly and
uncomfortably.  He quickly took one of his hands away from his
book, adjusted something in between his legs, and went back to
reading.  I found myself staring at the boy, having completely
forgotten I had a book with me, and he caught my gaze.  He
looked at me, silently for a few moments, and then spread his
legs a little more.




"You've done so much for me," he says in that beautiful,
innocent voice that he has.  "I want to do this for you."  I
pull down his shorts, feeling the waistband catch momentarily
on what I have been waiting for so long to see.  There is
white skin, surrounded by much less hair than I would have
thought on a boy his age.  His body is smoother than most of
the other boys his age, and as I grasp his leg and run my hand
rapidly up towards the middle, I begin to shiver myself, not
believing how much I am enjoying this.

Inside the warm bath I feel the boy harden in my hand.
He sits still for me, having offered me his body, and I kiss
the softness of his neck as I continue to fondle him.  The hot
water has made me all the more excited, and as I continue to
taste his skin, I bring his hand to my penis.  I feel a lurch
of pleasure as he touches me, and I move my oral affections
over to his lips, drawing out his warm tongue.  I feel him
become harder.  Deep down, I know he is only doing this for
me, but physically he cannot help but enjoy himself.  He
strokes me as I stroke him, with the same speed and the same
force, our pleasure synchronized in the warmth of the bath.  I
pull him over to me so that he lies on top of me as I lean
back against the tub.  He moans a little because I pulled too
hard, not letting go of his boyhood, but still he continues to
pleasure me and allow me to kiss him.  As the pleasure
increases, I suddenly come to the realization that I will
probably never see him again.  He will continue to swim in the
mornings but they will go silently as usual; and after school
he will return to his own apartment instead of coming to mine.
With this in mind I release myself, and I feel my come and his
mixing with the bathwater.

We remain inside the tub for a while, leaning against
opposite ends, not looking at each other.  The water is too
warm, too relaxing, for either of us to make a quick move to
leave.  And so we sit there silently, until the temperature
beings to cool.  He leaves first, and I watch him dress, his
grey pants and his blazer creating a barrier against me, for
he is an English schoolboy who will now go out into the world
to find his own friends, and leave me only with this memory,
of a beautiful, shivering body.