Date: Sat, 26 May 2001 07:57:42
From: guess who? <spunkmachine@hotmail.com>
Subject: Squirts 4: Hands-On Demonstration

SQUIRTS

by Bambino


Author's disclaimer: The following a work of fiction.  All characters are
purely fictitious; any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.
Although this story describes minor boys engaged in sexual activities, it
bears no relation to real events and as a work of literature is protected
under the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of
America.

The author retains the copyright on this work.  Distribution or posting of
this work without the author's permission is a violation of that copyright.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


CHAPTER 4: HANDS-ON DEMONSTRATION

Adam liked Thursdays, because they meant science class with Mr. Van Veldt,
a sympathetic old man with unconventional attitudes who preferred to
conduct all his classes laboratory-style.  There was something comforting
and grandfatherly about Mr. Van Veldt.  Most of Adam's classmates also
enjoyed Mr. Van Veldt's class, though for slightly different reasons than
did Adam: while they saw the lab exercises and group participation as
occasions for frolic and thinly disguised horseplay, Adam took an earnest
fascination in the exercises and experiments themselves.  For him, all the
fun was in the wizardry of chemical reactions and microscopes and culture
dishes, and not in the rambunctious play of his peers, which he faintly
resented from time to time, when the antics of others in his group happen
to reflect poorly upon himself.  But lately this nuisance had been abated,
partly because kindly Mr. Van Veldt, having taken his surfeit of nonsense,
had dropped into his introductory remarks a hint to the effect that with
report cards forthcoming, certain members of the class who considered him
lax and oblivious might be encouraged to modify their views -- and partly
because a new policy was instated which the teacher hoped might serve to
bring the lab procedures organization.  This was the assignment of
pair-partners to each workstation, as opposed to groups of four or five.

The work-pairs were announced and posted on the bulletin board.  As Mr. Van
Veldt recited the list, he ignored the various protests and groans of
disappointment which it stirred.  His decisions, while not altogether
popular, were irrevocable and permanent.  They were also tactical and wise,
inasmuch as the top half of the student body, representing the achievers,
was coupled with the lower, comprising those of wayward temperament or
wandering spans of attention.  His hope -- and by the end of Tuesday's lab
he felt that it had been justified -- was that the troublemakers, either
through shame or competitive spirit, would be forced to meet the challenge
of cooperating with their more upstanding partners and so shape up.  At
least on the first day of the new system's implementation, the tactic
seemed to work.

Adam's new lab partner was a certain Rodrigo Lopez, a boy who in every
respect intimidated him.  Swarthy and weasel-faced, he seemed to invest
each act he performed with the same sly contempt, had an amazing
four-letter vocabulary supplemented by a few words of even more letters.
To say that Rodrigo had an aggressive streak is to say that a skunk had a
white streak.  He favored oversize clothing, a baseball cap worn every
which way but forward, affected an earring and a good deal of other gold
frippery, and a marginally obscene tattoo, which he occasionally revealed
upon request by rolling up the sleeve of his T-shirt where it was posted
across his bulging upper arm.  These things, together with Rodrigo's
customarily hyper-relaxed posture -- sprawled deep in his chair, hands
tapping on desk, feet propped up against the back of the chair in front of
him -- worked to emphasize the strange aura of precocious virility, of
prematurely fading innocence, that hung about him like a cloak.

Having been held back from the previous grade, Rodrigo was a year older
than everyone in the class, a fact which, despite its unfavorable
implications and the disparaging opinions it inspired, he exploited to his
advantage.  Most of the time, this took the form of complacency and subtle
mocking, as if his seniority entitled him to smirk down at his younger
classmates in silent derision.  At other times, such as when Rodrigo felt
affronted, the reverse side of this apparent superiority showed itself in
flashes of bitterness and hostility, quick to call upon his superior
physical force to settle his ruffled feelings.  But these instances were
rare, since Rodrigo had found that it cost him less effort, not to mention
trouble, to keep a close check on his temper, even though it might now and
then flare beyond his control.  And so most ordinarily Rodrigo simply sat
quietly and emanated glum testiness -- the quiet vapor rising from
simmering rage -- like radio signals, as if to say: "You, World, have
abused and mishandled me, but to spite you I turn the cheek after each new
injury, and cherish my bruises, even as I display my middle finger and
shout you an epithet or two...."

This was Adam's lab-partner.  Prior to the inauguration of Mr. Van Veldt's
new system, Rodrigo had spent most of his class time drawing highly
detailed pictures of sportscars and sophisticated -- some would call it
futuristic -- machinery in his notebook.  The teacher gave what pro forma
chidings he felt were necessary in regard to the habit, so that he might
generally give the impression that he took his job seriously; Rodrigo then
deigned slightly more effort to conceal his doodlings from Mr. Van Veldt,
who in turn was pleased to pretend that they no longer existed.  Perhaps in
accordance with a discreet philosophy, Mr. Van Veldt's treatment of Rodrigo
was for the most part benign and humorously affectionate, even casual,
which he felt would go much farther for the boy's cause than the
rod-and-ruler method.  Therefore when he broke the news that Rodrigo must
now work in conjunction with a boy he considered an obvious geek, with a
subsequent furtive word aside like a microcosmic pep-talk followed by an
encouraging "go to it" pat on the backside, the older boy accepted the
situation with what good grace he could muster, not wishing to make waves
for the teacher who had shown him such uncommon sympathy.

Adam's father had words for boys like Rodrigo.  He would have called him a
slacker, a good-for-nothing, a troublemaker, a fight-starter.  Part of Adam
wanted nothing to do with such a boy, but another part of him was
intrigued. Here was a boy, he thought to himself, who would know about
jacking off, probably all there was to know about it....

Rodrigo excited and frightened him at the same time.  Adam bit his tongue
and went into the arrangement with secret dread.  He felt both puny and
foolish standing there at the lab table in the company of the gangsterish
Rodrigo, who at twelve was already bigger than Adam's fourteen-year-old
brother Jake.  For sheer diffidence, Adam kept close eyes in his head while
Mr. Van Veldt explained today's lab and ignored Rodrigo, who did the same
to Adam, though for different reasons.

Just before class ended Rodrigo found reason to speak to Adam.  A girl
working at the lab-table catty-corner to theirs dropped her pencil on the
floor, and bent down to pick it up.  On account of the short skirt the girl
wore, the gesture brought her into a compromising position.  She was
goodlooking and well-developed, with hips and breasts already starting to
swell, and Rodrigo sucked in his breath and said aloud: "Mmmm-mmm-mmm! Stay
right there, baby I'm comin' over."

The girl snapped upright, shot Rodrigo a withering glare, to which he was
immune.  He only opened his mouth and ran his tongue across his upper lip.
The girl made a disgusted clicking sound and turned back to her work,
self-consciously tugging down on the back of her skirt.

"She ain't too young," Rodrigo said to nobody in particular.  "I would be
on that shit in a minute."  He turned Adam a flinty sidewise leer.  "What
about you, white boy? Would you slip her the hot beef injection?"

Adam shied and awkwardly kept on with his work while Rodrigo snickered
salaciously.

The following afternoon Jake was becoming antsy.  His report card still
hadn't arrived in the mail and he was beginning to wonder if his father had
beaten him to it, and was waiting until the weekend to spring some
devastating punishment on him.

Adam, listening to his brother's anxieties, decided that the time had come
to drop the bomb.

"I know where your report card is," he said matter-of-factly.

"What? Where is it? Don't bullshit me, now."

"It's in the pocket of dad's briefcase."

"What the fuck? How do you know? Did he tell you?"

"Nope.  He doesn't know it's there."

Jack pounced on Adam and took him up roughly by the collar.  "What the fuck
are you talkin' about, dickhead?"

"Let me go!" croaked Adam, kicking and fighting.  Jake relented.  Adam said
with dignity: "He doesn't know it's there because I put it there."  And he
stuck out his tongue.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" cried Jake, almost in tears.

"He won't find it -- he never uses the pocket.  Unless... unless someone
tells him it's there."

Jake blinked.

"You'll be able to get it from the pocket when he gets home," Adam went on.

It slowly began to dawn on Jake that his little brother had upstaged his
own cunning.  He stared at Adam with a new respect, his almond-eyes
glinting.

"I'll kill you."

"No you wont," said Adam breezily.  "Cuz if you lay a finger on me, I'll
just tell dad when he gets home.  I'll tell him I put the report card in
his briefcase since you were saying you'd hide it when it came in the
mail."

Jake was defeated.  "So... what do I have to do so that you don't tell?"

Adam threw his last punch.  "Show me how you jack off."

"FUCK YOU!"

"Okay," giggled Adam.  "Then have fun being grounded for the next year."

"YOU LITTLE SHIT!" Jake threw himself on Adam, fists balled.

"I'm serious, Jake -- I'll tell for real!" cried Adam.  Jake pulled himself
together, stood back glowering furiously.

"You little cocksucking faggot," spat the older boy.  "You wanna see your
big brother jack off? I'll cum all over your fuckin' face."

Jake tore at his belt buckle, clawed open his jeans, yanked out his big
hairy dick.  "There," he said spitefully, "this is what you want, ain't it,
little faggot?"

"Stop calling me names and just jack off," said Adam in a bored voice.  "I
want to watch you do it."

"Go ahead and watch, then," said Jake.  He wrapped his fist around his dick
and unceremoniously began pumping.

"So that's how you do it, huh," said Adam.

"You're fuckin' stupid," retorted Jake.  "There, you saw it.  Now you know
how."  He started packing his penis away in his jeans.

"No, you hafta do it until you squirt that stuff," Adam protested.

"Man, fuck off!"

"Remember the report card..."

Jake heaved an impatient sigh and once again brought his penis out.  It was
fully hard now, swelling up from the furry base with an impudent curve.  He
pushed his jeans down to his knees and began to masturbate again, standing
before his little brother and doing his best to ignore him.

Several minutes past.  Jake was uncommonly quiet, his lips knotted into a
crooked little "o."

"What does it feel like?" asked Adam innocently.

"What the fuck do you think it feels like?" snapped Jack breathlessly.
"Feels good, dumbass."

Another minutes passed.  Jake's hand went flop-flop-flop on his brick-stiff
erection.  Adam watched as the foreskin alternately covered and uncovered
the mean-looking purple head, which was becoming slick.

"What's that clear stuff drooling out?" asked Adam.

Jake didn't answer.  The "o" of his mouth had become a wolfish sneer; he
started sucking in his breath through bared teeth.

"Is the stuff gonna come out soon?"

But Jake was too concentrated on what he was doing to answer.  His whole
body looked rigid as he leaned forward, his torso jerking rhythmically with
his pounding fist.  Every feature on his face became so tightly clenched
that his facial muscles ached.  He gave a sudden snarl, tottered a step
forward on arched feet.

"You wanna know what the stuff looks like?" he grunted.  "You're about to
find out!"

Jake shoved his pelvis so far forward that Adam thought he might fall over.
The younger boy lunged out with his hand, caught Jake's arm at the wrist,
knocking it away at an angle; before Jake could react Adam had grabbed
ahold of the quivering penis, stroking it tightly in his little fist.  Jake
made a halfhearted inarticulate protest, reflexively reaching for his cock,
but the contact was numb, nerveless, as if Jake had lost all strength in
his limbs.  Adam flogged the rigid organ with all his energy and Jake began
to keen: a low husky sound deep in his throat that slowly rose in pitch.
He stretched up on the toes of one foot, the other raised up off the floor
at a queer angle; Adam steadied him with his free hand against the older
boy's belly -- it was like trying to steady a falling tree.  Jake's arms
dangled at his sides, the fingers twitching and clawing at air; he was not
used to the sensation of having an orgasm with his hands free.

Jake's first spurt cleared Adam's shoulder, grazing the top of his right
ear.  The younger boy instinctively recoiled as far as his arm would reach,
but the successive jets -- there were five or six of them -- were less
forceful than the mother lode had been. The stuff puddled on the hardwood
floor like hot wax, and scads of it gushed down Adam's forearm.  The
spurting calmed to a gush and a thinner, clearer liquid started pumping
out, running over his knuckles.  Jake's gaping urethral slit ran like a
drooling mouth, until the discharge had gone completely clear.  Adam, not
knowing to keep off the hyper-sensitized glans at this point, provoked his
brother to a set of shoulder-hunching gasps until he slowed his stroking
and at last let go.

For a full minute neither boy moved; both stared down at the scattered
sperm everywhere, Jake's breath coming with effort.  Adam was aware of a
feeling of awesome strength and accomplishment.  He held his hand out
awkwardly, his eyes softly unfocused on the webs of glistening semen
between his fingers.  It was as if he had dipped his hand in frothed egg
white.

Jake abruptly regained full control of his normal self.  He scowled, tore
off his T-shirt and began to clean himself up with it.  He refused to look
at Adam, and his eyes were moist.

"You're fucked up, you know that?" he said sourly.  "What did you do that
for?"

Adam was silent for a full five seconds.  "I -- I don't know," he concluded
lamely.

"Well, you shouldn't have," returned Jake, somewhat less rancorously.  "You
nearly went and gave me a charleyhorse in my balls.  And help me clean this
mess up -- look at you sitting there all covered with spunk!"

Jake, dissatisfied with the results he was gaining from the T-shirt,
gingerly took hold of the rim of his jeans to keep them from falling to his
knees, and staggered awkwardly from the room on tip-toes, in the direction
of the bathroom.  Adam quickly wiped clean his hand and forearm on the
soiled T-shirt, which he then used as a rag to mop up the floor.  When
there was no more wetness on the hardwood he joined his brother in the
bathroom.

Jake was leaning against the sink, using a cupped hand to splash warm water
back on his deflating penis, which he had lathered up with soap.  The spent
organ still looked impressively big in its half-flaccid state, hanging
loose but still retaining enough of its fat pendulousness to intimidate
little Adam by its sheer mature size.  Finally content that his genitals
were clean, Jake removed himself from the sink to towel himself dry while
Adam slipped behind him to wash his hands.  He felt the wetness at his ear
and remembered that Jake's sperm had shot over his shoulder.  Adam wiped
off his ear and the place behind it, then removed his shirt and dabbed the
spots that had fallen over his shoulder blade with a damp washcloth.

He was aware that Jake, obviously strongly upset with him, was possibly
upset with himself as well.  Something -- either instinct or experience --
told him that he'd best give Jake a wide berth until the episode had
settled, although Adam himself felt only exhilaration, a coming together of
various parts.  He went into his room and sat on his bed, staring into
nothingness for five minutes.  Somewhere in his mind thought processes
occurred.  He was aware of no train of ideas, but presently made a sound in
his throat, something between a laugh and a contemptuous snort.

He went outside to play with the dog.