Date: Tue, 16 Jul 2013 18:07:34 -0400
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthierdc@gmail.com>
Subject: Andrew Jackson High: Squirrel Squirt and Sprout

				Squirrel, Squirt, and Sprout
				Andrew Jackson High 7
				by George Gauthier

				1. Squirrel

"So tell me, Squirt, why are you still working for the swim team as their
towel boy? That job was supposed to be for just your junior year, imposed
by the court as community service instead of a stretch in juvie hall. You
did your time, and the judge sealed your record. Now you are completely in
the clear."

"Er, don't tell Paul this, he thinks it I am helping out because my uncle
is the swim coach, but I really like being the towel boy. It is a lot of
fun watching my Uncle Fred assume his tough coach persona, always bad
mouthing the swimmers, gesturing histrionically, wincing theatrically when
they do something wrong, shaking his head at their mistakes. Sometimes he
just rolls his eyes heavenward in a silent appeal. His is always a masterly
performance, because I know what my uncle Fred Conlon is like in private,
and he is nothing like that at all.  It is all an act, part of the job and
necessary really to keep a bunch of hyperactive teens under control."

"Also, I like being towel boy for the chance I get to show off this trim
tight physique of mine. Coach insists on nudity at swim practice, and as
towel boy I am always standing by the pool, out of the water, with my nude
body totally on display for the whole team and any visitors, why I get to
be the most naked one of us all!"

"How is that. You are all nude, aren't you?"

"Sure, but since I am never in the water there is no choppy water or shiny
shimmer between me and any interested eyeballs. It is just me standing out
in the open, as big as life."

"You mean as little as life!"

"You should talk, Squirrel. I have almost two inches on you. Ha! Forget
Squirrel maybe we should just call you Chipmunk."

"Hardly. A chipmunk is a ground squirrel, whereas I take to the
trees. Besides my hair is auburn like a red squirrel's. No, Chipmunk would
be your department, Alex Conlon."

"How so?"

"Aren't you forgetting that time I saw you and Paul in the backyard near
the rose bushes. Gosh you looked ever so cute, kneeling between the big
guy's legs, blond head bobbing away, pouty lips closed over his shaft,
sucking and slurping, circling the glans with the tip of your tongue, doing
everything in your power to drive him wild with your 'buccal
ministrations', as you call them."

"And then you shifted your attentions to Paul's balls, kissing and licking
and sucking them, finally managing to get both of them into your mouth at
the same time, cheeks packed, eyes bulging. The sight set Paul to
laughing. I nearly choked myself trying to keep quiet. Kneeling down there
you looked like nothing so much as a demented chipmunk!"

"Oh, very funny. Actually you are probably right. I can tell you this much,
it made me feel incredibly slutty."

"Oh? And here I thought you had the swim team for that, the way the
swimmers have you pulling a train."

Squirt reddened. "How did you hear about that? Our practices are closed."

"Maybe so, but people talk. Like about a certain incredibly cute towel boy,
generously endowed, who entertains near half the swim team after practice
and a larger proportion after a victory at a swim meet. I am only surprised
that, as the investigative reporter for the Andrew Jackson High
Intelligencer, you haven't written an expose about these repeated assaults
on the virtue of our young athletes. Their parents would thank you."

"Fat chance of that. Anyway, it's only a third of the team, and if anyone's
virtue is being assaulted it is mine. I mean it started as a joke, just
normal teenage grab ass after practice, just comradely embraces, then
kissing and touching. Soon though questing hands started to linger and to
roam. I suppose I could have drawn the line then and there, but I was
flattered with the attentions from so many sexy boys, all with shapely
athletic bodies. So I let them fondle and pet me. Next thing I knew a guy
behind me was pressing down on my shoulders. Automatically I sank to my
knees to the shower room floor as they presented with their cocks for
servicing.

What was I to do, all 62 inches and 103 pounds of me, kneeling
submissively, surrounded by so many bigger guys, all of them athletes? They
said I owed them for being such a cock tease, strutting my stuff all the
time at practice. All right, with my exhibitionist streak, I suppose there
was some truth in that. They pressed around me, so much naked boy flesh,
all of that smooth and glabrous skin stretched over the tight musculature
of young males with swimmer's builds. And their hands were everywhere,
exploring, petting, stroking, and delving or holding me in place or
spreading my limbs for access to my holes.

Not that there was any rough stuff. Not at all. They were team mates, my
friends and my fan club. A group of admirers, who unlike so many others,
did not have to look on from afar. I was right there with them, alone with
them, naked and available for whatever use their libidos and mine could
devise for such a situation. They told me how cute and sexy I looked, how
much fun they were going to have with me, and how much fun I would have as
their sex toy. My head was in a whirl, my body on fire, and my cock hard as
a poker."

"So there I was kneeling on the tiles, as the first boy presented his heavy
cock for service, clubbing my cheeks with his turgid member, knocking with
the knob for me to open up. I parted my lips to explain that this was so
sudden, maybe we should take it slow, maybe reconsider. I didn't get very
far with verbal protests as he put the head of his cock in my mouth and
told me to make him feel good. There I was, the head of a boy's cock in my
mouth, another boy behind me, probing my bum with his fingers, penetrating
my hole and spreading shampoo as a lubricant. I sighed and gave in to to
the good feelings coursing through me, surrendering myself to the randy
swim team boys, obediently sucking on any cock presented for service and/or
taking it up the ass."

"Strong arms pressed me forward, making me bend over onto all fours, just
as the swimmer behind me impaled me on his cock, entering me in a sudden
swift impalement. As I gasped and struggled to accept his huge shaft, he
fell into a rhythm of thrusts and pull backs, all the while his hands
slapping my ass cheeks between thrusts. Other boys played with my body,
tweaked my nipples, stroked my cock, weighed and rolled my balls and
stroked my iron hard tallywhacker. So I was delirious from sucking cock and
taking it up the ass at the same time."

"Just then uncle Fred came by the shower room, taking everything in at a
glance.

"Hmmn, I see my nephew is preoccupied at the moment. Send him along to my
office after you are done with him, would you? Oh, and I send me a copy of
the stills and video from your phones. It is for the boy's scrap book, you
understand. Memories of his time as the swim team mascot, as it were."

"When I met with the coach afterwards, I stood in from of his desk at
attention, still stark naked, of course, as he told me his expectations
from that point on. He did not criticize. He merely pointed out that after
a scene like the one he had just witnessed I could not play favorites among
the team mates. As coach he had no time for rivalries and jealous
boyfriends on the team. From this point on he expected me to service all
his boys cheerfully and enthusiastically, like any good towel boy should or
quit the team."

"So that made it official. Thanks to the coach, I was now the team mascot
cum boy toy. Now it is a regular thing."

"I don't see you running away in horror or quitting the team."

Squirt grinned. "You know me too well, Brandon O'Rourke de Lyautey."

I rode my bicycle back home. These days home means the residence of my
close friend, William Pierpoint Tagliaferro IV or Sprout. His pops (WPT
III) is an financial analyst and comfortably well off. Sprout is a
millionaire in his own right, from his lawsuit against Sir, the leather
master who enslaved him briefly last year.

I work in their home as a live-in house boy and cook. For that I get a room
of my own with a half bath and the same allowance Sprout's pops gives
him. He explained to me that blood ties did not change his estimate of how
much an eighteen year old boy living at home ought to have at his
disposal. I was deeply moved by his generosity. I do have a nest egg of my
own from my late foster father' life insurance and savings. With the real
estate crash he had lost whatever equity he had had in his house, so I got
next to nothing for that.

I was left effectively an orphan after the killing of my foster father,
M. Pierre Lyautey, the finest man I have ever know. He lost his life
shooting it out with thugs whom a mobster named Saragossa had sent after
me. It had all started with the accidental death of a murderous bully, the
son of that same mobster, who had tried to rape and kill me. Knowing I
would not be safe in custody or at home and would only put those around me
in danger I took to the woods, familiar to all of us from our frequent nude
botanical safaris.

The murder of my foster father lead directly to the resolution of the whole
affair. Just as the wily old Cajun had predicted. Thirty men with shotguns
and AK-47s drove all the way from Cajun country. In small groups, and by
different routes the avengers converged on Casa Saragossa, surrounded the
house, made sure the old man was inside with his bodyguards and that the
servants had left for the day, and moved in, guns blazing. They killed
everyone one and everything including the guard dogs, but spared mama cat
and her kittens. That was their way. That was their law. Cajun law.

At home I found Sprout and his pops going through family albums of old
photos all spread out on the carpet, choosing which ones to scan and
digitize. They looked so good together, quietly harmonious, father and son,
even if the latter was sitting cross-legged on the floor stark naked. The
young Sprout was working with his tablet to record his father's verbal
observations and reminiscences. Combined with research on genealogy sites,
they were preparing a visual family history.

They talked in family shorthand about their ancestors, WPT I, PWT
II. Sprout's pops and he were WPT III and IV respectively. Sprout should
have been VI except a couple of generations switched the spelling to a more
phonetic Toliver, even though it is nothing like the pronunciation in the
original Italian.

WPT III chuckled.

"Ah, here is my great uncle, P. Thompson Tagliaferro. Tommy, to his
contemporaries. Sir, to me back then as a very small boy. Anyway, he just
hated Nixon and Watergate for ruining a perfectly good naming convention of
using just a first initial. The middle name becomes your name of
address. So many of these Watergate figures had similar names like
G. Gordon Liddy or E. Howard Hunt or L. Patrick Gray."

"Old Tommy, as I can call him now, actually stopped using the P for a while
except for legal purposes. Well, he was a Democrat anyway, in the days just
before the solid Democratic South turned Republican for reasons of racial
politics. Something else to blame Nixon for."

By the way, Sprout once told me that the surname Nixon is a patronymic. It
actually means 'son of Nicholas or Nick's son.

"Should I leave, Brandon? I can see you are just bursting with something to
say to my son."

"Thanks sir. I guess you can read me pretty well now."

After he left us I went into full gossip mode.

"Did you know that Squirt was carrying on with nearly half the swim
team. After every practice it is gang bang time."

WPT IV grinned.

"Why am I not surprised?."

"I wonder if Paul knows Squirt regularly pulls a train?" Sprout asked.

"I don't think he does. Just the other day he wondered out loud how a towel
boy can come home so tuckered out after a practice session when all he does
is hand out towels and wash the dirty laundry."

"So let's stir the pot and drop a hint."

"What? Me, gossip about friends?"

"Yes you."

We chuckled conspiratorially.

				2. Sprout

Pops is totally cool about with our perpetual nudity in and around the
house. I mean there we sit, three naked boys, our cocks in full view,
unconcealed, knowing that when aroused those same male members have
thoroughly explored both my orifices. He sits there knowing that I have
licked and sucked on their cocks, tasting their pre-cum, savoring and
swallowing the milky white semen Squirt's and Zach nuts deliver to my eager
mouth.

And I was the inspiration for our group's casual nudity. First it was just
me in the garden but soon Zach joined me there then later indoors as well
as out. Then Squirt and Paul as a couple joined our exclusive club. Finally
Squirrel, Brandon, who has become more than a friend, almost a brother.

Squirrel and I really bonded after I risked my own safety playing decoy in
the nature preserves, running around starkers pretending I was him on the
run, the much sought after teenage fugitive who had killed the gangster's
son. Then my pops invited him to live with us after his foster father got
killed by hitmen. Old man Lyautey managed to shoot two of the mobster's
thugs with his AR-15, his varmint rifle, he called it, a civilian version
of the M-16 he had carried as a young infantryman in Vietnam. Out of
respect and gratitude, Squirrel, that is Brandon, took the old man's name.

The five of us boys make for quite a tangle of social connections, but it
works for us, without the petty jealousies you might expect. It helps that
no boy belongs exclusively to another. The strongest personal and romantic
bond between any two of us is that between me and Zach. He has been part of
my life since kindergarten. I cannot imagine existence without him.

Paul and Squirt were level-headed going into their relationship. Paul
accepted that Squirt would not be his exclusively, that he might seek other
boys or they him, though he might not know about the swim team. Squirt knew
that Paul would always date girls and that Paul's potential grandchildren
were much less hypothetical than his own. I can even imagine Squirt as best
man at Paul's wedding someday. I hope the girl he chooses to wed has an
understanding nature. I am sure Paul won't give up boys entirely even after
he marries, now that he knows what delights we offer.

Squirrel and I are close, living under the same roof as we do, and under
the hands-off but firm supervision of my pops, a really great dad. We sleep
with each other and with Zach, whether in threesomes or pairing off. When
all three get in the shower at once, it is a hell of a lot of fun, though
sometimes pops yells at us for using up all the hot water. It does take a
while for the solar heater on the roof to refill the tank.

And since we spend so much time together naked, we are intimately familiar
with each other's bodies. It must mean something that three of us are such
little guys, all within two inches of five feet and no more than six pounds
heavier than the proverbial 98 pound weakling. Only Zach is of normal
height and he is still only five-nine. Myself and Squirt both have blond
hair and green eyes. Zach and Paul are dark, while Squirrel's hair is
auburn (making him a red squirrel, in his own mind).

We are all of us boys not quite grown into men, our mostly androgynous if
wiry physiques and fine-boned features evidence that, even when we
eventually mature, we are likely to fall far short of normal male standards
in height, muscular development, and secondary sexual characteristics like
beard and body hair, even if we hadn't used permanent depilatories.

Physicality aside, the five of us have compatible personalities. We fit
well together. We laugh at each other's jokes and share many interests. All
of us are brighter than average, frighteningly so in Zach's case with
myself and Squirt not all that far behind. Paul and Squirt are into the
arts. Paul paints and Squirt sings in the choir. The little guy is also an
investigative reporter for the school paper. Except Paul who is a freshman
in college, we all lead busy lives as seniors at AJHS. We all wonder
whether next year will separates us. How will our close relationship fare
in the years to come.

But first we have to get to next year alive and free. Most of us have had
to face danger or adversity: me as a leather man's sex slave, Squirrel as
an intended victim of rape and murder by that young gangster and later as a
naked fugitive in the woods, Zach and me as virtual sex slaves last summer
in Haiti. Squirt got blackmailed and raped by that teacher. (I don't count
what the swim team does with him as adversity.)

Paul is the exception. No reason to wonder why. Over six foot tall,
sturdily built, a letterman in the tough sport of lacrosse, no one wants to
cross him. He just does not look like a victim.

Unfortunately the rest of us do.

I wondered if maybe we needed an equalizer, some way to protect
ourselves. I proceeded to inventory where we stood in the way of
capabilities for protection and self-defense.

Zach has some martial arts training and both of us know a little stick
fighting, but we usually carry sticks only on our bare-ass nature
safaris. I practice taiqi and Squirt does the same with yoga, but that is
for flexibility rather than martial arts training. With his parkour skills,
Squirrel's best tactic is to climb out of reach. That is about it. Not much
really.

I asked around. Coach Conlon knew just the man and put me in touch with
him. I expected another Coach Conlon type, but this man was very far from
that stereotype. He was a little under middle height, say five-eight and
lean, about forty, his close-cropped brown hair had a touch of gray at the
temples. His name was Sam Arden. We set up an appointment.

He asked that all four of us to ride over on our bicycles rather than
drive. He was waiting for us at the door of his dojo, gauging us
appraisingly as we pulled up. He could see that we were sweating freely but
were still peppy from the ride over of about eight miles. He could see most
of our bodies since all we had on were bicycle shorts and sandals or
shoes. With a nod he turned and lead us inside.

"My name is Sam Arden. Today is a get acquainted session, mostly for me to
find out if I really want to train you boys at all. Some boys go sour after
they get some training in the protective arts, become over-confident, with
a chip on their shoulders. In the early days, some turned into bullies. I
am more choosy now about my clients. So I am going to put you through your
paces and let you know my decision in a couple of days."

"All right, you boys are more than three quarters naked already, so strip
off those shorts and footwear and put your gear in one of these small
cubicles, then step out back."

Not being body shy, we did as he asked and soon found ourselves standing in
the open our feet on composite matting. Along two sides of a square were
the wings of the L shaped building. On the other two were hedges that
provided privacy for naked athletics. The man took blood and urine samples
then made us hold out our hands fingers extended. He examined our hands and
arms closely. Then had us put up our feet up on a bench, one at a time, and
scrutinized them."

"No puncture marks, so you boys don't inject drugs. What about smoking or
ingesting? Tell the truth now. Lab work will show if you are lying. You
don't ever want to lie to me boys. I have no patience with it."

"Nossir, we chorused. "We never do drugs. No way."

"Our bodies are temples." Squirt volunteered.

"Yes, temples with many worshippers, as I heard it, Haitian boys, half the
swim team, and sundry others too numerous to mention."

We all blushed. Obviously our reputations had preceded us.

"I don't even like caffeine." Squirrel ventured. "I drink decaf."

"Nothing wrong with a robust cup of coffee boy, but I won't hold your
preference against you."

"I am not here to teach you to be a fighter. What I teach is how to be a
survivor. Sometimes you fight; sometimes you run; sometimes you talk your
way out of trouble. Mostly you learn the signs of trouble brewing and
either defuse the situation or extricate yourself from it. The best way to
deal with trouble is not to be there when it happens."

"With me you will learn much more than fighting skills. You will learn to
maintain situational awareness, methods of escape and evasion, improvised
weaponry, and how to see trouble coming and how to negotiate your way out
of it. As for fighting skills, you will learn mostly about how to get into
the clear, using agility and opponent's size and weight against him, to
throw him to the ground while you take off."

"I don't want to ever see a student of mine going around with a chip on his
shoulder daring anyone to knock it off just so he can show off the neat
moves Sam Arden has taught him. I am not training bullies. I guess boys
your size already know what it is like to be on the receiving end. Well
turn about is NOT fair play. Understand?"

"You boys are just the right physical types for my training. It isn't
really appreciated that in the US of A and in the NATO countries generally
Special Forces don't recruit big muscular guys. Their training puts the
emphasis on endurance rather than sheer strength. That is why they recruit
a lot of small whippy guys like you, guys built like marathon runners or
swimmers or acrobats, all sinewy and lean, and have them run forty miles a
day with full packs."

"I will trust you to maintain a decent level of fitness and stamina,
whether on your bikes or running or swimming. Don't ever drive over
here. Come like today or on foot. I like to see my boys sweat."

"And you all should take up the sport of parkour. It is the best way to get
out of a tight spot. If bad guys corner you in an alley, you scramble up a
drain pipe and out of reach, and leave them gaping. That sort of thing."

"Join the parkour club at your high school. I understand one of you is
already a member. That would be you Brandon. No offense but I cannot bring
myself to call a boy near grown into a man Squirrel or Squirt, or
Sprout. So to me, you are Brandon, Alex, Will, and Zach. Is that
understood?"

"I train you naked so I can see everything your body is doing whether still
or in motion. Also, it teaches you to rely on just yourself, your unaided
physical powers for defense. Anyway, as I hear it, you boys spend a whole
lot of your time in the nude. Later on we will get to the use of your
clothing as an improvised weapon, say tossing a baseball cap into someone's
face as a momentary distraction while you kick him in the balls. Or how to
slip out of a shirt someone has grabbed you by and leave him looking
stupid, standing there with an empty shirt in his hand and no boy inside
it."

"Oh. Let's settle one thing right at the beginning. I am not blind. I can
see that you are all walking wet dreams with a strong appeal to those in
your own demographic and to misguided females hoping to convert
you. Fine. Live and let live I say. Just understand. No matter how much I
might touch you during training, no matter that I insist on nudity for most
of your training, I am sexually indifferent to young males, even ones as
impossibly pretty as you are. Understand?"

"Yessir, and fair enough."

"Good answer."

He then put us through some yoga drills to gauge our flexibility. Then came
pretty normal calisthenics. He had us pair off in impromptu wrestling
matches not to judge our technique but our physical capabilities. Then he
let us shower and take off. Two days later his phone call confirmed we were
Sam Arden's next batch of students.

				3. Squirrel

By artful hints, I led Paul to figure out, on his own, what Squirt was
doing with the swim team. The revelation had the poor kid blushing
furiously as he stammered out his confession to Paul, about how he had been
pulling a train for the swim team. For his part, Paul was unruffled at the
news. As I had expected him to be, knowing the guy as well as I do.

"What? You kept quiet because you thought I would be upset or jealous. Just
because you were having some extracurricular fun? You know me better than
that, Squirt. I am not the possessive type."

"It would be different if they had really forced themselves on you. Then I
would angry, with them, not you. In which case, I would expect that some of
their chins would soon connect, quite accidentally of course, with my big
right fist. Just like with old man Chambers."

Squirt was so giddy with relief it was comical. Actually he was a good
sport about the whole thing, smiling abashedly, hugging Paul, but shaking
his finger at both me and Sprout in mock menace.

A week later, something happened that I thought was payback but turned out
not to be at all.

I should mention that Squirt and I sometimes use the pool at night, after
hours. He has the keys after all. We like to have the Olympic size pool all
to ourselves. It is so private there with the overhead lights out. Just
some underwater lights and whatever comes in through the glass brick from
the pathway lighting outside. It feels great swimming naked, with a lane to
myself when I do laps but with a friend in the next lane when it comes time
for horsing around.

I looked over at Squirt and found him trying to float on his back as coach
had taught him, chest high, lungs inflated, head bent back awkwardly. It is
the posture you assume when you really cannot float, and Squirt could
not. Squirt had to scull with arms and legs constantly to keep the rest of
his body from sinking.  Only his thick cock floated naturally toward the
surface. He saw the way I was looking at it and splashed water in my face.

"Look at it this way." I said, "If you start to drown, I'll have a good
handle to grab and haul you to the side of the pool."

"Oh very funny."

Whe were relaxing, holding onto the slop trough along the side of the pool
after a long swim when he heard the voices of young males in the corridor
outside. The overhead lights sprang on and half the school's wrestling team
filed through the door, all of them in their wrestling jerseys. Their
captain Luke Edwards addressed his boys.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here? Gentlemen? It seems we have two
skinny skinny dippers skinny dipping in our school pool. And correct me if
I am wrong, but I do believe these two skinny dippers are none other than
the notorious Squirt and Squirrel, neither of whom has much use for clothes
in or out of the water. Just as well they are naked."

"Clamber out of there you two, miscreants."

Wrestlers took hold of our arms and held us firmly in place. Edwards nodded
at me but stepped in front of Squirt, looking him up and down
appraisingly. Really down and down. Squirt stands only five-foot two after
all. I saw how worried he looked. How could he not be intimidated by the
height and size and strength of the wrestler. Sometimes it is real
disadvantage to be a cute little twink, aka walking wet dream. Like when
you are stark naked, totally vulnerable, and surrounded by half the
wrestling team.

Edward's right hand reached out and tugged and twisted Squirt's nipples,
always one of his most sensitive erogenous zones. Fingernails dug in hard,
bringing a hiss of pain from the little guy. The wrestler smiled.

"You strike me as one of those pretty boys who likes it rough, a submissive
twink who likes to be dominated by big guys, ordered about, spanked, held
open spread-eagle as real men work your holes."

His hand closed over Squirts nuts and gave them a hard squeeze to establish
his dominance. Squirt moaned as his legs buckled, but his captors held me
up, ready for further torments.

As I stood there on the tiles, scared, nervous, and worried at my own fate
Luke Edwards clapped me on the shoulder.

"Don't worry Squirrel you are in the clear, and thanks for letting the news
out about how the towel boy has been pulling a train for the swimming
team. That got us wrestlers wondering if he might like to wrestled with us,
so to speak, take on the wrestling team as well. How fortunate that he is
here alone naked and ready for us to play with. So my little red squirrel,
as a reward you get to leave unmolested while we have some fun with your
pal Squirt."

"What! Squirrel, you betrayed me? How could you do this. You practically
set me up for a gang rape!"

Instantly I was contrite, cut to the quick by his plea.

"Oh Squirt. Forgive me for being such a blabbermouth. I had no idea the
wrestlers would find out and want in on the deal."

"Luke, this is a very bad idea. Can't you call it off. You can see that
Squirt is not interested in you guys."

"Call it off? Now? With six horny wrestlers impatient to jump his
bones. That is asking a lot."

"All right, then. Take me instead. I give myself to you freely. Only don't
hurt my friend."

"You would really do that for your friend? Let us fuck you? Maybe rough you
up as well? You're not a pain slut, are you?"

"No, I am not, but yes, do whatever you want with me. If that means pain
and humiliation, I deserve it. Maybe it will square things between us, me
and my friend. This is all my fault. Sq... Alex is more than just a
friend. I love him with all my heart and with all my body as well."

Edwards shook his head.

"Squirrel. You make me feel ashamed, and you really got us pegged
wrong. From what we heard, we just assumed that we would be fulfilling one
of Squirt's sexual fantasies with a round robin fucking. I mean, we are
decent guys, when all is said and done. We are not into rape. No way."

"As for you, Squirt, I and sorry for the misunderstanding and the hurts I
inflicted on you. Come on fellas. Let's leave these two lovebirds to patch
up their relationship. Good luck with that, the both of you."

We both stood there silent for the longest while, myself in anguish with my
guilt, uncertain what to say in such a delicate situation. When I finally
started to speak, Squirt put a finger to my lips.

"You don't even have to ask, my love. There is nothing to forgive. You were
my hero tonight, offering yourself to spare me. How can I not love you in
turn? As I always have."

We embraced, cheek to cheek, and held each other close for a very long time
then lay down on a gym mat for a slow, tender, and sensual evening of
lovemaking. I cannot tell you how much I love that little guy. I am so
lucky to be sharing my youth with Squirt and Sprout and Zach and Paul. No
one knows what will happen in later life, but for now, we are together, the
five of us.

				Author's Note

If you have enjoyed this story and others like it, I hope you will consider
making a donation to the Nifty Archive. It is so easy. They take credit
cards.

This tale was inspired by my recent story 'Squirt' and is the seventh in a
series set in and around a fictitious Andrew Jackson High School in South
Florida.

Meanwhile, good news for readers disappointed at how few stories I have
published of late. Folks, help is on the way. I have written my first
novel-length story, some 125 thousand words.  Mostly I publish novelettes
of 10 -15 thousand words.

The novel is in the genre called heroic fantasy. Like so many stories in
that genre it is set on an imaginary world where wizards and druids and
others work real magic, a world populated by several sentient races
including humans, elves, giants, and dwarves. Unlike most such worlds, this
one has an awful lot of cute young guys running around in the skimpiest of
costumes or even nothing at all, and taking every opportunity to hop into
bed with each other and to switch partners.

Sorry, no dragons, but I'll bet you never read a tale that featured a naked
teenage druid leading the charge of a herd of brontotheres against an army
of Amazons. What is a brontothere? Look it up, but not in the
dictionary. Try the Wikipedia instead.

Look for publication of my very first novel this summer on most of these
same stations.

Readers who like this story might want to try my two series 'Daphne Boy'
and 'Naked Prey' in the Gay/Historical section of the Archive or my 'Jungle
Boy' series of Hollywood tales, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section.
Also available are my older 'Track and Field' stories in Gay/College and my
'Mer-Boy' stories in Gay/Beginnings. For links to my stories, look on the
list of Prolific Authors on the Archive.

Comments and feedback welcome.