Date: Tue, 5 Jan 2016 11:47:48 +1000
From: Jeff Albertson <albertson194@gmail.com>
Subject: Sheridan Holmes Boy Detective
Sheridan Holmes - Boy Detective
a collection of short stories by plantagenet
Disclaimer: My humblest apologies to A.C.Doyle for adapting his great
literary creation, but I was sorely tempted. Like my other British literary
hero (Wilde) I can resist anything except temptation. These are fictional
tales set in another time and place. If there is any resemblance detected
between them and some other fictional characters, well, that's fiction,
isn't it. If you get the chance, please send a little financial support to
that great bastion of erotic fiction, the Nifty Archive. Otherwise I may
have to set the Hound upon you.
Sheridan Holmes, Boy Detective
I have just completed the most wondrous year at school, that I shall simply
burst if I do not set down in writing all that transpired before it leaves
my memory and is lost forever. So now I offer you, without any curtailment
of facts which might offend the sensitive, the story of the year gone past,
that most momentous of years.
Perhaps I should begin by introducing myself: my name is Jonathan Watson,
Jonny to my intimates. My parents, whom I love dearly, are both
doctors. They work in poor countries all around the world, freely giving
medicines and surgery to those ravaged by war and pestilence, in an
organisation called Medecin Sans Frontiere. I've been to several countries
with them, indeed, up until my fifth birthday I travelled with them
constantly. Colombia, Kenya, Mali, Romania, Syria, Bosnia, all contributed
stamps to my passport before I could read. It was an incident in Equatorial
Guinea, where father's house servant was diagnosed with ebola, that
convinced my parents that while it was reasonable for them to risk their
health and indeed their lives on a daily basis, the places where they were
most needed were not suitable in which to raise a child, and as a result I
have been a boarding pupil at Diogenes Hall since that time, these last
five years.
Diogenes Hall is a rather exclusive private school situated on the
outskirts of London. It caters mainly to boarders, but a few day-students
are admitted. Some boarders (such as myself) are year-round, while others
are weekly, going back to their families on Friday evening and returning to
school on Sunday afternoon. The headmaster, Mr Lestrade, MA Hons (Oxon),
has some rather progressive ideas about education, which led my parents to
enrol me at this place, rather than at Father's own school of Winchester. I
am most glad that he did.
When I commenced the sixth grade on the afternoon of the first Sunday in
September, I had no idea of the immensity of the year that was to ensue. As
a year-round boarder, I was entitled to a room of my own. Weekly boarders
tended to share two or four to a room, depending on their circumstances and
the sizes of the available rooms. There were no "dormitories", as such, the
likes of which one might find in less-endowed schools: Diogenes Hall was as
well-off as most of its pupils' families.
The first task a boy must complete upon returning to school for a new
academic year is to consult the noticeboard, where one may see details of
new teaching appointments, the names of sudents who will not be returning,
items of interest for members of the Chess Club, and other clubs, and so
on. The Board also showed all boarding room assigments. I only ever gave
this section cursory attention, as my status was always the same: "J
Watson, room B12, solo." I had grown quite fond of my room - it had been my
home for five years now. Imagine my surprise when I saw that I was to be
paired with another boy! The notice stated without fanfare: "J Watson & S
Holmes, room B12".
My initial feelings were of indignation, betrayal and profound shock! Who
was this S Holmes fellow? How did he inveigle his way into my room? What
effect would his presence have on my, ah, noctural activities? Would this
chap want his own bed? How would it fit in the room? I already have my own
double bed in there, and what with my desk and wardrobe there was precious
little space remaining to walk from the bed to the ensuite bathroom! In any
case, what fool of a parent would name their son S Holmes, in some pathetic
imitation of the Great Detective himself? Surely a more monumental
catastrophe could not be countenanced in the seven hundred and nineteen
year history of Diogenes Hall - unless Mr Lestrade should give way to
popular pressure and allow the enrolment of (ewww) girls!
I was determined to have it out with this...this...usurper, this ill-named
cad! He will find me a force to be reckoned with! I strode purposefully to
Baskerville Wing, where all the sixth-grade boarders' rooms were located,
fuming under my breath. When I arrived at B12, I threw the door open and
found to my horror that the cheeky brat was lying on my bed! On my side of
the bed to boot!
"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, in the same voice that my Father
once used when confronting thirty members of Boko Haram in a Nigerian bush
village who were intent upon forcing their base urges upon some young
schoolgirls.
The boy on the bed smiled at me, and gracefully slid his legs off the bed
(my bed!) and stood before me. "My dear fellow!" he cried, as though I was
Livingstone to his Stanley. "How good to meet you! You must be Watson! I
take it that the 'J' stands for...no, don't tell me...not James, too
regal...Jeremiah? No, too biblical...John seems unlikely, as it is your
father's name...I have it! You are Jonathan! May I introduce myself? I am
Holmes, Sheridan Holmes. Mr Lestrade assured my grandfather Sherlock that
this school is among the finest in England, and that he would find the
ideal pupil with whom to share my first year of public school. Therefore, I
deduce that must be you! Well met, my dear chap!"
I was momentarily bereft of the ability to speak coherently! "Did you...did
you give your grandfather's name as... Sherlock? Not - not THE Sherlock,
surely? The great detective? It cannot be! He is one of England's most
brilliant men! And unless I am gravely mistaken, he is unmarried and
childless!" I must confess that I ran off at the mouth somewhat - it was
the shock. I had intended to give this fellow a proper seeing-off, and now
here he is, brazenly claiming a familial connnection to one of my greatest
literary heroes.
"You are correct, Watson. Difficult though it may be to believe - indeed, I
find it challenging to believe myself, at times - I am the grandson and
only living descendant of the world's greatest consulting detective,
Sherlock Holmes. I have been schooled privately by him since my birth, and
now I am enrolled by him at the school of his old and dear friend Mr
Lestrade. Unfortunately, grandfather is overseas presently, for an extended
period of time, and in order to allow my education to continue
uninterrupted, he has placed me at Diogenes Hall as a weekly boarding
student. He also indicated to me that I should take this opportunity to
study my fellow man, or boy, as I have never been in a school of any kind
before."
Flabbergasted, I sat on the edge of my bed. "But...but...how does...I mean,
how did...er...how are you..." My wits had not regathered as yet, and
this...quite handsome boy, and the revelation of his identity, had quite
overwhelmed me. He stepped over to the door and closed it softly, then
returned and sat on the bed alongside me.
"At the risk of sounding pretentious, dear fellow, I will tell you all. I
can see straightway that you are a boy who respects confidences, much as
your parents do in their profession, so I will be candid," he offered.
"How...how did you...?" I sputtered.
Sheridan giggled. "It is obvious, my dear chap. Grandfather trained me in
the art of observation, and the science of deduction, so all I needed to do
on my arrival in your - or hopefully, our - room, was to observe. I saw a
framed photo on your desk of two people in medical scrubs with an obvious
likeness to you; they must be your parents - why else would you have their
photo?. The uncivilised locale of the photo also explains why you are
boarding here rather than living with them. You miss them, but you prefer
to be comfortable and safe."
"True, all true," I replied. "But tell me, how does the great man have a
grandson of whom nobody has heard?"
"To answer that, my dear Watson, I must digress, but only briefly. When my
grandfather was more active in the world of crime-solving, until some
twelve tears ago, he enlisted the assistance of a sizeable number of street
urchins as his 'eyes and ears', keeping grandfather appraised of the
movements and contacts of many underworld figures, thus helping him to
solve innumerable heinous crimes. These urchins, all boys, aged roughly
from eight to fourteen, were runaways or orphans, many of them earning a
living by picking pockets and other forms of petty thievery. Grandfather
helped them in their domestic circumstances whenever they permitted him to
do so, but they were all fiercely independent."
"One such boy, an orphan known to his fellows only as 'Tosser', was asked
by grandfather to make the acquaintance of a prostitute named Busty
L'Amour. She was thought to be associated with a notorious villain whom
grandfather was requested to track down. Tosser wormed his way into this
woman's affections, and into her bed. Busty indulged him whenever she was
not entertaining her paying clients. Apparently, Tosser confided to Busty
that he had not yet reached sufficient age to produce semen when he reached
his sexual climax, and so, ever a trusting soul, Busty did not use any
birth control when she lay with Tosser."
"But, as often happens, nature finds a way, and Busty fell pregnant. She
immediately declared that Tosser was the father, and had to take
responsibility. The baby was born, but the villain found out about it and
did for Busty - her body was never found. Tosser, meanwhile, was himself no
great physical specimen to begin with, and the added burden of fatherhood
sent the 12 year old street lad to an early grave. As he lay dying, the
newly-born baby by his side, he called for Sherlock. Loyal to his "Bow
Street Irregulars", as he called these urchins, grandfather came to him,
and though unable to reverse the effects of Tosser's condition, he assured
the lad that his baby would be cared for."
"And so," I guessed, "You were that baby, I take it? Sherlock...adopted
you?"
"I? Not at all! He adopted Tosser! While the boy lay dying in a filthy
squat! Mr Lestrade helped with the paperwork. Grandfather had been of
immense service to Mr Lestrade over the years, so it was a chance for the
policeman to square the ledger. Once Tosser realised that his infant son
now had a proper home, he gave up the struggle, and expired. So I am
legally the grandson of Sherlock Holmes, and I am at your service, my dear
fellow".
I sat for a few moments, pondering what my new companion had said. Imagine
starting school at age 12! Imagine learning all about...well,
everything...at the feet of the great detective! I was bursting with
curiosity! It was widely known that one of the great man's most striking
abilities was his power of deduction, the ability to draw conclusions from
observation of the things around him that others overlook. I had to know if
Sheridan had learned this from his grandfather.
"Er, Sheridan...um...remember what you did earlier, when you figured out my
name? Can you...er...tell me what you see when you look at me? I mean, I'm
not vain or anything, but I would like to know what other people see when
they see me, you know? If you can, I mean."
The boy sitting next ot me on the bed smiled. "Are you sure that's what you
want, old chap? Grandfather did teach me the science of observation of
people and places, but he cautioned me that most people
reacted...strangely, sometimes, in that they did not always enjoy having
their carefully built-up illusions about themselves shattered."
"I'm sure," I answered, recklessly. "Go ahead."
"Very well," he replied, rising from the bed and striding around our small
room, looking here and there, making the occasional 'hmm', and tapping the
tip of his nose with his index finger. "Very well," he eventually
repeated. "Your name is Jonathan Watson, age 11, soon to be 12, of medical
parents, as I have previously established. You are still some months shy of
the commencement of puberty, and are yet to experience ejaculation. Your
penis is circumcised, and of modest proportions."
"I say!" I interrupted indignantly.
"You enjoy the nightly stimulation of your anus by means of the insertion
into it of the middle finger of your right hand, while you manipulate your
erection with the thumb and index finger of your left hand. You would like
to engage in sexual activities with your fellow pupils, but you dare not,
for fear of exposure and the consequent ostracism and the shame brought
upon your parents. Socially, you prefer the company of your own gender, and
have a dim view of girls, whom you disdain. You fear that you are
homosexual, but you are determined to suppress that fact, even to the
extent of ultimately entering a sham marriage with some female to preserve
your idea of abiding by societal norms. How am I doing?"
I sat on the bed, my jaw dropped, aghast. How could this fellow,
this...gorgeous boy, know me so intimately? "How...how...?" was all I could
manage.
"Not too difficult, old chap," Holmes replied, seemingly unbothered to be
sharing a room with an abomination of nature such as myself. "The tissues
in your bedside waste bin have a faint aroma of rectal juices. The poster
inside the door of your wardrobe of Caravaggio's "Love Victorious" was a
bit of a giveaway, as is the small amount of dirt under the fingernail of
your right middle finger. As for the rest, well mostly it was the way you
look at me, like a starving rabbit at a leaf of lettuce". He sat back down
on the bed next to me.
"And...you still...want to be my room companion? After...well, after what
you now know of me?" I stammered, almost too afraid to hear the answer.
"My dear fellow, if I learned anything from my grandfather, it is that
genuine friendship, especially between boys or men, far transcends any
trivial considerations of sexual preference or bedtime habits. Why, I could
not look the old fellow in the face ever again if he discovered that I
shunned a boy's company simply because that boy thought he might be gay! I
could care less if you said you were a Nottingham Forest supporter!"
"But...but I am a Forest supporter, " I spluttered.
"And I admire you for it, old boy. I hope we can still be friends, in spite
of your dreadful taste in football teams!" With that, Holmes began to
undress. He walked around to the other side of the bed as he did so,
unbuttoning and removing his shirt. His chest was a typical flat boyish
chest, graced with small pale nipples and a flat navel. My father once told
me that good obstetricians strive for the flat navel, as a signature of a
successful delivery. I feared at this point that Sheridan would move to the
en-suite before continuing, but he confounded my expectation by unbuttoning
his short trousers and letting them fall to the floor. He pulled his
underdrawers down likewise, and stepped out of them, naked. He withdrew a
towel from his luggage and draped it over his shoulders.
"I say, Watson, there are no silly rules here about when showers may be
taken, I trust? I'm gasping for a wash!" As he spoke, his slim penis rose
and lengthened, my jaw dropping further with every pump of it as it reached
its full size of three inches, about the same as my own 'modestly
proportioned' weapon.
"You're...you're...beautiful!" I gasped, unable to restrain my vile
urges. He smiled, and walked back around the bed to stand in front of me.
"You will find that I am a loyal friend, and discreet, dear fellow," he
murmured, standing no more than a few inches in front of where I sat on the
side of the bed (our bed!). Holmes already knew of my proclivities, and
seemed untroubled by them. I leaned forward and opened my mouth, enclosing
the head of his member as I did so. Words fail miserably to describe the
sublime sensations that I felt upon sucking on Sheridan's stiff penis,
sensations that I have longed to feel with so many boys over the past few
years but never dared. The sheer thrill of it all almost had me swooning!
The feel of his smooth scrotum as it bounced repeatedly against my
chin...the taste of his glans upon my tongue as I swirled it around and
around his knobhead...the subtle smell of his bald mons as my nose bumped
into it each time I pushed my head forwards...the muscular yet soft cheeks
of his bottom which I clutched as I sucked and licked Sheridan's cock.
"Steady on, old boy, you're doing wonderfully well, don't bring me off too
quickly," Sheridan urged, gently taking hold of my ears to slow down the
speed of my bobbing head. "Aah, yes; for someone who has had no practice
whatsoever, you've quite the technique, old boy - you're a natural at
this. Now, let me hold your head still whilst I gallop to the finish line."
With that, Sheridan grabbed a fistful of my longish hair in each hand and
began pumping his hips strongly and rhythmically, engendering in me the
most marvellous feelings of submission, of complete involvement in the
moment of his climax, as he moaned that he had orgasmed. I tasted no
emission, but was much contented.
"Oh, well done, old chap, that was magnificent," he praised me as he
withdrew his still hard cock. I smiled my gratitude at his words,
completely in his thrall. It was at that precise moment, I think, that I
realised that I was in love. What Sheridan was to say next only confirmed
that sentiment. "I hope that tonight, when we are in this lovely bed
together, that I can return the favour and taste your cock, Watson. You
won't be needing to use your finger, either."
Sheridan departed for the en-suite, allowing me to admire his finely
chiselled bottom. Within moments I heard the shower running, but above the
sound of water I discerned a most enchanting treble melody, Schubert's Der
Musensohn, if I am not mistaken. I lay back on my bed, hoping that Sheridan
would not dress inside the en-suite, but come back into the room (our
room!) naked. He did not disappoint me.
"I say, old boy, when do they ring the chow bell arond here?" Sheridan
asked as he towelled his straight black hair vigorously. He had already
wiped off his damnably beautiful body inside the bathroom, and was now
standing but a few feet away, erect again, gloriously erect, oh, most
adorably erect! He threw the towel over the back of my study chair and
returned to his luggage, from which he withdrew a small toiletry
set. Holmes then set about combing his hair, which had a sheen of the
deepest black, so black that it almost looked blue. He surprised me by
withdrawing a pair of wire-frame spectacles, in the John Lennon style, and
fitting them on his face. "People underestimate you when you wear glasses,"
he explained. "That can sometimes be useful. Er, dinner?"
"Oh!", I replied, shocked back into speech. "The dinner gong sounds at 6pm,
and we musn't be late, or we receive two slaps on the bare bottom from the
house prefect."
"So, no punishment, then?" Sheridan grinned. It was at that moment, I
think, yes, that was the precise moment I realised that I was in for a most
extraordinary year. I helped Sheridan unpack his clothes and belongings,
letting him use half of my wardrobe. Most boys would have sporting
equipment of some sort in their luggage, according to the season (cricket,
swimming, athletics or rugger), but the only non-clothing items Sheridan
brought to school were a small chemistry set and a musical instrument, the
likes of which I had never seen before, but which he explained was a lute.
"Grandfather plays the violin, and deemed that the sound of one tortured
cat in the house was sufficient. He taught me the fundamentals of this
instrument, which he brought back with him after a visit to the Continent,"
Holmes explained as he tuned the awkward-looking object. Without warning,
he launched into a barely-suppressed frenzy of plucking and fingering,
generating a most profoundly moving sound that I had only previously
associated with the harp. It was a short piece, ony six or seven minutes,
but while he played I was transported to a world beyond Diogenes Hall, and
the only sadness in his music was the knowledge that I must inevitably
return.
"Simply beautiful, dear fellow," I remarked when he had done, slyly wiping
a tear from my eye. " I cannot quite place it - from the Italian baroque
perhaps?"
Holmes laughed, a sweet high-pitched giggle. "You flatter me, dear boy - it
is, I confess, one of my own. I rather vainly titled it 'Adagio for a
beautiful boy'. Perhaps I can dedicate it ...to you?"
"Oh, Holmes," I cried out, throwing myself into his welcoming arms. This
tme I did cry, quite freely, blubbering all over his shoulder as he hugged
me to himself. "I am in no wise beautiful, but thank you for saying it," I
sobbed.
"Nonsense, dear chap. And tonight, in this very bed, I shall prove it. But
I must eat soon, or perish!" I laughed as he released me and we made our
way to the junior refectory after Holmes dressed. Holmes expressed the
desire that I not reveal his family connection, not yet at any rate, so to
the few boys that showed an interest I introduced him simply as Sheridan. I
believe most of them took this to be his family name, which suited his
purpose.
There is no prep on the first evening of term, naturally, as classes had
not yet begun, so we departed after dinner to our room. I showed Holmes my
few treasures, mostly things my parents had sent me from their travels, and
he showed me some of the uses of his chemistry set. Initially I was
somewhat fearful that he would cause an explosion, or a terrible stink,
either of which would have us in awful trouble with the House prefect. In
no time it was Lights Out, so we undressed in preparation for bedtime,
Holmes stripping off all his clothing, me watching him to ensure I removed
a similar amount. I soon discovered that his preferred sleeping attire was
his birthday suit, and I confess I was somewhat abashed.
"Holmes, I...I have never..." I stammered, clinging to the last of my
clothes, underdrawers as it happens.
"Come now, dear boy, this is no time for foolish modesty.," Holmes gently
reprimanded me. "I have already declared that you are beautiful, and I am
never mistaken. Well, hardly ever. Let me take those underwear from you,
if it makes it easier. I shuffled forward to where Holmes sat on the side
of the bed and let go of the waistband. "And now for the unveiling," he
declared, pulling my drawers down. I felt ashamed, I was already erect. I
must have seemed like a wanton tart to him, eager to pollute myself with
another boy, but his words were only those of reassurance and admiration!
"Oh, my dear Watson, such a shame to have to keep this glorious body hidden
from view! I am sure the Caravaggio in the wardrobe must die with envy each
day that he sees you in your natural state! You are a little thicker around
the waist and thighs than I, too many cakes I deduce, but that only lends
your wonderful body a Rubensesque roundness that may draw mighty Zeus
himself, should I expose it for too long. Come, under the sheets, lest He
see you and forsake Olympus itself to come capture your heart, even as you
have captured mine!"
I was profoundly moved by Holmes' words, joining him under the bedclothes
willingly. That night Sheridan became my first lover, showing me the many
ways that a boy can love another boy. He kissed his way down my body, from
my throat to my navel, before toying with my stiff penis with his
tongue. When I could stand it no more he swallowed my organ whole, balls as
well, giving me my first climax (that is, the first one engendered by
another person).
My body was his to use. I submitted to each of his successive passions
without reservation or regret. Holmes threw back the bedclothes and knelt
on his haunches, opening my thighs and pulling me back towards himself. I
recall whimpering as he reached beneath my bottom and lifted my hips up so
that his erection came into contact with my nether hole. I moaned as he
slipped his organ inside me. He then crouched forward and began pumping,
making the bed shake, and engendering in me the most pleasurable pain. He
kissed my mouth (I think to stop me from making so much noise!) as he rode
my body to a blissful state. Briefly sated, he rested, but later in the
night he took me again, from behind as I lay with my back to his front. He
fondled my penis as he did so, so adroitly that we climaxed within seconds
of each other.
Morning was announced by the sun's rays pouring into the room as Holmes
threw back the heavy curtains with a flourish. "Arise, Sir Sleepyhead," he
declared, standing nude and erect by the casement. "A new day awaits. There
is so much of this unfamiliar territory that I would explore, and you shall
be my accomplice, my Sancho Panza, my..."
"Your Watson," I completed his thought.
"Yes, of course, I forgot that you were familiar with grandfather's many
published exploits, and thus also with his friend and chronicler Doctor
Watson. My word, what an amazing coincidence! Come, Watson!" Feeling no
shame at my naked and turgid condition, I drew back the bedclothes and made
for the shower, only to be surprised by Holmes and his apparent intention
to join me. "A vigorous scrub will do us both good, old boy," he explained,
and then surprised me again by applying the loofah to all parts of my body,
in a most gratifying fashion. I confess, when I woke I had been a little
concerned that the previous night's bed-time activities were a once-only
affair, and that he might tire of me, but Holmes made it most evident that
his interest in stimulating my body was not to be restricted to our first
night together, but to continue indefinitely. I was most happy.
There were so many adventures that the two of us participated in over the
course of the next ten months, I can scarce recall all but the most
noteworthy of them. But as I declared in my introduction, it is my
intention to make a record of the year, and this I shall do. It may be
helpful, for the sake of clarity, to present the doings of Sheridan Holmes,
Boy Detective (and his loyal associate Jonny Watson), as a series of cases,
much as my medical namesake did with the great Sherlock. For that reason, I
present to you the very first major case upon which we were engaged, which
I have entitled "The Case of the Fearful Fag".
1. The Fearful Fag.
The school year was barely a fortnight old, and Holmes had solved but a few
trivial mysteries (a missing salt cellar from the head Table, a dreadful
smell in the Fifth Year bathroom, you can imagine the sort of thing - his
prodigious talents were barely troubled) when he received a summons from Mr
Lestrade, the Headmaster.
The prefect of Baskerville Wing, a gangly fellow with the unfortunate name
of Woodcock, rapped on our door at the ungodly hour of quarter past seven,
while we were yet abed, Holmes having decided to give me an early rogering
from behind to start the day. When I heard the knock at the door, my
initial fear was that my moans of delight had disturbed our fellow
Baskervillains, but as I discovered when I leapt from the bed and threw on
a bathrobe, it was a request from the Head for Holmes to call upon him at
his earliest convenience.
"Holmes!" Woodcock called loudly when I unlocked and opened the door,
"Head's study! Now!"
At first I was most concerned that the carnal delights in which Holmes and
I had indulged these past fourteen days and nights had been uncovered, and
we were about to be unceremoniously cashiered. Holmes laughed off my fears,
saying that we need have no concerns, as we had been discreet whenever in
public and assiduous in our studies. "Come, Watson, the game's afoot," he
declared, when I showed some reluctance in accompanying him to the Head's
study, as Woodcock had named only one of us.
In spite of my reservations, I strode with Holmes as we took a lively clip
to the Head's rooms, located in the main buildings of the school. His outer
office was unattended, as it was still early in the morning by Diogenes
standards, and Mr Lestrade stood at his open door, awaiting us. When the
Head raised an eyebrow at my attendance with Holmes, he quickly assured the
Head that we shared all confidences and that I was the soul of discretion.
"Very well," the man replied, obviously unhappy at being crossed by a
sixth-grade boy, regardless of reputation. "Enter," he commanded, ushering
us within his rooms. We accepted his invitation, Holmes leading the way.
"What I am about to tell you must not be spoken of outside these walls," Mr
Lestrade began. "The fact is, Sheridan, I am at my wits' end. As your
grandfather is out of the country, and I am in dire need of the services
of...well, a fellow of his abilities, I must turn to you in my hour of
need."
"I am at your service, Sir," Holmes graciously replied.
The Head rose from his chair and began to pace around his study. "One of
the third-formers has disappeared," he stated baldly. "Hatherley by
name. He was last seen at lunchtime yesterday. School policy dictates that
any such disappearance, if not resolved within twenty-four hours, must be
reported to the Police. And I would very much prefer not to have my former
Scotland Yard colleagues clomping their oversized boots all over my
School!" This last remark was delivered with some vehemence, but Holmes was
unfazed.
"Did he merely run away, Sir? Back to his home, perhaps?" Holmes asked.
"None of the gate, window or fence alarms has been tripped. And I have
received no phone call from Colonel nor Lady Hatherley to that effect," the
headmaster replied.
"Hmm..." Holmes mused, tapping the end of his nose. "Has he had a falling
out with a fellow student, and gone to ground somewhere within the school?"
"Not according to the head fag. Hatherley was well-liked. None of his
friends can offer any evidence of emotional disturbance," the Head
answered.
"Hatherley is a school fag, then, Sir?" Holmes seized on the Head's
admission.
"Yes - the boy is a third-former, after all, with no sporting pretensions."
"Then that is where I shall start - with your permission, Sir. Come,
Watson!"
"You shall have carte blanche, Sheridan. Here, this may be useful," the
Head added, giving Holmes a sheet of paper. "And remember, I only have four
and a half hours remaining before I have to inform the proper authorities."
Holmes scanned the paper as we hurried to Grimesby House, where the fag
common room was located. "Most satisfactory!" he muttered, passing the
paper to me. It was on the Head's own stationery, giving the bearer full
authority to go wherever in the School he wished, to question whomever he
wished, students and staff alike, and to take into his possession any item
he deemed necessary to pursue his enquiries. Carte blanche indeed!
We reached the door of the fag common room to find it locked. Holmes
knocked. A voice within answered "Who is it?"
"I wish to speak with you on a matter of some importance," Holmes replied.
"If you're not a sixth-former, sod off!" the same voice replied.
Holmes paused. "I believe we must resort to a little subterfuge,
Watson. Follow my lead." Whispering this, he pointed to the half-height
wall which opened out onto the School Quadrangle, indicating with his
finger that I should station myself there. Flattening himself against the
wall next to the fag common room door, he spoke in a loud voice: "I say,
Watson, isn't that the Captain of the school rugger team running naked
across the Quad?"
I caught on immediately and responded "Why, yes, I think it is - and with
the whole forward pack chasing after him - and they're naked also!" A
rattling sound from within signified a key in the lock, and the door flew
open. A third former, wearing only a white towel around his narrow waist
burst forth and, seeing me leaning over the wall, started over to the wall
to see what I had described. Before he reached me, Holmes had whipped his
towel off him, leaving him as bare as the day of his birth. The shock of
being disrobed out of doors stunned the lad, leaving Holmes and I the
opportunity to rush through the doorway, which we closed after ourselves.
The naked fag slapped his hand on the door. calling out frantically. "I
say, chaps, let me in, would you? It's beastly cold out here!"
"Will you pay attention to our request this time?" Holmes asked genially
through the heavy door.
"On my honour," the distraught teen vowed. That was good enough for Holmes,
who unlocked the door to admit the now shivering youth back into the warmth
of the fag common room. Holmes returned the fag's towel, which he draped
over his shoulders. This gave me the opportunity to inspect his physique,
in particular, his generative equipment. His uncut penis was slim, some
two-and-a half inches in length, surmounted by a small bush of black hairs,
two grape sized-balls swinging in a loose scrotum below. While I was
admiring his crotch, Holmes was showing him the Head's letter, which he
read quickly.
"Well, why didn't you say so!" the fag declared obsequiously when he
finished reading. "We get a lot of pranksters knocking on our door, so we
must be on guard - only fags and seniors are allowed in here. And of
course, those who bear introductions from the Head! What can I do to help
you boys?"
Holmes nodded. "We understand that one of your colleagues is
missing...Hatherley?" Holmes began.
"Why yes, he is! Are you looking for him? Because I can assure you, he
isn't here. We turned the fag wing upside down last evening, when we
realised he had gone missing. Every bedroom was closely examined, under
beds, inside wardrobes, behind cupboards, ensuites, the lot. Every space
capable of holding a third-former of Hatherley's size was opened and
checked, then checked again. Nothing. I really can't see what else can be
done..."
Holmes tapped his nose with his finger. "And what of Hatherley's state of
mind? As a fag, I assume he was available to be called upon by any
sixth-former who needed his services?"
"Quite," the fag replied. "It is my job to co-ordinate the smooth operation
of the fag common room so that sixth-formers who need a fag are catered for
at any time."
"I see," replied Holmes. "And what might a fag be required by a sixth
former to do?"
"Oh, just the usual, old boy. Some light cleaning, making toast, brewing a
nice cup of tea, turning down the bedcovers of an evening, sucking dick,
perhaps a spot of wanking, possibly getting fucked in the bum if the fag is
good looking, you know the sort of thing, I expect," replied the fag, whose
penis began to lengthen as he recited the typical tasks of his colleagues.
"And did Hatherley have such duties yesterday? Do you keep a schedule of
any kind, so that a fag will know which sixth-former to...er, attend to? Or
do the Seniors simply come to the door and crook a finger at the first
available boy?"
"Well of course there's a schedule, how else will a fag know where he is
required?" the teen answered, beginning to sound a little annoyed.
"So, there is a schedule...and may I ask where the schedule for yesterday
is now? Perhaps somewhere on that desk littered with papers over near the
fireplace?" Holmes pursued.
"It...well...I suppose so!" the teen replied, quite testily. "Now look
here, you...you...boy! Letter or no letter, I simply can not stand around
here all day bandying words with an inquisitive sixth-grader, it simply
won't do!" The fellow was getting close to losing his rag, which would have
been counter-productive to our task. Holmes had, of course, seen where my
line of sight was fixed, and simply nodded in my direction. I fell to my
knees and took the fag's now-rigid phallus in my mouth and began to work
upon it with lips and tongue, while Holmes stepped over to the desk and
ruffled through the papers, searching for the aforementioned schedule.
My nose was buried in the third-former's scant bush as he climaxed in my
mouth at the very moment that Holmes exclamed "I have it!", brandishing a
piece of paper over his head like a juvenile Chamberlain. "Oh, well done
Watson, good show!" My first ever taste of spooge was most welcome, as was
Holmes' approval of my actions. "Look here, Watson, it says yesterday's
date, Hatherley's name, and alongside it, 'J Moriarty'." Turning to the
fag, Holmes said. "Who is this fellow?"
"Jumbo Moriarty? Just one of the seniors. I think he was the one who first
noticed Hatherley was missing. Or at least it was Jumbo that alerted me to
Hatherley's non-attendance at his study yesterday evening. Most put out, he
was, as I recall."
Holmes thanked the fag for his assistance and helped me up off my knees. As
I wiped the last of the fag's spooge from my lips and headed for the door,
Holmes turned back to ask a final question. The fag was now in a much more
relaxed mood, and more disposed to reply.
"This sixth-former's nickname - Jumbo - is he a devotee of jet aeroplanes,
perhaps?" Holmes asked.
The teen chuckled. "Jumbo? Jet planes? No, no, dear fellow. He got that
name because his cock compares favourably to an elephant's trunk. It is
somewhat formidable when soft - and simply stupendous when stiff!" We
departed the fag common room, Holmes leading the way, walking along the
corridors until we gained the Quad. No naked seniors, only a few wooden
seats. We sat down to discuss our progress. I thought we had made very
little, but Holmes saw it differently.
"Well, Watson, what did you make of that encounter?" he asked as we sat
ourselves down on the nearest seat.
"Er, quite...ah...interesting, Holmes. His pubic hair tickled my nose
rather, and his spooge had an unexpectedly bland taste, but it was
certainly an invigorating experience," I replied.
"No, no, dear boy. I meant about this Jumbo Moriarty fellow. Have you heard
of him?"
"Oh, yes, of course, the senior. Yes, I have heard of him, I think everyone
at Diogenes has. He's quite the athlete, good all-round scholar, more than
useful at outside-centre in rugger, a wiz at oratory and quite a decent
tenor by all accounts...I must say, I never knew the significance of his
nickname before. Do you think his, er, endowment has any bearing on the
case?"
"I'm sure of it, dear boy. Now tell me, apart from Miss McCluskey in the
library, and Miss Jenkinson the music teacher, are there any females on the
premises?"
"Females? You mean...women? Girls?" I shuddered with fear at the thought
that Holmes might be commencing a preference for the fairer sex, over
me. "Well, the second-former boarders run the laundry, so there is no need
for washer-women, and everyone does his own room-cleaning, except the
sixth-formers, who use fags to clean for them, so I suppose that the only
females at Diogenes Hall would be the kitchen wenches," I replied.
Holmes looked shocked. "Do you actually call them 'wenches'?"
"Of course. Everybody does. There are about four or five of them, depending
on the time of day. Mr Mycroft, the cook, has a jolly old time ordering
them about, if the sounds from the kitchen are anything to go by. Why are
you interested in them?"
Holmes tapped his nose. "If Hatherley is nowhere to be found, and has not
exited the School, then the only possibility remaining, however unlikely,
is that he is no longer Hatherley, that is to say, no longer a boy, "
Holmes expounded, leaving me still in the dark.
"No longer a...what?" I spluttered.
"No time to explain, dear fellow. Up, there is precious little time
remaining; come, we must inspect the kitchen!" he declared, and he raced
away towards the refectory, with myself struggling to keep up behind
him. When we arrived at the kitchen door, it was still an hour before lunch
(and an hour before the expiry of the Head's deadline). Holmes knocked, and
when Mycroft answered, he showed him the Head's letter. The cook invited us
in, satisfied that it was not some foolish prank to gain access to food
before the appointed time.
"Mr Mycroft, would you be so kind as to summon your, er, wenches for me
please?" Holmes asked graciously. He had a way of speaking that made people
want to co-operate with him.
"As you wish, young master," the man answered. He clapped his hands twice,
and a flurry of activity ensued, with pinafores and cloth caps and
petticoats swishing everywhere as the five girls, all of teen age, entered
the part of the kitchen where we waited for them. Mycroft waved his hand at
the girls, who immediately lined up as if for inspection, standing at
attention with hands primly clasped in front of their bodices.
"Thank you, Mr Mycroft," Holmes smiled at the cook. "I will only need a
moment or two with these, er, young ladies."
"Very well, young master," the cook replied, and moved to another part of
the kitchen. Holmes walked up and down the short line of girls, inspecting
each one. I could not understand what this had to do with finding the
missing fag, but I had already learned that Holmes had his own peculiar way
of doing things. After walking up and down the line of females, Homles bid
them all to turn around, putting their backs to him. He again walked up and
down the line, closely observing the rear view of every girl. Finally, he
cried out "Aha!" and dropped his hand to the floor before placing it under
the dress of the fourth girl in the line. Holmes then took the most
audacious liberty with the girl, running his hand all the way up underneath
her dress until he made contact with her unmentionables.
"Just as I suspected! Watson, come here!" Holmes had lifted the girl's
dress all the way to her waist, revealing her knickers and was clutching at
the fork of that same garment. I crowded in for a closer look, and by Jove!
I saw that in his hand Holmes held a pair of bollocks! This serving wench
was a male!
Whipping her cap off, but still grasping the pair of male testicles, Holmes
declared "Hatherley, I presume?" to the startled wench, who began
blubbering, but was now revealed to be obviously a boy, his subterfuge
having been uncovered. "I believe the Head would like a word with you,"
Holmes said to the sobbing boy. "You have had us all very worried."
We escorted the still-whimpering fag back to Baskerville Wing and the
privacy of our room, where we divested the third-former of his ridiculous
garb. He sat naked on our bed, a forlorn chap, and now that he was found
out, readily confessed how he had got himself into his current situation.
"I didn't mind being a fag for the first week or so," he said, still
sobbing occasionally. Holmes gave him a comforting pat on the bare
shoulder, which calmed him somewhat. "...I quite liked wanking a senior now
and then, or suckng him off. It was fun, and the seniors reminded me a bit
of my Uncle, whom I spent the summer break with at his cottage by the sea
in Rottingdean, that's just along the south coast from Brighton, don't you
know. We had a jolly time, and he was especially interested in preparing me
for my fag year. He let me suck and wank him whenever I wanted, and when he
fucked my bottom the first time he was very gentle. We fucked every day
after that first time, I began to enjoy it so."
"But when I returned to school, some of the other fags told me horrid tales
of a certain sixth-former with a wickedly large penis."
"Moriarty!" Holmes whispered.
"Yes, that's his name. They said that he would split me in two if he fucked
me with it, that it would hurt like the fires of Hell had been ignited in
my bottom. Worse still, after being fucked by him, my bottom hole would
never return to its normal size, and I would never again be able to enjoy
being fucked by a regular sized penis. That meant I couldn't enjoy
holidaying with my Uncle, ever again!" Hatherley indulged himself in a
small round of weeping again.
"Boys can be so cruel," Holmes muttered.
"As soon as I saw that Moriarty had put his name next to mine on the fag
prefect's sheet, I knew I had to do something. So I visited a friendly
teacher, Mr Smythe-Curtiss..."
"The drama teacher?" I interrupted.
"Yes. He has a number of female costumes in the wardrobes of the Drama
Room, one of which he loaned me. I stayed the night with him last evening,
and he explained to me how to act like a kitchen wench. We had a jolly
time. Today I mingled with the other wenches, and I almost got away with
it, until...I suppose I knew all along that I would be found out, it's just
that...I wish...oh, I would do anything to avoid Moriarty's dreadful cock."
Holmes smiled kindly at the pathetic excuse for a fag. "I think I may be of
some assistance, old chap," he said to the boy. "But first, I think your
spirits are in need of a little lift. Would you enjoy a suck at this
point?" Hatherley smiled and nodded. "Watson, doff that clobber and lay
back on the bed. Very good! Hatherley, climb over on top of Watson, in the
reverse direction, and present your crotch to his face. Put your own face
at his crotch and take his penis in your mouth. As you can see, it is
primed and ready!" I am sure Holmes had seen me staring with intense desire
at Hatherley's erect penis, (which by my estimation measured a comfortable
4 inches when stiff). It was fringed with a few scraggy pubic hairs at the
base, which portended the probability of a wet ejaculation, only my second
ever, I hoped.
As soon as Hatherley and I were ensconced in the act of mutual fellation, I
felt the bed move. Holmes had also disrobed and now knelt between
Hatherley's thighs, so that his balls were directly above my forehead. Oh,
happy sight!. He prodded at Hatherley's hole before lining up his stiff
staff with that same orifice. I felt Hatherley moan as Holmes entered him,
and watched with delight as his balls swung back and forth with each gentle
thrust of his erection into Hatherley's anus. I did not envy Hatherley, as
I had already known that delicious pain, and would know it again this
evening.
Holmes laid out his plan to save Hatherley's bottom even as he plundered it
himself. "On the day I arrived at Diogenes Hall, I saw on the noticeboard
that a fourth-former by the name of Grimesby had invited volunteers to
learn the art of cricket scoring from him, in preparation for next summer's
matches. Now, Hatherley, if you were participating in a sport, however
remotely, that would excuse you from any further fag responsibilities,
would it not? I am sure that rendering Grimesby the occasional wank or
suck-off would keep yourself in his good books, what?"
Hatherley squirted a small shot of spooge into my mouth as he climaxed
joyfully, on hearing Holmes' rescue plan. Holmes drove his hips into
Hatherley's nether regions and held them there as he also triumphed. "But
what of the Head?" I asked, still rolling Hatherley's essence around in my
mouth.
"Leave him to me," Holmes said with the assurance that I came to admire as
the year progressed. We rose from the bed and dressed, Holmes giving
Hatherley some of his own larger items of apparel to wear temporarily. We
reached the Head's study with fifteen minutes of the dealine to spare. The
Head was delighted that Hatherley had been recovered, safe and sound, but
still wanted to punish him for the inconvenience he had caused everyone. He
had already walked behind his desk and set his hand on a bamboo cane lying
against the wall when Holmes intervened.
"Sir, if I may make a request," he asked.
"Be quick about it, Sheridan my boy. There is a pair of trouser bottoms in
urgent need of dusting," the Head replied sternly, flicking the cane up and
down in front of Hatherley, who was beginning to cower. Holmes moved to
stand in front of Hatherley, blocking the Head's advance towards the
erstwhile fag.
"Sir, I believe Hatherley has suffered enough, and learned a valuable
lesson. I would regard it as a great favour, to me and my grandfather, if
you would forbear from adding to the miserable fellow's torment."
I thought the Head would explode. His face went the colour of a Manchester
United football shirt, and I will swear I saw steam coming from his
ears. The sight of a sixth-grade boy coming between him and his victim, and
moreover, pleading for that victim, infuriated him no end. But as the
moments passed, so did the crisis, and he calmed down. Placing the cane
back onto his desk, he nodded at Holmes. "Very well. For the sake of my
friendship with your grandfather. But I may in the future call upon that
favour that you offered, from time to time, mark my words. Now be off with
you."
We had escaped!
2. The Purloined Pouch
That was not the last that we were to see of Hatherley. Scarce a month had
passed (a month of blissful nights impaled on Holmes' erection, from my
viewpoint) when he attended our room one afternoon with a desperate plea.
"I say, Holmes, I need your help. Well, not me but Grimesby. I know I can
never repay you for the succour you have already provided, but I don't know
where else to turn!" the distraught ex-fag gasped.
"Come in, dear boy, come in," Holmes welcomed him. "I was only passing the
time with Watson here, playing a few tunes for him on my lute, but we can
do that anytime. Come, sit by me, and tell me what the trouble is." That
was typical of Holmes - he always paid more attention to the woes of others
than to his own comfort.
"Well, I called around at the gym just a few minutes ago, as I always do on
a Thursday after class, to meet Grimesby, he has Phys Ed in the last period
of the day. When the other fourth formers have gone, we, er, have a shower
together, it's the only chance we have, him being in Fourth and me in
Third, don't you know. "
"Yes of course, dear chap, a boy has to make do, I quite understand. Do go
on," Holmes answered.
"Well, when I arrived I found that the door to the gym was locked. Another
boy was also waiting for the class to end, and he told me the terrible
news. It seems that there had been a theft!"
"Good Lord!" I cried. "Here? At Diogenes?" I gasped in shock.
"I know, it's just so...unbelievable!" Hatherley moaned. "Apparently, one
of Grimesby's classmates left seven shillings and sixpence, his tuck-money,
in his locker while he did his physical jerks, or whatever they do in
Fourth Form. When he returned, the money had gone. He reported it
immediately to the Phys Ed teacher, who naturally demanded that the culprit
step forward. No-one did! The teacher then declared that unless the guilty
party owned up, every boy would receive six of the best on his bare behind,
such punishment to be repeated continuously until the thief's identity was
uncovered. And lest any fourth-former think that they could survive such a
chastisement at the hands of the Phys Ed teacher, who was, after all, only
a retired Welsh Rugby International whose shoulders weren't what they used
to be, the punishment was to be administered by a sixth-former with an
exceedingly strong arm!"
I gasped aloud. "Not-"
"Moriarty!" Holmes whispered. It was only natural for the Phys Ed teacher
to obtain the services of the fittest Senior in the school, if his
intention was to terrify the fourth-formers into revealing what, if
anything, they knew about this heinous crime. But now Hatherley's friend
Grimesby was in the firing line, for a crime he did not commit.
"How long until Moriarty begins to carry out the teacher's threat?" Holmes
asked.
"He has given the class until dinner - 6 p.m.," Hatherley said, his voice
on the verge of breaking in despair.
"That gives us-" he consulted his watch "-two and three-quarter hours!
Watson, the game's afoot!" We removed ourselves from our room, sending
Hatherley back to his own residence to remain calm (and not get in our
way), and strode briskly to the wing of the school where the physical
education facilities (the ball courts, indoor swimming pool and various
exercise machines) were housed.
As Hatherley had told us, the Phys Ed room was locked. "Keep a lookout,
Watson, there's a good chap," Holmes whispered, withdrawing a slim leather
wallet from his breast pocket. I always got a shiver when he said that,
fearing that we would surely be caught in the act of something
nefarious. Using his set of lockpicks Holmes had the door open in short
order ("A good friend of my late father taught me the use of these
instruments, Watson", he told me once when I enquired about them), and we
snuck inside.
Apart from the smell of sweaty teenager, the room was unremarkable. We
could see a bank of clothing lockers arrayed along one wall, with low
wooden benches along the opposite wall, with towel hooks adorning the third
wall. Through an open archway we could hear the dulcet Welsh-accented tones
of the Phys Ed teacher urging the miscreant to clear the stain on his
honour by owning up and letting his classmates go. I was terrified that at
any moment we would be discovered! For his part, Holmes simply tapped his
nose with hs finger as he walked slowly around the small room, inspecting
the lockers. Well, everyone called them "lockers" probably in slavish
imitation of some American movie, but in fact the clothing receptacles were
more like tall narrow wardrobes, with only a curtain in front and nothing
in back.
"Watson, come here!" Holmes whispered urgently to me. "What do you make of
that?" he said, pointing at the floor in front of the sixth locker. At
first I could not see to what he was referring, so I got down on my hands
and knees and made closer inspection, only to find a small droplet of
liquid on the timber floor, seemingly quite freshly deposited, of unknown
substance.
"Taste it," Holmes whispered again. "We need to establish its
constituence," he explained when I wrinkled my nose at his request. Still,
I suppose had it been even a fresh dog dropping I would have obeyed Holmes,
and this looked no more dangerous than teen sweat, so I dipped my tongue in
it.
Smacking my lips and recalling all the tastes I had ever encountered, I was
able to advise Sheridan that the droplet was constituted of spooge. "It's
cum, Holmes," I told him.
"As I suspected, Watson. Now, file the flavour away in your memory banks,
because we will have need of a comparison shortly, if I am not mistaken." I
did not feel put out by Holmes' instruction, as I was largely to blame for
it myself. One night, after encouraging Holmes to fuck me most thoroughly
from behind, while I crouched on all fours, I remarked to him, apropos of
nothing at all, that Hatherley's spooge tasted different to the spooge of
the head boy of the fag common room. Holmes was quite thoughtful after
hearing this, and speculated aloud whether everyone's spooge was of a
unique flavour. I forgot all about it when he continued his enthusiastic
rogering of my bottom, but obviously he did not.
"Now, Watson, do you still have the Head's letter? I feel it is time to
take it out for an invigorating canter again," Sheridan said. I found it in
my pocket, carefully unfolded it and gave it to him. He strode to the
archway and burst into the room where the fourth-formers sat, along one
wall, being berated in Welsh by the Phys Ed teacher, Mr Llewellyn
Davis. Thankfully, Moriarty had not yet been summoned, so matters had not
yet passed beyond the point of no return.
"What is the meaning of this?" the man bellowed. "How did you boyos get in
here?"
"A letter from the Head, Sir, if it please you," Holmes replied,
flourishing the letter. Mr Davis scanned it quickly before calming down
somewhat.
"Full authority, eh?" Mr Davis spoke gruffly. "Very well, what do you
need?"
"Sir, may I ask if any of these boys excused themselves from the lesson at
any time today?" Holmes began.
"Yes, two of them, about a minute apart. Call of nature, boyo, can't be
helped. I naturally suspected them of the theft too, but their lockers and
persons were thoroughly searched, nothing."
"Even so, may I question them? Privately?" Holmes pursued politely.
"Well the Head's letter says you can, so...hop to it! Meriwether,
Royston-Hill, accompany this lad to the lockers, chop-chop!" Two of the
fourth-formers rose from their bench and trudged after Holmes and I back to
the room we first encountered. Both boys looked very sheepish, for fourth
formers, more so than might be expected if they were innocent.
Holmes started the interrogation in quite a mild fashion, I
thought. "Meriwether, is it," he addressed the larger of the two. Receiving
a nod, he asked "Would you mind pointing out your locker, please?"
Surprised by the question, the lad raised his arm and indicated the
second-to-last locker.
"Very good," said Sheridan. "And you, Royston-Hill, would you kindly show
me which is your locker?"
"It's right here, but I never stole nuthin', I swear!" the youth answered,
on the verge of distress, pointing at the locker next to Meriwether's.
"No, of course not, my good man, I never suspected anything of the sort,"
Sheridan countered amiably. "Now, which one is the locker of the boy whose
money was taken?" Having already admitted to the position of their own
lockers, the youths could hardly act ignorant of this last question, and
each extended an arm in the direction of the sixth locker from the end -
the very one which had the droplet of moisture in front of it!
Now, at this point I should offer some background information about the
sexual mores of the older pupils of Diogenes Hall, as compared with other
private schools in England, since each has its own peculiarities. In point
of fact, all of the sexual behaviour of all the schools other than Diogenes
can readily be described as "peculiarity", but enough of that. As the
reader may have observed from the earlier chapter, Sixth Formers make use
of good looking Third Formers for sexual gratification because females are
off limits, their charms being overwhelming and not conducive to studious
habits or vigorous sporting endeavours. Fifth Formers prey upon any boy
lower than the third form who goes about by himself, since he is an easy
target (one of the several reasons Holmes and I are usually
together). Second- and First- Formers usually just wank off, either singly
or in groups. Boys in the junior school rarely get beyond giggling at farts
and stiffies.
Which leaves Fourth Formers. It is in the Fourth Form, uniquely, that
passionate friendships between pairs of boys develop. (I suppose that
indicates that Holmes and I are some four years ahead of our time!) The
reasons for this are not simple. Bear in mind that Fourth Form is made of a
mixture of former fags (many of whom pine for the days when they were being
rogered regulary by a sixth-former) and sporting types who regret that they
spent all of their Third Form chasing leather balls about a field or a
court to a greater or lesser degree of futility. It is hardly surprising
that pairs of Fourth-Formers will gravitate towards each other, to fulfill
their mutual needs.
And so it was with Meriwether and Royston-Hill. Holmes deduced that from
their body language and the looks they gave each other, that these two
fellows were not exactly candid when they told Mr Llewellyn Davis that they
each needed to answer calls of nature. Holmes decided to proceed to
specifics, or as our American cousins would say, "cut the bull."
"So, it was in front of this locker," Holmes asserted, indicating the
locker of the victim of robbery, "that you two fellows were making love?"
he asked, as casually as if he had asked them if they had been combing
their hair. The two boys were frozen with embarrassment, their faces
reddened with chagrin. "No need to worry, chaps, I am not the morality
police. But I do need one more piece of data to confirm my theory. Watson,
if you please?"
I knew now why Holmes asked me to file the taste of that spooge from the
floor in my memory bank. I sank to my knees in front of Meriwether and drew
down his athletic shorts. Quite a tasty morsel sprang forth, the biggest I
had yet encountered. "Just the head, Watson, if you please. Roll back the
foreskin and register the taste on your tongue."
"It's not him," I reported immediately, ruing that I had to release his
glans from my mouth.
"Very well, now the other fellow." I moved to a position in front of
Royston-Hill, and drew down his athletic shorts. His penis sprang up, a
prettier and smaller one than Meriwether's, and circumcised. I let his
knobhead rest on my tongue as I savoured the flavour. I was instantly
astounded.
"It's him!" I cried joyfully as soon as his penis was clear of my
teeth. Holmes smiled his congratulations.
"Now that we have established that the two of you were engaged in some form
of initmacy on this very spot at the exact time that the money disappeared,
suppose you tell me what happened," Holmes asked the two boys, quite
reasonably.
Royston-Hill glanced at Meriwether, and received some unspoken
communication back from him. "It's true," he said. "But I'm not ashamed of
it. I love him. We sleep in different bedrooms, so the only chances we get
to...be together, we take. When Merry got permission to use the toilet from
Old Llew, I waited a few seconds, and then also asked for a toilet
break. We met right here, as you correctly guessed. We knew we had no time
for fancy foreplay, so I turned to face the nearest locker and braced
myself on it, while Merry pulled my shorts down and rogered me from
behind. It was divine! He pushed into me so forcefully that I nearly
knocked the locker over. Just before he finished, I...polluted myself. I
caught most of it in my hand, but a drop must have slid off. But we never
took any money, I give you my word! We were...too busy!" I felt a pang of
jealousy at Royston-Hill's good fortune, having that lovely cock up his
bottom, however infrequently.
Holmes smiled. "I believe you, my good man. You have been honest with me,
and indeed, your honesty has helped to solve the mystery and save your
classmates a horrible fate at the hands of Moriarty! Go back to your
classmates." The two teens departed, and I immediately questioned Sheridan.
"How on earth have they solved the mystery, Holmes?" I demanded. "Where is
the money?" I was baffled.
"Did you not hear the lad's testimony, Watson? He said that the locker
shook with the force of their lovemaking, to the point that he feared it
might topple over. So all we need do is...this!" Holmes took a strong grip
of the locker, and leaned the top of it towards himself and dragged it
forwards some twelve inches; there, on the floor, was a small purse. It had
obviously been dislodged and fallen out of the back of the locker and
rolled underneath. And those fellows claimed that they had searched! Holmes
picked up the purse and we both returned to the main room where Mr Davis
was still urging the miscreant to own up.
"You need keep these fellows no further, Mr Davis: I have discovered the
missing money!" Sheridan declared triumphantly. "Those two lads had nothing
to do with it, but they were most helpful." The boy whose property it was
leapt up and grabbed the purse from Sheridan, unzipping it to confirm that
the money, seven shillings and sixpence, was intact. Mr Davies gave a
dismissive wave of his hand and the group of teens thundered to the locker
area and began disrobing. Holmes hauled me out of there before I started to
drool.
3. Lanced Bottoms.
By the end of Term 1, Holmes' reputation as a solver of mysteries, finder
of lost things and saviour of the wrongfully accused had spread around the
school, and the two of us were treated by our elders (and even a few
teachers) with some deference. I thought that it was not only his
investigative prowess that folk were in awe of - they feared his sharp eyes
and sometimes, sharper tongue.
As a result of this well-earned reputation, Holmes was beginning to have a
greater number of calls upon his time. Some of these he considered for a
few moments before dismissing with an easy answer, others he referred to
the Head for further investigation. Sometimes a case struck him as worthy
of his talents, and he took it on personally. Such occurred when we were
asked by Mr Carruthers to call on him in his rooms.
Mr Carruthers taught Geography and a little History to the lower school,
grades three, four, five and six. Indeed, he was one of our teachers,
Holmes' and mine, but we scarcely noticed him or his subject, as I had well
and truly had my fill of foreign countries, and Holmes cared very little
for it, except to keep track of where his grandfather was. Mr Carruthers
was also housemaster of the Second Year boarders, who were domiciled in
Cherrywood Wing. It was there that we called upon him.
"Thank you for coming to see me, boys," the man began, as we sat on a
comfortable settee with him. "It is a very delicate matter that I must
raise with you, so I must first ask for your assurance of discretion - my
very employment at Diogenes Hall is at grave risk."
While neither of us cared one way or the other about Geography, we both
instinctively felt that it would be a shame if a teacher with a good
reputation for caring about his boys such as Mr Carruthers had were to be
lost to the school, it would have been a shame. "We are at your service,
Sir," Holmes declared, in words that I was becoming used to hearing. "How
may we be of assistance?"
Before the man could speak, the door burst open and a second-form boy raced
within. Ignoring Holmes and I, this lad strode up to his Housemaster. "Sir,
is this a pimple or an insect bite?" he demanded, turning his back to the
teacher and pulling his short trousers down at the back, thus exposing a
delightfully curved bottom. I admit my eyes nearly fell out of my head, if
that is indeed possible. "Finsley says it is, but Coxforth said it was just
a mozzie bite."
The teacher inspected the beautiful rump closely, his hands all over it,
before declaring, "Not sure, Arthurs, but I will apply some antiseptic
cream to it, which will be efficacious in either case," the man reassured
the boy, rubbing in some lotion from a tube on his desk.
"Effy-wot, Sir?" the boy replied, giggling as he pulled up his drawers.
"Look it up in your Funk & Wagnalls, Arthurs. Now be off with you!" he gave
the boy a final pat on the rear end and sent him on his way. "Now, where
was I?" Mr Carruthers squirmed a little in his seat, and I got the
impression that the matter that was troubling the teacher was delicate
indeed. "The plain truth of it is, boys, I am being blackmailed," he stated
frankly, and Holmes nodded to encourage further revelations. "There are
four boys, Second-formers, all weekly boarders. They have represented to me
that there exist written statements that they have...constructed, each one
penned by themselves, accusing me of commiting buggery and other
perversions upon them, and are insisting that I resign from the School,
otherwise they will hand these documents over to the Head, and I will be
sacked in disgrace, and be unlikely to ever gain another teaching
position. Teaching is my life, boys!"
Holmes considered the teacher's words,and began his gentle
interrogation. "Good gracious, Sir, how awful for you. Please do not be
offended if I ask whether there is any truth in any of these...statements?"
Mr Carruthers raised an eyebrow at Holmes and without hesitation answered
"Absolutely not!"
"Quite," Holmes replied. "And have you enjoyed the company of any other boy
or boys, in a physical way, that these four may have become privy to? That
is, do they have any reason of choosing this particular method of blackmail
over, say, accusing you of doctoring exam results, or excessive brutality,
or condoning laziness, or indeed any other of a hundred offences that a
teacher may commit?"
A second interruption occurred at that precise moment: the door to Mr
Carruthers' study swung wide and another second-former burned the carpet
with the eagerness of his entry. "Sir! Sir! I got one! Look!" the lad
exclaimed, pulling his shorts down in front as he ran to his teacher and
exposed his crotch. "It's at the bottom of my sack, that's why I couldn't
see it when I checked these last few nights! Look, Sir!" Obligingly, the
teacher looked at the indicated place, carefully fondling the boy's balls
and penis as he did so.
"You're right, Warrington, it's definitely a hair! Congratulations, old
boy, or should I say, old man! Have you shown Peterson yet?" the man asked.
"I'll show him right now, Sir. I just wanted you to see it first! Thank
you, Sir!" the boy gushed as he pulled his shorts back up and ran off,
dragging the door shut as he did so.
"I do apologise for the frequent interruptions, boys, but as you can see,
it's a 24 hour-a day job, and second-formers need so much nurturing, don't
you think? Now, where were we?"
Holmes smiled. "I had asked you if you knew why these four boys chose this
blackmail method over any others."
The teacher's shoulders sagged. "Everyone said you were brilliant," he
murmured. "Yes, it is true, I have dallied with some boys over the
years. Never against their will, mind - they sought me out, in fact. In a
boarding school there are bound to be a few boys who miss their fathers, or
their uncles, or who simply miss the affection that only an adult can
give. With some boys, that...affection...crosses the line. Oh, I've never
done anything to a boy that he didn't ask for, verbally or otherwise. But,
you see, if a boy approaches me, I simply can't resist."
"I quite understand, Sir, believe me. But I shall have to know the names of
the boys that you...dallied with, going back, say, the last five years. I
must have information if I am to release you from this evil," Holmes said.
"It's a short list. Three boys, in fact. Paul Collins...Oliver Platting..."
the teacher seemed to be lost in a reverie of his own.
"And...?" Sheridan prompted.
"...and Seamus Moriarty," Mr Carruthers completed his list.
"Moriarty!" Holmes repeated. "A younger brother of James, the senior at
this school, perhaps?"
"Cousin, actually. Seamus was eight when he came to Diogenes. At that time
I taught History to the upper junior school, and had the nightly care of
Doyle Wing, where the third graders were housed. He was a most affectionate
boy, most affectionate indeed. He clung to me from the very first day of
term, and I...was powerless to resist him. Within a week he was joining me
in bed, and our relationship blossomed from there. May I be frank?"
"Please do. Neither Watson nor I is likely to be shocked," Holmes replied
for both of us.
"Seamus suffered from a desperate, almost pathological need to be
physically close to a man. I was the lucky recipient, I suppose, of his
ardours. He sucked my cock on the very second day he was here, and within
the week I was fucking his precious bottom twice a night. He was, quite
simply, insatiable. We continued on in this way, happily, for eight
months."
"What happened?" I blurted out, already feeling a stiffness in my own
trousers at the mere thought of getting rogered by this handsome man twice
a night.
"His parents got divorced. His mother got custody, and returned to live
with her family in Ireland. She took him out of the school, out of the
country, and out of my life."
"Forgive me, Sir, but why didn't you simply hand these four malcontents
over to Mr Lestrade? I am certain he would have no truck with blackmail,
regardless of the subject matter," Holmes enquired.
Mr Carruthers gave a rueful smile. "I probably would, if I knew who they
were. All of their communications to me thus far have been anonymous. A
note slipped under my door. That is why I have sought your help. I don't
know how to counterattack an unknown enemy!" At that point, there was a
soft knock at the study door, which I thought made a pleasant change from
the boisterous entry of the previous boys. A head peeped around the door
and a small voice said "Sir? Can I..."
"Yes, yes, of course, St Clair, come in, don't be bothered by these two
lads. What can I do for you?" The boy, who seemed to me to be rather puny
for a second-former, dawdled over to his teacher, and stood very close to
him. For a horrifying moment I feared the lad was going to whisper in the
teacher's ear, but was relieved to see that he spoke normally, if a little
weakly.
"Sir, Watling hit me in the tummy, and now it hurts," he said sheepishly.
"What a naughty boy he is for doing that," the teacher reprimanded Watling
in absentia. "Now, you just lie across my lap here and I'll make it all
better for you." The boy's face lit up as he scrambled onto the man's
thighs and stretched out, face up, letting the man pull his shirt out of
its tuck and undo the clasp of his shorts, pulling the zipper down as he
did so. St Clair sighed as the man's hand roamed all over his abdomen, even
going well above what could reasonably be called "tummy", to his chest, and
rather far below as well, insinuating itself below the waistband of the
boy's underwear to caress the boy's pale skin in wide sweeps. At that
moment, I longed for Watling to hit me in the tummy.
Eventually, with a last little pat to the small protuberance in the front
of St Clair's underwear, the man told his student that he was 'all better',
and that he could get up now. He zipped the boy's shorts up and tucked in
his shirt. "Thank you Sir," the boy whimpered, and I thought he was about
to kiss his teacher, but he turned and skipped to the door.
"It is clear that your boys are deeply fond of you, Sir," Holmes said, in
his blunt way. "May I ask, if you do not know who these four are, then how
do you know they are weekly boarders?"
"It's obvious," the teacher declared, as though it was obvious. "There are
no day students in the second form this year, and none of my year-round
boarders would do such a thing!"
Holmes smiled and stood up. "Well, Mr Carruthers, you have given us a lot
of valuable information, and a considerable challenge. I will take the
case! Watson, let us be off. Good day to you, Sir," Sheridan said as we
left the man to his work.
"Well, Watson, what of that encounter?" Holmes asked when we were seated in
the Quad, which is where Holmes liked to do a lot of his thinking.
"I hope we can save his job, and that he's still at Diogenes when we get to
the second form," I answered.
"Quite, Watson, but I was thinking more in terms of the case
itself. Blackmailers, especially juvenile ones, usually desire a more
material reward than just the removal of a teacher. Money, for example,
instantly springs to mind. And can we rely on Mr Carruthers' intuition that
it is weekly boarders who are the culprits? After all, I am a weekly
boarder, and I haven't blackmailed anybody. Which reminds me, we should
have obtained the note that the blackmailers slipped under his door - or if
he has destroyed it, then possibly he can recall the precise wording of the
note and write it out for us afresh. Watson, can you go back to him and get
that note? I will be in our room, contemplating further."
I did not need a second invitation to go back to see Mr Carruthers! On the
way I briefly wondered whether he had a hairy chest, one that felt rough
yet soft as one's hands carressed it...I was so lost in my reverie that I
almost missed the turn for his room, but found it and knocked. Mr
Carruthers was within, of course, but he had company. A boy, obviously a
second-former was kneeling on the couch (presumably to equalise their
heights) as Mr Carruthers hugged him closely, so closely in fact that both
his hands had run underneath the boy's shorts and were stroking his bottom,
his apparently underwear-free bottom.
"...and I'm sure they'll write to you properly the very first chance they
get, Roylott. Getting an envelope with no letter inside was a minor
oversight on their part, I'm sure of it; you said yourself they were very
busy, now, didn't you. I tell you what, tonight you can come visit me after
prep and you can use my telephone to call them on, all right, old chap?
There's a good fellow, now off you go, and no more tears, what?" the
teacher consoled. The boy rushed past me as I approached the boarding
master.
"Poor little chap's parents are overseas, and his mobile phone has a block
on it," he explained. "Now, Watson, what can I do for you? Don't tell me
Holmes has cracked it already?"
"Er, no Sir, not yet, I don't think so, at least, although he is rather
good at this type of thing. Actually he sent me to collect the note that
was slipped under your door, if you still have it. Or if you can't,
possibly you could write out what it said, that would suffice, Sir."
"Of course, Watson, I have it in my bedroom. Don't like to keep that sort
of thing out here where one of the boys might accidentally stumble across
it, don't you know. Come along, and I'll get it for you." I followed the
teacher into his private room, and my eyes immediately fell upon his
bed. Was this the same place, I wondered, where he rogered young Seamus
twice a night, and Oliver, and...whatever the other boy's name was? My
penis stiffened to its full three inches in a matter of moments, and I
attempted to readjust it within my short trousers when Mr Carruthers
produced the letter. He caught me in the very act of erectile relocation.
"Here it is, Watson. I say, are you feeling alright?" the man said, sitting
on his bed right by where I stood.
"I...I..." No words exited my mouth. I wanted to say that I would like to
be held by him, caressed by him, made love to by him, like those
second-formers were, but nothing came out. He held out his arms, and I
could not stop myself. I fell into his embrace and allowed him to hug me to
his body. As he did so, he must have noticed my erection prodding him in
the abdomen.
"Now, what have we here?" he murmured as he turned my unresisting body to
the side and ran his hands over the front of my shorts. "A lump? It feels
like a very nice lump indeed," Mr Carruthers whispered as his hand cupped
my little bulge and squeezed gently. "Do you want to show me your little
lump? Do you want Nursie to look after it for you?" he cajoled, and I could
not prevent my head from nodding in the affirmative. "We'll just undo these
pants," he chatted amiably as he unclasped my shorts and lowered the
zipper. The two sides fell away and my protrusion stood out proudly. "It
certainly is a pretty lump, isn't it," he said softly, his mouth so close
to my ear that I could feel his breath upon it. One of his hands cupped my
bottom so that I would not swoon, the other pulled the hem of my briefs
outwards and down, exposing my cock.
"Oh!" was all I could manage as my penis bobbed up and down, glad to be
free.
"What a pretty lump to be sure!" Mr Carruthers said, and for a brief moment
I felt that I did swoon, for the next conscious thought that entered my
mind was that I was fully naked, lying on his bed, the covers pulled back,
with Mr Carruthers gloriously naked lying beside me. His chest was indeed
hairy, and I could not restrain my hands as they roamed all over it, right
down to his thicket of pubic hair, below which was a beautiful adult male
penis, the first I had ever seen, quivering, pulsing even, waiting to be
held and loved. I did not ask his permission; I dived straight onto it. It
was by far the largest morsel I had ever taken into my mouth, and I felt a
sensation of deep fulfilment as I sucked and licked it.
Mr Carruthers turned my body around and set it atop his own. I felt the
stubble of his cheek rub across my bald pubic mound, then across my sack,
and finally I felt his tongue, teasing my cock. He clutched at my bottom as
we sucked each other's instruments, myself cupping his beautiful balls as I
enjoyed the muskiness of his organ. All too soon he groaned and spurted his
spooge into my mouth, a much more copious thirst-quencher than I have ever
had. I was glad that Mr Carruthers was my first adult male cum, and I
already began to look forward to being two years older and in the second
form!
I swung the door of B12 open and floated into the room I shared with
Sheridan. Naturally, Holmes noticed my altered mood right off. "Now that
you have that out of the way, perhaps we can concentrate on the case! My
word, Watson, I sometimes feel that I am partly responsible for turning you
into a wanton little tart! No male is safe with you around! Have you
brought the piece of paper?"
"Here it is, dear fellow! We simply must get Mr Carruthers off the hook! He
would be such a loss...to the School". I sat on the bed and watched as
Holmed examined the sheet of paper.
"You know, Watson, I'm beginning to think that we are going at this thing
from the wrong angle entirely! The only piece of evidence that backs up the
'four blackmailing malcontents' theory is this page. What if there are no
blackmailing second formers? How would Carruthers know any different?"
I pondered for a moment, still savouring the taste of Mr Carruthers' spooge
in my mouth. "Well, he would only know what the note told him," I replied.
"Exactly! It is my belief that the elder Moriarty invented the whole scheme
to avenge his younger cousin. He wrote this note, slipped it under the
teacher's door, and hoped that Carruthers would depart his post quietly as
requested. I have no doubt that there exist four testimonies (all
fabrications of course) accusing him, which will be similarly deposited
under the Head's door should Carruthers not comply. We could burglarise
Moriarty's room when he is away and simply take the falsehoods, but he will
only create more of them."
"We could go to the Head and tell him not to believe everything that he
reads?" I suggested.
"Possible, but that would only infuriate Moriarty into an even more
desperate ploy - he might entice some second-formers to seduce their
teacher so that he can capture the act on video, and hand that over to the
Head. Mr Lestrade might be able to ignore anonymous unsigned notes, but he
could not overlook moving pictures. No, I think the only way to deal with
blackmailers is to give them a taste of their own medicine. We must fight
fire with fire, Watson. Come!"
We departed immediately for an undisclosed destination. It turned out to be
the fag common room. We knocked, only this time Holmes called out his name,
so that the Head Boy of the fag common room would not give us his comic
routine from behind the heavy door. "Aha!" he cried, as soon as he saw
us. "Holmes, of course, and you have brought the delightful Watson with
you. Well done! Come in, chaps, and pull up a pew!"
We hurried into the room, Holmes concerned that our movements were being
monitored. "What can I do for the great boy detective today?" he
asked. Holmes had the decency to blush before outlining his plan to trap
Moriarty. I confess I listened closely as well, as Holmes had not yet
confided in me.
"Tell me," he began, "does Moriarty still call upon the fags in their
rooms?"
"Like clockwork, old boy. So much so that I have noticed a marked increase
in claims of the 24-hour 'flu every Thursday between 7 and 8 in the
evening."
"Hmm," Holmes mused, tapping his nose with his index finger. "And are there
any of the fags whom you would describe as particularly libertine in their
approach to their duties? Boys who take a lot of enjoyment in their work?"
"Ah, now you are describing Dartnell to a 'T', old boy. Proper little tart,
he is. Would open his legs to an Arabian stallion if I asked him to. Bungs
on a big act while he is about it, as well. Likes to make out the
sixth-former is ripping him apart, but secretly he loves every thrust of
it."
"Oh, very good! Perfect! And would you say this Dartnell was a well-built
fellow?" Holmes asked.
"Not a bit of it, old boy. Why he's no bigger than your Watson here. He
could pass for a sixth grader, except for his fuzz."
"His...fuzz?" I asked, keen to be involved in the conversation.
"Pubes, old boy. Dick whiskers. His nether eyebrow. You know!"
"Could you oblige me by allocating Dartnell's name to Moriarty's next
visit? I ask not for myself, but for one who cannot ask for himself. I am
sure you know him - Mr Carruthers!"
The fag's face lit up at the mention of his boarding master from last
year. "Do a favour for Nursie? Why, of course, old boy, glad to do it. I'm
rather fond of the man, he was a huge help to me last year. Consider it
done!"
"May we call upon Dartnell, to confirm the arrangement?" Holmes pressed.
"Room F18, old boy. Just knock and go straight in." We proceeded out of the
common room into a long hallway lined with rooms in numerical order. F18
was where one would expect to find it, so we knocked and entered. A
smallish boy lay on a bed reading a comic book, possibly The Beano. He was
naked, and I immediately registered what the head fag was referring to, a
cute little bush over his penis.
"Hallo, Dartnell I presume? I'm Holmes, this is Watson. I've come to ask a
rather large favour. Well, two favours actually. But I assure you they are
in a good cause. The very best, in fact. Did you have Mr Carruthers last
year?" Sheridan ingratiated himself with the boy, sitting on the side of
the bed.
The mention of the second-form boarding master's name got the fag's
attention. "Is this about Nursie? That's what we called him. I really like
him! What can I do to help?"
"Well, first I need to shave off your pubic hair. May I?" Holmes enquired
genially, withdrawing a small electric razor from his pocket. "And those
few that are currently gracing your ballbag also, if I may?"
It was at times such as these that Holmes was a sheer delight to watch -
the way his mind always seemed to be three or four steps ahead of his
opponents, like a chess grandmaster, or a lion tamer. He carefully shaved
Dartnell's bush (and his bag) making the boy able to pass for an eleven
year old. He positioned a mini-camera and microphone on the top of
Dartnell's wardrobe, angled to the fag's bed. When Thursday evening rolled
around, we watched Moriarty enter the fag common room, then waited a few
moments before positioning ourselves outside Dartnell's room.
The lad did not disappoint us. His performance was worthy of the best the
West End had to offer. "Oooh, Jumbo, it's so huge, please don't put it in
my bum, you'll tear me in two. Let me wank it off for you, I'm good at
that. Or I'll suck it, I don't mind. Oh, lord have mercy, not on my back,
you'll crush me as well as split me, oh god, it'll never go in, oh, ohh,
ooooh, no, no, let it rest a minute, so I can get used to it, aaah, not so
deep, you'll stop my heart, aaah, you're ripping my hole, ohh, ohh,
ohhh..."
The head boy of the fag common room (whose name we never did ascertain) was
crouching in the hallway with us, smirking at the sounds coming from
Dartnell's room. "The wanton little slut," he whispered. "The bigger they
are, the more he likes them. And the more he complains, the more vigorous a
pounding he gets, just like he wants." We departed quietly, with myself
lingering to see whether Holmes wanted me to thank the head boy in a, ahem,
practical way. He didn't.
When Moriarty returned to his digs in the Seniors wing, he found a note
under his door:
"Swear on your honour to drop this vendetta against Carruthers, or a very
interesting video of yourself consorting with an eleven year old will find
its way onto the School's intraweb. Signify your agreement to this
ultimatum by hanging your school tie around the neck of the statue of
Chaucer in the Quad by dawn tomorrow."
It is a curous blind spot that many private schools have, that while they
absolutely decry sexual misconduct between older and younger boys, they see
nothing wrong in the systematic use of fags. The school leadership simply
chooses to believe that all a fag ever does is brew tea and perhaps a spot
of cleaning. So Moriarty knew that while his activities in the fags' rooms
would usually be overlooked, such would not be the case if everyone's noses
were rubbed in it.
In the chilly light the next morning, Holmes climbed the statue and
examined the necktie around Chaucer's throat. Turning it over, he saw a
single name embroidered onto the nametag: Moriarty.
4. Holmes Cracks It.
I believe I mentioned earlier that Holmes was a weekly boarder. Such boys
were permitted to go home on Friday evenings, after class, and return to
the school on Sunday afternoon, before supper. From the very first day that
we made each other's acquaintance, Holmes invited me to his home for the
weekend. The procedure to permit this is to complete a form called an
'exeat', and have it signed by the House prefect, who in the case of the
sixth-graders, was Woodcock.
This Woodcock was a rather sour fellow for a sixth-former, immune to the
enticements of the fags, or indeed any form of enjoyment. He took great
delight in denying every one of my exeats, week after week, on the feeble
grounds that 'Holmes already sees you five days a week, he doesn't want to
be lumbered with you on weekends as well!' This unhappy state of affairs
dragged on for months; I was beginning to think that I would never see the
inside of 221B Baker Street, where Sheridan had his digs. But Fate
intervened: Woodcock had to attend the funeral of some elderly relative or
other, and was therefore absent from School at the crucial moment when I
presented my exeat to his replacement. Grosvenor signed it without even
looking!
I cannot begin to describe my excitement at visiting the residence of the
great Sherlock in London! Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper of the great
detective and guardian of Sheridan on weekends, was simply a delight! She
is an excellent cook, and fussed over both of us whenever she could, but at
the same time she let us have our privacy, especially in the evening.
Sheridan made love to me in his own bed on that first Friday evening, a
wonderful night, and we awoke together on Saturday morning, refreshed and
eager to explore all that 221B held in store, but our expedition was
interrupted by the telephone. "Sheridan, dear, it's for you," Mrs Hudson
explained, holding the old black bakelite handset out for my friend. "I
believe it's to do with school," she added helpfully.
"Do forgive me for calling you at home, dear fellow, but I am at my wit's
end. I need your help," the voice on the telephone beseeched.
"Of course, my good Sir, " Holmes replied cautiously, "but you have the
advantage of me."
"I do beg your pardon, Master Holmes. My name is Christopher Hay-Moulton,
and my son is one of your classmates."
"Ah, yes, Haybale, of course. I mean Alexander, I do beg your pardon, Sir,"
Holmes replied.
"No apology necessary, old chap, I was given a similar monicker when I was
at Diogenes. These things tend to run in families. I was most impressed
when I heard from my elder son Haystack, that is to say, Charles, how you
solved the mystery of the missing tuck-money in the Phys Ed locker
room. Ahh, the times I had in that room. I am most grateful to you for
saving my elder son's bottom from the depredations of that senior boy, what
is his name, now..."
"Moriarty!" Holmes whispered.
"Indeed. And now it appears that I must have recourse to your assistance
again, if you would be so kind."
"I am at your service Sir, yours and your familiy's."
"Thank you so much, dear fellow. To put it simply, Haybale, I mean
Alexander, is about to be sent down for cheating on an exam!"
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Holmes. "What does Alexander have to say about the
circumstances? I assume he has been in contact with you?"
"He has, as well as that fool Lestrade. Heaven only knows why the School
Governors chose him for that position. In any case, I understand that when
Alexander performed exceptionally well on a Latin paper, eyebrows were
raised, as he had never shown much facility with that language to date. Do
you, er, take Latin also, Holmes?"
"No Sir, my grandfather tutored me in Latin and Greek from an early age and
I am fluent in both. Mr Lestrade suggested I select other subjects, so as
not to shame the classics teachers."
"Quite, quite. Well, the bare fact of it is that a completed exam paper was
found in Alexander's desk after the exam, and the conclusion drawn was that
Alexander must have copied from it, to produce his surprising result."
"Did Hayb- er, Alexander say where the completed paper came from?" Holmes
asked.
"This is the most curious aspect of the whole affair, my boy. He says he
purchased it from the very same Moriarty, who offered it to him as a study
aid. I assure you, my son did not realise it was a completed exam paper he
was buying - he actually thought it was a genuine study aid, you know the
type of thing, verb conjugations, translations of common nouns, classical
constructions, some verses of Cicero and Plato, I expect you would be
familiar with the type."
"Indeed, Sir. It seems a valuable classmate will be lost if nothing is done
to prevent it. I will take the case! You can depend on me!"
"Oh, thank you, my dear fellow, thank you indeed. I shall leave the matter
in your capable hands. Good morning to you."
Putting down the telephone handset, Holmes turned to me and said "We must
return to Diogenes Hall immediately, Watson. Your visit to 221B must be
interrupted, perhaps postponed, sadly, but justice cannot be delayed. Mrs
Hudson, our train tickets are good for any return journey, are they not?"
"Why, yes, dear. It says so on the back. Are you boys off already?"
"I fear so, madam. Please excuse us - I am needed at the School. Come
Watson, the game's afoot!"
We engaged a Hansom at the front entrance of 221B, which took us to Kings
Cross railway station. Holmes consulted his rail timetable to find the next
train back to Diogenes, and we verified the correct platform number. Our
train departed on schedule, leaving us an hour and a half to ourselves.
"I say, Watson, I've heard that there is a most remarkable sensation to be
had when making love on a moving train. I think I should like to verify
this information. Would you care to accompany me to the W.C.?" Sheridan
asked.
"Rather!" I exclaimed, dreading a tedious journey through the
countryside. We left our seats and made for the end of the carriage, where
the water closets are usually located. Holmes urged me to enter first,
there being very little room within for one person, much less for two. I
stood over the porcelain bowl, my hands braced against the wall above the
cistern, as Sheridan undid my shorts from behind and lowered them, along
with my briefs.
"Oh, Sheridan," I moaned as he pushed my shirttails up, running his hands
up my back.
"I swear to you, Jonny, I shall never tire of the sight and feel of your
bottom," he murmured in my ear. "Now spread those thighs a little and let
me enter you." I sighed with pleasure as I felt his erection prod at my
bottom hole. Adjusting his stance, he pushed forward, lodging his member
within.
"Let is rest there, Sheridan, for just a moment...aaah...I can feel the
motion of the train joggling and jiggling it about...I fear I do not
deserve such delights...mmmm...now push, if you would...yess...yesss."
Holmes had one hand on my bare back as he pushed inside me, imparting the
most delicious sensations. His stamina was remarkable, for one so young,
and I thanked my good fortune for the day he came into my life.
A knock at the door told us we had better finish our enjoyment of each
others' bodies. It would not do to have some impatient commuter call the
train guard to unlock the W.C. with us still inside, our clothing in
disarray! The balance of the trip was more pleasant, the rolling
countryside no longer a burden but a pleasant calmative.
At school, our first task was to locate Haybale. We found him sitting by
himself in the sixth grade common room, all of his other friends having
deserted him, not wanting the taint of 'cheat' clinging to them by
association. "I have spoken with your father, dear boy, and I told him that
I would help," Holmes began.
"There's nothing you can do," the boy responded miserably. "I'm a dead
duck!"
"We shall see," Holmes replied. "Tell me how you obtained the page of exam
answers."
Perhaps it would be helpful if at this point I interjected into the
narrative a brief explanation of another tradition of boarding school life:
exams. Exams have been with us for several centuries, as a means of
assigning grades to scholars, separating the able from the less able, the
academically inclined from the dullard, the future university student from
the future factory labourer. And for as long as there have been exams,
there have been students, quite well-intentioned I'm sure, who have
endeavoured to assist their classmates by generating 'study aides'. For
while some boys strive with all their mights to retain important facts,
their brains may simply not be up to the challenge.
Enter the study aid. It is a summary of what might be on the exam, compiled
by one of the smarter (but poorer) boys in the class, and made available
for sale to whomever will pay a modest fee. There is no guarantee that a
study aid will help, but it cannot hurt. Some study aids are passed down
from older brother to younger brother, even father to son, such is the
unchanging nature of certain school subjects, such as Latin. But the older
Hay-Moulton (Haystack) had not elected Latin as a subject, choosing
Technical Drawing instead, which left Haybale, who found even the English
language a sore trial, all at sea.
"He approached me," Haybale explained to Holmes eventually. "I'd never met
him before, but I knew who he was. One day last week he sat by me after
lunch in the junior refectory, I think he was on duty that day, and said
that he heard I was having trouble with Latin, what with the exam coming
up. He said he could offer me a study aid for two pounds, that would help
me with the exam. I thought the price sounded reasonable, so I
agreed. Everybody does it, don't you know. When I opened the envelope he
gave me, I was surprised. It wasn't a study aid at all, it was a past exam
paper, with all the answers filled in. I glanced through it, thinking it
would be a hundred-to-one shot that the teacher would set the exact same
exam as six years earlier, and just shoved it in my desk."
"When the exams papers were passed around, and I saw it was the identical
paper, I couldn't believe my luck! I'm bollocks at Latin, so I thought that
Fate had smiled on me for once. I wrote out the answers that I remembered
from the sheets Moriarty gave me, and handed it in. I thought I'd get about
75 or 80 percent, you know, a passable score. I swear to you, Holmes, I did
not look at the answer page after the real exams were distributed. But I
did remember most of the answers from it."
"I believe you, old chap. How long before the Head gives you your marching
orders?" Holmes asked.
"He said he would assess all the information, and give me his decision by
five this evening. I'm a dead duck!"
"We must hurry, Watson, it is already half past two. Haybale, don't pack
your bags just yet - Holmes is on the case!" The boy gave us a feeble smile
before returning to his solitary misery. We raced out of the common room
towards the main buildings.
"Holmes!" I gasped as we ran, "where are we going? How can we stop the Head
from expelling Haybale?"
"I have an idea! Well, several, to be precise. But one in particular. Tell
me, Watson, where are the back issues of the School magazine kept?"
"The Lamplight? Why, there's a copy of every issue ever printed in the
bookcases in the Head's outer office. But this is surely no time to be
reminiscing about the olden days, Sheridan?"
"Motive, Watson, motive!" Holmes explained as we ran through the
corridors. "Ask yourself why Moriarty selected the younger Hay-Moulton boy
out of all the possible boys he could have chosen! It coldn't have been for
a meagre two pounds! And why did he apparently set him up to be exposed as
a cheat when Haybale said he never met him before! I am sure the answers
lie in something that happened a long time ago..."
"...when Jumbo's father was at school here, along with Mr Hay-Moulton, "
Holmes whispered as we leafed through the pages of The Lamplight from
several decades ago. "Aha! I have it, Jonny. Here is a picture of Haybale's
father, in the sixth form, being awarded the Latin Prize. And look, on this
page is Moriarty's dad, it looks like he is in the third form - probably a
fag. The caption says 'Third Former mucking out stables'. I say, did there
used to be horses here, Jonny?"
"Apparently," I replied. "I remember when I first came here, the boarding
master we had then, a man as old as Methuselah, he used to gather us around
in a circle before bedtime, and tell us horror stories about how things
used to be at Diogenes. Cleaning up the horseshit was a punishment
for...for..."
"Out with it, man!" Holmes cried.
"...cheating!" I whispered. Holmes, you've cracked it! All we have to do is
take this magazine to the Head, and explain!" And so we did. At first, Mr
Lestrade would hear none of it, even suggesting that Holmes and I had some
sort of vendetta against Jumbo, but eventually he agreed that the evidence
against Haybale was not overwhelming enough, benefit of the doubt, first
offence and all that. We broke the news to Haybale, who immediately phoned
his father. All was well!
5. Deep Third Man
The cricket season in England starts in late February, and runs through
until the end of the school year. For those boys who are devoted to their
cricket, the summer break is an awful inconvenience, cutting the season
short. Still, it is the same for all schoolboys, high or low. There were,
of course, a few boys who looked upon all forms of sport wirth utter
disdain, and I have to admit that Holmes was one of these. Imagine my
surprise when I heard in the junior refectory the latest gossip, that
Holmes was turning out for cricket!
"It...it's true, then!" I gasped when I flung the door of our room open
after class to find Holmes poking a box down the front of his briefs. (For
my American readers, a 'box' is a batsman's protective equipment to cover
his, er, equipment.)
"How do I look, Jonny?" he preened, turning this way and that, the box
showing out a nice bulge in his underwear. Yes, Holmes actually preened! "I
say, it must be jolly awkward if one should get a stiffie while wearing one
of these things! I wonder how Jumbo manages to squeeze everything in!"
"What is the meaning of this, Sheridan?" I gasped when my voice
returned. "You, of all people, who has always decried the futility of
organised sports! You routinely pour scorn on the folly of rugger, the
sheer pointlessness of athletics, and the tedium of cross-country! And now
you are attempting to play cricket, which you frequently described as the
perfect cure for insomnia, for players and spectators alike! I swear I
shall never comprehend what goes on in that brain of yours!"
"Fear not, old chap, it is all for show. Allow me to explain. While you
were at lunch, I was called away by the Sports Master, if you recall. Old
Fenchurch sent me a note."
"I suppose he was going to bawl you out for not joining the swim
team. You've the perfect physique for it, you know."
"Not a bit of it, old chap. Fenchurch did have a request to make, but it
had nothing to do with swimming. It is our next case, Watson! And I have
already agreed to assist!" He sat down on the bed, swinging his legs as he
patted the space beside himself for me to sit likewise. "There is a crisis
in the First Eleven, and the Sports master has gotten wind of it. He feels
he cannot approach the Coach of the team, who is a former County player
with a rather short fuse. What Fenchurch needs is a person who can go
undercover inside the 1st XI and solve the problem from within."
"And what is the problem? Too many drawn games?" I asked drily.
"Ha ha, very funny. No, it is much more serious than that, Jonny. Fenchurch
has uncovered some evidence of betting on the cricket matches the 1st XI
plays. Apparently, the fix is in! And he suspects the culprits to be in the
fifth form, right here at Diogenes!"
"Gambling on cricket? Here? I've never heard the likes of it, Holmes! Poor
Lestrade must be tearing his hair out!"
"Well, he will be, when he hears about it. And Fenchurch will have no
choice but to tell him, if he cannot find the source and cut out this
scourge root and branch. I'm going to attend practice this afternoon at the
nets, and keep my ears open."
"What can I do?" I asked, barely supressing my eagerness. I cared little
for cricket, but a scandal like this would hurt the School's reputation,
and I could not bear that.
"While I am at the nets, can you hang about the change rooms, in case
someone lets some vital information slip?" he asked.
"What, loiter around while a dozen senior boys change their clothes and
insert those ridiculous thiings into their underpants? Yes, I suppose one
could be persuaded to do that!" I answered with a twinkle in my eye.
In point of fact, a student did not have to be a senior to be selected in
the 1st XI, which is the highest level of cricket in an English School. If
a boy excelled at cricket, he could be selected as early as third form,
since cricket is not a game that relies entriely on brute strength, more a
curious combination of guile and cunning (if one is a spin bowler), stamina
(for a fast bowler) keen eyesight and co-ordination (for a batsman) and
patience with a good eye (if a wicketkeeper). Cricket boasts that it has a
place for everybody, and as such, Holmes was parachuted into the team by
Fenchurch to be a specialist fielder (at deep third man) and lower order
batsman, with the slim possibility of sending down an over or two of
tweakers.
We departed for the cricket nets, which were situated at the back of the
pavilion. The change rooms were underneath the pavilion, and spectators
(during games) sat above. I took up my post on one of the benches in the
dressing room, trying to think up some plausible reasons for being there,
if challenged. "I'm waiting for Holmes" might work, or maybe "I want Jumbo
to sign my bat for luck", even though I didn't actually have a bat with
me. Yes, Jumbo Moriarty was the captain of the 1st XI. It seemed that every
crisis Holmes and I had been involved with somehow had Jumbo at its
epicentre, like the eye of an Atlantic storm, calm and serene while turmoil
boiled all around.
Two fourth formers walked in. "Gosh, Hazeldean got you a beauty, didn't
he," one said to the other, who promptly undid his trousers and pulled them
and his underwear down to reveal a red mark turning purple high up on his
left thigh.
"My word," the injured youth replied, gazing at the nascent bruise while I
gazed slightly to the right at his handsome organ and hairy bollocks. "He
seems to know the exact location of the unprotected spot between the
thighpad and the batting pad, the rotter! I hope he bowls that quick
against Winchester on Saturday"
Winchester! My father's alma mater! I confess I have not thought much about
my parents, since having Holmes about. Oh, I have written to them once a
week, as the house prefect requires, but the days of mooning over them
every waking moment are a dim memory, now that I have my Sheridan. I
studied the blank wall opposite me while the two fourth-formers continued
into the shower area. Soon I heard the sound of running water, and wondered
whether the bruised boy wanted me to wash his back, or perhaps his...
"Watson! Hssst! Watson!" I started out of my reverie to hear Holmes calling
me from the door.
"What is it?" I whispered back.
"Three fifth-formers are headed your way. They just finished their bowling
spells. Keep a sharp ear!"
Before I could reply, he disappeared, so I waited patiently. It was but a
few moments before I heard the crunch of cricket boot on gravel, and three
large boys swaggered in. I heard one refer to the middle of the three as
"Hazey" , so I concluded this must be Hazeldean, the demon fast
bowler. Ignoring me, the three boys began to undress, and I was afraid I
would pass out as one by one their penises came into view, dangling and
flopping about as the boys moved easily from change room to showers.
"Push off, you lot!" one of them called, to urge the two fourth formers to
complete their showers and depart. The two who had already showered came
back into the change room, towels drying off their hair, the rest of their
bodies sparkling with dripping water which ran down their chests and off
the end of their penises and buttocks in a most enchanting way. I felt it
was time to make an exit, lest the cricketers begin to wonder why I was
watching them wash. I met up with Holmes back in our room just before
supper.
"So, Watson, what have you to report?" Holmes asked as we relaxed on our
bed. Holmes had removed his cricket trousers and was laying back, hands
behind head on pillow, as I lay alongside him and fondled his stiffening
member.
"Quite a lot, really. It appears that the head of the penis can be red in
colour, or a kind of light purple, or sometimes even an exotic shade of
blue. And, the hair on one's head doesn't always match that of the pubic
region - a blonde-haired boy can have black pubes, or they can be sort of
auburn in hue."
Holmes looked at me with impatience. "I meant about the match-fixing. You
know, cricket? Game played with bat and ball on a large field with players
in white clothing?"
"Oh yes! Sorry! For a moment I thought you meant - nevermind. The three
boys did talk among themselves about something, but I couldn't make any
sense of it! One of them talked about how many no-balls he might get away
with, the other about bowling a maiden over or two. The third fellow said
something about keeping it quiet from Mr Big. I say, isn't that some kind
of American gangster term?"
"I can think of one person the appellation 'Mr Big' might be ascribed to:
Moriarty! Do you think it means that Moriarty doesn't know what his players
are doing, right under his nose? Is it possible?" Holmes mused as I worked
his erection slowly up and down. He sighed as I brought him off, then
thanked me.
"How long do you think before we're making our own spooge,Sheridan?" I
asked as Holmes returned the favour and started sucking on my bollocks.
"Grandfather suggested to me that as a result of careful observations,
measurements and calculations he had made, he estimated that I would have
my first wet one seventeen months, three weeks and two days after I started
school. But he did caution that this was an approximation, not set in
stone."
"Gosh, I wish I knew when my first one would be," I replied. "Keep doing
that with your tongue, if you please, Sheridan, it's absolutely delicious!
What do you think those boys meant about bowling maidens, and no-balls?"
"I read in the Times that some Indian cricketers had been banned from the
game for lengthy periods for what they called 'spot-fixing' - that is, they
did not exactly throw the match, which is difficult when you are only one
among eleven players. What they did was to bowl a precise number of
no-balls during their spell, so that some bookmaker in the know who was
offering odds about the number of no-balls would be able to set the odds so
as to maximise the number of losing bets."
"Sounds like a lots of balls to me!" I giggled, as Holmes finished his
explanation and moved his mouth back to my erection. He cuddled my little
bollocks in just the way I liked it, and when I started to moan he lifted
my feet up onto his shoulders and gave me a thorough rogering! As he pushed
and withdrew, I imagined it was Mr Carruthers doing it to me again. Then Mr
Carruthers gave way in my imagination to be replaced by...Moriarty! Ever
since hearing about his massive organ, I wondered what it would feel like
in my bottom, ramming up further than any cock had gone before, stretching
my hole to the point of tearing, filling my rectum with hot slimy juice..."
"Watson! Snap out of it! The supper gong has sounded!" Holmes was already
dressed and starting towards the door while I lay panting, naked, aroused,
on our bed. I giggled and jumped up to retrieve my clothes, which had
fallen off the side of the bed.
"Coming Holmes!" I cried.
Holmes rose from the dining table before pudding to have a word with the
prefect on duty, who was also a member of the 1st XI. I thought they were
talking about the forthcoming match against Winchester, but when Holmes
returned to his seat he told me quietly that he had let it be known that he
was capable of being 'bought' - that for a small payment, he would drop a
catch from a particular batsman if it came his way. He hoped, by this
means, to find out who might be doing the 'buying'. We we not disappointed.
While we sat together at prep, in one of the classrooms, a fifth-former
slowly walked past Holmes' desk, dropping him a note. Holmes could only see
the back of this fellow, not his face. The note read "If the Winchester
opener has fewer than 15 runs on the board, and hits you a catch, drop
it". The fix was in!
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear and sunny, a typical English
Spring day! After the usual amenities, I raced to the pavilion to secure my
seat for the match against Winchester. I needn't have bothered. Since it
was a Saturday, all the weekly boarders had gone home, and no day student
would turn up to school on a weekend except under pain of death. All the
boys who were interested in cricket were playing their own games on the
smaller fields, so the pavilion seats were only occupied by a few visiting
supporters, and local cricket tragics such as myself.
Moriarty had won the toss, and surprised everyone by sending Winchester in
to bat first. The visiting openers strode to the wicket, shook hands, and
the umpire (actually one of the parents) called "Play!". And that was the
last I saw of the game, because no sooner had the opening bowler commenced
his run-up than a familiar-looking man walked up the pavilion steps with a
young blonde boy close behind him.
"Father!" I cried, waving my arms like a lunatic, "over here!"
"Good show, Jonny! The house prefect said you might be here. What ho, old
bean? Is that really Sherlock's grandson out there at deep third man? Wait
'til I tell your mother!" Father sat next to me, and the boy sat on the
other side of him. I could scarce belive my eyes!
"Father, you've...come to visit me! And...who is your, er, friend?" I
asked, nodding towards the boy, who was by now watching the game with a
look of utter puzzlement on his face.
"Ah, yes, my boy, well, this is, er, Dima. Dima, this is my son, Jonny,"
Father said, introducing us. I reached across Father to shake the boy's
hand, which he did, vigorously.
"Please to meet you," he said, his light voice thickly accented.
"Dima is Ukrainian," Father explained to me. "Your mother and I are working
there at the moment, near where the Russians are fighting. He has no
family, and I didn't want to turn him over to the authorities
because...well...I was afraid he might be, er, mistreated. So I smuggled
him to England under the guise of visiting my old school's first match of
the season. He, er, travelled as you, on your passport. We didn't have time
to get him one for himself."
I was flabbergasted. I knew Father was a soft touch, Mother always said so,
hers was the stern hand on the tiller, but to take such a huge risk! "What
will you do with him?" I asked Father when Dima was distracted by the game
in front of him.
"I have a friend in Harley Street, a doctor, who will adopt him, and bring
him up as an English boy. The paperwork is all taken care of, all I had to
do was get him into the country. Oh, good stroke!" he called out,
pretending to be watching the game. "I wonder if you and the Holmes boy
can, er, look after him for the day while I see to the final arrangements
down in London. I'll be back tomorrow, Monday at the outside. Or Tuesday,
if things get sticky."
I was speechless. I had barely gotten over the shock of seeing Father after
several months of only letters, and now he was proposing that Sheridan and
I smuggle some foreign boy - a rather good-looking foreign boy I might add
- into the School and babysit him for an indefinite period of time for some
unexplained purpose which had the whiff of...well, something underhand at
the very least.
Father rose in his seat. "Oh, top shot old boy," he exclaimed as one of the
Winchester batsmen cover drove the off- spinner to the boundary. "So,
Jonny, can I rely on you? I'll be back before you know it." Without further
formality, Father departed, leaving Dima with me. The boy moved over to sit
next to me, and I must say his close presence was somewhat distracting. He
was dressed as though to play cricket himself, in white shorts and white
polo shirt, and unless he spoke he could indeed pass fpr an English boy,
though his hair was a little long on the collar. I sat with him for the
next few hours trying to explain the finer points of cricket, but I may as
well have been speaking to an American, for all the good it did. For his
part, Dima appeared to enjoy the game, hugging me every time a wicket fell,
rubbing my inner thigh when a boundary was struck and generally making a
very good first impression.
Holmes joined us at the lunch break and raised an eyebrow at my new
friend. "It's complicated," I said, to forestall any awkward questions.
"You are comrade of Jonny?" Dima asked Sheridan, which made the other
eyebrow rise.
"Indeed I am. How are things in Donetsk?" he replied, making the boy smile
widely. The two of them rabbited on in some foreign tongue for a few
minutes, making me feel a trifle left out. "Come on, Jonny, Twelfth Man has
taken my position for a few hours so this might be a good time to get Dima
up into our room without fuss," Sheridan finally said, so we made our way
as discreetly as we could to the School, eventually to Baskerville wing.
"You have banya here?" Dima asked me in his broken English as we navigated
the corridors to avoid the more populated parts of the School. I looked to
Sheridan for a translation.
"A banya is a kind of public relaxation facility, similar to a Turkish
bathhouse, where men (and boys) gather to sit around naked and bathe,
shower, take saunas and generally enjoy each other's company. There are
often massuers present for guests to get a rubdown, or the patrons do it
for each other," Holmes explained. Dima nodded vigorously. "Sorry, Dima, no
banya, but we can sit around naked in our room and take a shower?" Dima
nodded enthusiastically again.
"I forgot to ask, Holmes, how is the case going?" I remarked.
"Almost solved, old boy. It's amazing what some people let slip when they
think they are untouchable. I expect to have it all wrapped up for the Head
by morning." We reached our room and Dima immediately jumped on our bed and
pulled his shirt off, revealing a rather neglected physique by comparison
to Holmes and myself. His shorts followed - he wore no underthings. Holmes
shrugged his shoulders and said "When in Rome, old boy..." and followed
suit. For a rarity, I was last to get undressed. I was surprised to see
Dima become erect very quickly, and more surprised by the size of his pole
when stiff: it was a good four inches, no hair, rather missile-shaped, I
thought, with a nice set of balls tucked below. I was wondering what was
Ukrainian for 'do you suck?', when Dima made the question moot by diving
onto my cock. Holmes knelt behind him, hands on Dima's bottom, and I rather
fancied I knew what was about to happen.
Anyone who thought Holmes would have been tired after running about the
cricket field all morning did not know him as I did; he serviced Dima to
that boy's moaned satisfaction, then raced off to the en-suite for a quick
wash of his cock before rogering me on my back (my favourite
position). While I had my feet up on Sheridan's shoulders, Dima swung a leg
over my chest and fed me his cock and bollocks, his hands resting on the
headboard for balance.
Holmes climaxed inside me (dry, of course) just before Dima climaxed in my
mouth (also dry). The eastern European boy then surprised me by edging back
down my body until his bottom hovered above my loins. He reached underneath
himself and grasped my cock, pointing it at his own hole, then sat down. It
was the most delightful feeling, but it was totally eclipsed by the next
sensation when Dima began to bob up and down like a horseman on his
mount. Holmes sat beside us as Dima 'rode' me like a cowboy, bringing my
arousal to its conclusion before the bedsprings gave out!
We took Dima down to supper, the only person to take any notice being
Woodcock. I explained to him that Dima was a distant cousin from overseas,
and that my Father had sorted it all out with the Head already. I think
that my association with Holmes had made me more adept at fabricating
plausible scenarios! When we retired to bed (no prep on Saturdays) Dima was
ready for more sex play. Naturally, as hosts, Holmes and I graciously
acceded to our guest's desire.
We stayed awake late into the night, with the lights out (because of
Woodcock doing the rounds), satisfying each others' sexual needs. There
was one very strange thing that happened: at one point Dima turned me onto
my front and spread my legs, whereupon I thought he wanted to roger me, but
instead, he rubbed my back, then my bottom and thighs, and then he ran his
tongue along my crack! I was appalled and thrilled in equal measure! That
anybody would think of doing such a thing, or having it done to oneself!
But that was merely the first course. He used his fingers to separate my
cheeks and licked my hole! The feelings were euphoric! And when he pushed
his tongue inside my hole, I thought my penis would burst from excitement
as it pushed against the mattress!
Dima said afterwards that he did this only for his special friends back in
Ukraine, and I felt humbled to be included in that select group. We slept a
few hours until dawn, me lying in Holmes' arms, Dima behind me, hugging me,
his still-hard tool resting in my crack.
The next morning Holmes untangled himself from us and showered. He said
that he had a few loose ends to clear up before presenting his findings to
Mr Lestrade. That gave me the opportunity to speak frankly with Dima. He
said that his most enjoyable pasttime in his country was visiting the
banya, and that he enjoyed sucking the cocks of his schoolmates who
accompanied him. He enjoyed a variety of cocks, both hairy and bald, but he
preferred the hairy ones because they could squirt semen. I was relieved
and pleasantly surprised to find there existed another boy who enjoyed the
taste and texture of spooge as much as I, as well as the sensation of
having a cock in one's mouth. I had been wondering whether something was
wrong with me, but here was this quite well-adjusted boy admitting freely
that he liked having dick in his mouth, and liked it when that dick shot
off its load!
We were fondling each other's erections as we spoke, and, in a fit of
exuberance, I asked him whether he kissed any boys. Up until then, I had
only been kissed by Holmes - even Mr Carruthers, whom I thought would
surely be a kisser, did not take this path. But Dima said he loved to kiss,
so we edged closer together, still pulling each other's cocks, and our lips
met. I was glad Holmes had shown me what to do; before long I was moaning
into Dima's mouth as I climaxed, my hips jerking forward. I kept rubbing
Dima's missile until he too reached a happy conclusion. His penis is so
beautifully formed, I guessed it would not be too long before he made his
own emissions, and told him so. He smiled and said he was happy whether dry
or wet. What a fine attitude!
We did not see Holmes until after breakfast, but word had already spread
right around the refectory. Moriarty had been expelled! The Head had no
choice, given that Jumbo was revealed (by Sheridan, of course) to be the
ringleader of the betting cabal of fifth formers. They were his minions,
doing his bidding, under his sway. I felt a pang of regret that I would
never feel his elephantine organ pushing up into my hole, nor taste its
emission (which I expected to be quite voluminous). Still, I have my
Sheridan, and he has me.
We farewelled Dima that afternoon. A rather shady-looking character (who
insisted he was a medical friend of my Father's) collected him from School
just as the weekly boarders were returning. Although sad to leave us, Dima
said he was looking forward to his new life with the man. I wished him
well.
And that is the tale of my sixth year at Diogenes Hall. It is more a tale
of Sheridan Holmes than anything, I was only ever a fringe player to his
starring role. I look forward to First Form with eager anticipation.
end