Date: Sun, 1 Mar 2015 10:53:30 +0100
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: FALLING IN LOVE AGAIN by JON KENT

The following story is fiction, you might even say fantasy, and has been
written to amuse, intrigue, entertain, divert and delight.  It contains
scenes of graphic inter-generational sex, including some instances of mild
scat. If these are not to your taste, or if they are outlawed in your city,
state, providence, country, or jurisdiction, read no further.

Above all, if you have not yet reached the age of consent, read no further;
it is not the intention of the site nor the writer to fill your head with
dreams, desires and urges which, as yet, may be only vague and
inchoate. There's lots of fun to be had on the Net; go and find what is
appropriate for you.

What would we do without NIFTY?

It has served us so well for so many years that it is difficult to think of
a world where we had no NIFTY to turn to when we need the wonders it has to
offer. And, frankly, it performs a wonderful service by allowing us to
release those desires in the safety of our own homes. NIFTY protects us and
it protects others. It deserves not only our thanks but whatever donations
we can afford. NIFTY belongs to all of us - let's support it.

Please support the Nifty Archive:
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

For the record, 'Falling In Love Again' is a substantially revised story of
a piece I wrote for Nifty more than 10 years ago. This is what I wanted to
write all these years ago. Only now did I have the courage and the talent
to have another 'go' at it.

FALLING IN LOVE AGAIN

A sunny summer day - one of those hazy, crazy days of summer we all have in
childhood -and I'm down on the rocky shore, paddling in the pools, chasing
tiny crabs, licking the salty seaweed, and thrilling to the utter freedom
of being alone. I'm breaking the cardinal rule, committing the cardinal
sin: I'm down here on my own. Mum would kill me if she knew; kill me,
extract a promise never to do it again, then hold me tightly in her arms,
cuddle me until the sobbing died away until I'm let go to run around in
utter freedom again.

Alone on the rocky shore, until the man came. The man who showed me how to
catch the crabs without being nipped, how to paddle safely in the shallows
without my shorts being soaked -simple, take them off. When I grew tired,
sun-bleached, skin hot and tender, he carried me into a golden cave that
caught the shadows, and played fingers of lights across its walls as his
fingers played across me.

The man who held me in his arms, sat me in his lap, stroked me, and
whispered things in my ear that made little or no sense, but that made my
little penis go achingly hard before he even slipped his fingers inside my
underpants and stroked me. The words I didn't understand; the feelings they
thrilled me; and I still remember - can never forget - the heady mixture of
tobacco and tweed, rum and sweat, and bristles sharp against tender skin.

Deeper, darker smells when he slipped off his trousers, slid out of his
underpants, and threw them alongside mine on the silent sands of the cave.
He took my hand and wrapped it round his hugeness, my fingers couldn't
touch, then raised the palm to my face and held it against my nose, my
lips, my eyes as I drank in the intoxicating smells. How he slipped the
hand between his legs, explored deeper, gave a grunt as he did whatever it
was he was doing, then pressed his finger to my nose, my lips, until they
opened and he let that big middle finger slide inside my mouth. Down it
went again, back it came, in and out, in and out, again and again, until
the smell and taste were of an unbearable richness.

He slipped off my vest, laid me on the sand, so cool to my skin, knelt,
placed a knee on either side of me, and ran his huge thing against my lips.

"Don't close your eyes. Keep looking."

So huge it was. His huge hairy balls resting on my upper chest. The head of
his huge thing running against my lips.

"Open your mouth, baby. Open your mouth. Open it for me. Come on, you'll
like it."

I opened my mouth. The man was gentle. He ran the head of his thing against
the tip of my tongue, whispering, "Lick it, baby, just lick it. You'll like
it."

I licked it. I liked it.

I'd never tasted anything like it before. I didn't have the words to
describe it, even if some had asked me to. The taste was like nothing
before, the texture of the skin was smooth but rough as I licked it, and he
pushed a little more in. My mouth grew wide, like when the dentist asks for
the biggest "Ah!" you can do. I felt it hit around the insides of my mouth,
his hand was making it do that. I felt his body stiffen above me. Then the
whispered words: "Wait, baby, wait."

I felt him crawl up my body using a knee on either side till his bum was
right above my face. None of this made any sense. I closed my eyes tightly.
I sensed rather than saw him pull his cheeks wide apart. He must have
lowered himself. I was enveloped in a deeper, darker world than I'd ever
known. The deep, dark smells again, way beyond any smells I could make. I
screwed my eyes tightly shut but I couldn't keep the smells out. I sensed
rather than felt his knees rocking his body above me; heard the strange
slurpy slappy sounds; heard his groan as if he'd been stabbed in the back,
his body rigid above me.

I felt myself being lifted up, my legs dangling, opened my eyes to find
myself balanced on a rock. "It's a game, baby. It's a game. You'll like
it."

If it was wrong, I had no way of knowing. I felt safe, secure and wanted.
And if his lips ran over my chest, my tummy, inside my thighs, to those
secret tender places, it made him happy at no cost to me. I snuggled deep
into his chest as he held me and made my senses tingle, made my skin
goose-bump, and my twig stand hot and hard till it jerked between his lips,
exploding like sugary sherbet. though there was no sherbet, no pee, just
blinding bliss.

Then he took me down to the water. Washed me, Washed himself. We lay in the
sun. I fell asleep. When I woke, my clothes were back on, and they, like
me, were bone dry. I was tired, so very tired. I went home, fell fast
asleep on my bed, and dreamed no dreams, but the smells stayed with me
-they still do.

The kaleidoscope spins and this time I am the man hearing the voice of the
boy: "You owe me a massage, sir," and there is a note in his voice that
tells me exactly what he means, though not quite what he wants.

Joseph is 12, tall for his years, not heavily built but with the elegant
muscularity of a gymnast. Deep chest, narrow waist, rounded buttocks, long
legs, and a face that is already more handsome than cute. In the youngers
section of the House, home to sixty boys between 7 and 13, he effortlessly
dominates his year group: what Joseph says goes, what Joseph wants he gets,
and what Joseph wants now is a massage.

For several weeks I've been giving Joseph massages in the privacy of my
study room. He has stretched his elegant body along the carpet while I
massaged his neck, his shoulders, his back, my hands sliding lower and
lower until I reached the globes of his buttocks. Squeezing, kneading,
massaging and manipulating the firm flesh beneath my fingers. Then turning
him over to let me palms slide under his sports vest, massage his chest,
focusing on his nipples, before letting them slide over the flatness of his
belly, edging just under the tops of his trousers, jeans or short. Always
drawing back just before the line of no return is reached, but pulling the
skin with me so he feels the tightness on his pubis. Drawing back because
once a line is crossed there is no return.

Joseph has had enough, he wants more, and he wants it this afternoon. He is
stretched out on the rug by the couch. Strong eyebrows over large, wide-set
eyes. Thick golden brown hair that flopped over one eye. He looks up at me,
into my eyes, fearlessly, and whispers: "I like having a hard-on."

None of the boys in the House has ever used this word before, has ever used
what they know to be a forbidden word in my hearing, but now Joseph,
looking into my eyes, states a simple truth: "I like having a hard-on," and
I know the moment of decision has come.

I slide to the carpet and kneel between the legs of a beautiful boyn who
has just whispered, "I like having a hard-on." The evidence of his erection
is obvious. I ran my fingers its length. The line has been crossed. We both
know there is only one place left to go. Joseph stretches out on the
Persian rug, flicks nack his hair, cups his head in his hands, and then
sighs as if to say "at last". Has he had sex before? I doubt it. Does he
know what to expect? I doubt it. But he trusts me. Lying there, he seems so
vulnerable, so young, so innocent, so anxious, so determined.

The bulge is clearly discernible through well-worn denim jeans. My fingers
trace the denim on either side, fingers that have massaged his chest,
shoulders and neck for half an hour, fingers that have kneaded and moulded
his back, fingers that have clenched and unclenched on his denim-guarded
buttocks. My finger tips trace the innocent, satin skin of his stomach, the
line where denim meets. skin, where snow white cotton peaked out from under
the slate-blue jeans.

My right palm slides over his stomach, down over his belt, onto the bulge,
and presses against the flesh, hot and hard beneath the denim. Even then I
could stop, I could draw back, I could retreat into my role as teacher,
master, mentor, man to the boy. I look into Joseph's eyes and see the
storms of desire, gold-flecks amongst the hazel. I hear his sigh, feel his
fingers

My thumbs flicked open the buckle of his snake belt. My thumbs grasped the
edges of his jeans and worked them down and over his hips. Joseph raises
his hips high as I work his jeans down his knees.

His underpants are those I'd expect a six-year-old to wear. I am surprised;
Joseph seems the most sophisticated boy in his Year if not in the House,
but perhaps this is the impression created by his cut-glass accent and
self-assured carriage. His underpants are purple with small yellow
ducklings printed across them. The outline of his stiff cock makes it
obvious the boy is not six years old. And, as I run my lips its length, I
feel it stiffen and harden even more till it stretches the think fabric
even as I soak it with my spit.

I feel the boy's fingers wriggling near my face. I realise what he is
doing. He is pushing down his underpants. He is impatient to feel skin
against skin, flesh against flesh, my lips against his pulsing penis. I
raise my head to let him free himself, open my mouth and let him slide
in. My head begins to bob above his tummy. My lips tighten and slacken as I
draw him in, draw him deep, then let him slide almost out. The boy is
fucking my mouth; it is instinctive; his hips rise and fall from the carpet
to press deeply in until I'm able to swallow his balls too, hold his
complete genitals in my mouth, pressing gently but insistently on the
flesh.

As he rises, my hand slides under his bum. At first I'm not sure how far he
will let me go, but as he pushes rhythmically into my mouth and throat, I
realise he doesn't care what I - at least till now. My fingers edge between
his cheeks, feeling the heat increase until the tip of my middle finger is
against his anus. For a while the muscle resists, then with the equivalent
of a sigh, it surrenders and opens, and my finger slips in to the first
knuckle. I'm tempted to drive it in deeper but I don't want to hurt or
scare him. Gently, gently, until he gives himself to me because he wants
to, because he needs to.

Joseph is fucking my mouth. His increasing intensity tells me he will
orgasm soon, though I doubt he can 'cum' yet, but you never can tell. He
may be ready but I am not. I raise my head, I let him slide from my mouth,
he tries to slide back in but I close my lips. I hear a little grunt of
frustration as I slide away from him, turn alongside him, then gently edge
the boy over onto his front. As he turns, he looks at me questioningly out
of those wide hazel eyes. I raise my eyebrows and he turns over, resting
his face on his elbows. His jeans and underpants are at his knees.

The boy is not sure what my intentions are, and, to be honest, neither am
I.

I seem to be acting on instinct. I gently prise open the cheeks of his
buttocks - millimetre by millimetre. There's the thrill of discovery, the
thrill of the forbidden, but I don't want to scare the boy, so I'm giving
the chance to clench his buttocks and warn me away. But he doesn't, and I
can see my goal. It's a tiny starfish, slightly discoloured at the centre
of ivory-cream skin. I press the tip of my middle finger against it, draw
the tip back and forth on the miniscule serration, and move my face
closer. Can Joseph feel my warm breath on it? Would he feel the tip of
my......?

The tip of my tongue is touching the tiny centre.

I have gone too far. There is no way back now. I know the men around me
might appreciate the attraction a 12-year-old boy has for me. Fondling,
naive kissing, even masturbation might be acceptable - even if it meant
instant dismissal - my adult tongue licking his juvenile anus? No, far too
far. For them that's dirty, unnatural, unforgivable. For Joseph? I don't
know. His rhythmic breathing tells me nothing.

Panic strikes.

With as much dignity as I can manage, I raise myself from the floor. Joseph
rolls onto his back. He looks up at me, questions in those mesmerising
hazel eyes.

"Must be nearly Prep time," I gruffly announce. But I reach down to give
him a hand up, then kneel to draw up his underpants and his jeans. I try
not to but I can help myself. Before zipping him up, I lean forward and
kiss the erection below his underpants. I'm rewaded by a smile.

"Can we have football after Prep?" he asks.

"Yes, I don't see why not. Go downstairs, ring the bell for Prep. Pass the
word: football after Prep."

Joseph grins. Leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. Then turning, slips
out of the door.

I collapse on the sofa. I realise I'm trembling, shaking, sweating. I'm not
taking Prep., so there's plenty of time before I ref a House football
game. Time for a shower. Time for a G&T - make that a double. Time
for... my erect cock is aching. The quicker under the shower the better.

But he kissed me. The boy kissed me.

I spent the next few hours in ecstasy and dread. I'd crossed the line. I'd
undressed a 12-year-old boy, I'd sucked his cock, licked and kissed his
anus. Whether any of it had been at his invitation was neither here nor
there, at least in the eyes of the school and of the law. He was a boy, a
minor, and he was in my trust, and, according to them, I'd betrayed it. At
least I didn't sit there rationalising; I knew what I was doing, I'd made
the decision.

But, oh, the ecstasy.

After the football game, after dinner, after free time, showers, bed time,
I sat in my room playing images in my head over and over. Those wide-set
hazel eyes. The curve of the eyebrows. The auburn hair. The perfect nose,
the perfect skin. The elongated, slim but powerful body. Nipples like
raisins. The smooth flow of the torso, curvature of the tummy, and the
bones of those hips as they slide down to the flat pubis - hairless,
smooth, silk, with Joseph's erection straining towards his belly
button. Three to four inches, the solidity of the shaft, the foreskin that
slipped so easily back over the slick head with its single eye demanding to
be kissed.

But, oh, the dread.

The knock at the door. The polite request: the Headmaster would like to see
you in his study, please. The long walk down to the main house. The
shame. No, not shame, that would be a lie. The embarrassment. The
humilitation of sitting there thinking, "I did it because I wouldn't to. I
did it because I couldn't resist the beauty, and, yes, the sensuous
sexuality of the boy. And, yes, I would do it again. I'd like to go back to
the House, call Joseph to my room. Suck him silly. Kiss, lick and suck his
anus. Then fuck him silly. And send him and me to bed happy."

It would all be so polite, so pleasant, so civilised, almost sympathetic,
for how many men in boys' school would like to fuck at least some of the
boys silly, night after night. What a selection! What paradise! That's what
often made them such great teachers of boys - the unspoken, unadmitted,
even unconscious bond between man and boy. The boy wants sex, and doesn't
much care where he gets it; the man wants sex, and he cares where he gets
it. That's why he puts up with all those long years of isolation,
incarceration, separation from the adult world. To share the lives of the
boys, forever and ever, Ah boys!

I was wondering if, like Mr. Chips, I would pass away as a stream of boys
passed before me, tipping their caps, smiling, and saying: "Goodbye,
Mr. C. Thanks for hot fuck," when the knock came at the door.

They say your heart leaps into your mouth; it doesn't; but it fucking well
feels as if it has.

It must have been around 10.30, bit late for the Headmaster, or his
emissary to be calling. Why had he waited so long - to let me sweat it out?

"Come in."

Joseph came in.

He was in his pyjamas. Off white with blue vertical stripes. They were a
bit frayed and battered. They didn't cover his ankles. He was the tallest
boy in the House. The rope belt hung down over his crotch, the tassles
bouncing against an erection. Few of the boys kept on their underpants at
night.

"Well, Joseph, it's good to see you. But it's a little late to come
calling."

The boy took two steps forward. I'd never noticed how big his feet
were. Shapely but big. Where were his slippers? He could splinters in the
corridor. Such are the concerns of a Housemaster (assistant).

"Got a headache, sir. It's throbbing. I can't get to sleep."

The boy had my sympathy.

"Isn't Matron in?"  (I knew she wasn't. It was her night off.)

"It's her night off, sir. She won't before midnight. And she'll be..."

His voice tailed away. We both knew how Matron would be on her night off.

"Okay," I said. "I'll make up a Lemsip for you."

"It's not that kind of headache, sir."

In recollection, what amazed me about Joseph was his ability to look right
into one's eyes and maintain the contact even when he knew I knew what he
meant.

He took two steps forward. He was standing inches from me. My eyes level
with his chest as I sat on the couch. I reached forward and undid the tie
of the pyjamas. They slid to the carpet.

His erection, his stiffy, even looked as if it was aching. I slipped one
palm underneath his balls - unlike many boys in the House his balls had
fully dropped and swung in their sac - leaned forward and ran my tongue up
and down his shaft. I could feel it throb beneath my lips. I slid my lips
over the head, pushed down the foreskin, and ran them round the glans. I
ran my free hand over his pubic area - flat and smooth as ivory - across
his tummy, up his chest, to tweak each nipple in turn.

I felt the boy's hands either side of my head, pushing himself deeper into
my mouth, and regulating the speed at which I was fellating him. As I've
mentioned, Joseph found it easy to take command. My other hand slipped
round his bum so that I could squeeze those luscious cheeks. His legs began
to tremble, and I wondered if he would be able to ejaculate semen into my
mouth, my throat, my stomach.

"Can you do some of the other thing, please, sir?"

For a moment I was puzzled?

The other thing?

Reluctantly, I felt him slide from my mouth. I looked up. The boy was
blushing. This was another first. I'd never seen Joseph blushing before.

"Oh, the other thing?"

"Yes, please, sir."

I stood up, shift my erection to a more comfortable position, took hold of
Joseph's hips and turned him round, gave his back a gentle push, and he
bent double, resting his head on the back of the couch. I slid to my knees
and urged him to open his legs wide before I opened his cheeks as wide as I
could without causing him too much strain.

Every boy in the House has a shower every night before bed. Few sights are
more stimulating that twenty or boys, naked, dripping, soap-sudded,
cavorting in the showers - no cubicles, everything open to all. Laughing,
making jokes, pointing at each other's 'willies' - "Look! Tim's got a
hard-on!  Look!  Robert is getting hairs! Look at Robin! Bet he'd like a
butt-fuck!"

But no matter how much they scrub and soap, they still smell -
hamsterish. Like a freshly cleaned hamster cage, different soaps adding
personal scents to each boy. There were times I had to leave the shower
area as I felt myself getting light-headed as well as randy as an in-heat
jack rabbit.

I could have kneeled in front of Joseph's arse till morning, just gazing in
awe and wonder, but my tongue wanted more. Again the thrill of running the
tip of my tongue over the tiny anus. I wondered how significant a shit
could escape from anything so small, so beautiful. And this time I knew I
could peel open those tiny lips and my tongue tip fractionally inside.

The smell hit me. No, not smell, that's too crude a word. The scent hit me,
enveloped me, literally made shivers down my spine.

Joseph's anus was slippery, as if he hadn't wiped himself properly, and I
was surprised how easily my middle finger slipped inside him. He grunted
and pushed himself backwards, sending the message I wanted. This affair had
all started with body massages, now I could reach up inside his anal column
and massage its walls with my fingers. I did. This increased the smell
tenfold.

"Faster, sir, harder, sir."

I heard the boy's voice from far away. I did what he asked.

Could I get my finger deep in his rectum?

Could I locate and massage his prostate gland - small as it might be?

I finger-fucked the boy faster, harder, the slippery sweat letting me fuck
him even faster, even harder.

Suddenly Joseph's legs trembled, shook as if he had the palsy, and he fell
forward face-first onto the couch, his arse bobbing backwards and forwards
on my finger. The boy was cumming. I got my free hand round his front, my
fingers round his hard-on, drove his foreskin back and forward over the
head, whipped him round, opened my mouth and let him shoot whatever he had
into my mouth.

I slid my finger from his bum, stood up, and looked down at the amazing
sight of a semi-naked twelve-year-old boy crumpled on my couch. For a
moment I was sick with worry. Then Joseph stood up. Hauled his pyjamas up
and threw himself backwards onto the couch. Red in the face but
laughing. Laughing.

"That was great, sir, that was great."

There was a silence, but it was my silence, not the boy's.

"May I have that Lemsip now?" he asked. "I really have got a teeny weeny
headache. I didn't just come here for the... massage." He laughed again.

I made a Lemsip for Joseph, and a gin&tonic for myself.

We sat together on the couch, sat and sipped and chatted and gossiped -
mainly about the hockey tournament on Saturday (Joseph is Captain of
Hockey) but also about..... oh, I can't remember. What was important, and
still amazes me, is how self-confident, self-assured but not cocky,
good-humoured the boy was. Not a trace of shame, not a trace of regret. If
there was to be any of that, he was leaving it to the adult, to me.

Around 11.30 I grew firm.

"Time for bed, Joseph, and no argument. Get your sweet little ass - " (the
boys loved Americanisms) "out of here and into bed. And no playing with
yourself. Too much of that and you'll go blind. Not much use having a
hockey captain who can't see the puck."

Joseph rose. Stood over me a moment. Leaned down and kissed me on the lips.

"Thanks, sir. Thanks for the Lemsip. Thanks for the... massage."

A smile and he was gone.

Now here's the thing.

Joseph and I never had sex again, nor did he ask me for a massage, and it
wasn't until a few months later I understood why. Nothing else had changed
in our relationship. He remained friendly and fun, kind and considerate, a
leader amongst boys, but even though I sent out a few gentle signals that I
was available, he didn't respond. Which was fine. We settled down to the
predictable life of a boarding house, which, on a day to day basis, ran
itself on automatic pilot. But I did discover why.

It was a lazy Sunday morning after church. An exeat weekend when the
majority of boys, including Joseph, were up and away. I was strethed out on
my couch, Leo stretched alongside me. I ran my fingers under his T-shirt,
marvelling at the satin smoothness of his skins and the lightness of his
bones. Like many boys at 11 years old, Leo felt unbelievably light, as
fragile as a bird or a kitten, though Leo was a tough little rugby player
with the face of an angel. We were passing the time before lunch. I gently
open and closed Leo's legs, watching the shape of the small bulge beneath
his sports shorts.

"With Robert, defo. Ben, too. Not so sure about Jason, but I know Joseph
will get round to him."

"And you?" I smiled. "Has Joseph got round to you yet?"

"No," said Leo, an indignant note in his voice. Joseph and I have been at
the same school since we were five. His mum and dad are abroad. He stays
with us a lot of the time. Joseph and I don't..." Leo paused and gave the
matter some thought. "It would make things too - complicated."

"I see," I said, and I did.

Small fingers tugged at my zip.

"Before lunch?" I laughed.

"An aperitif," laughed Leo, whose parents owned one of the most renowned
restaurants (two Michelin stars) in London.

I swung my hips round to make things easy for Leo. He slid down my body. I
knew he would take his time. Life is good, I thought to myself. A lazy
Sumday morning. only half a dozen boys in the House. Leo liked to take his
time. He would nurse my cock with his fingers, lips, mouth, taking me to
the edge again and again, before racing to the finish line and I would
spurt again and again into his mouth. I wriggled my down down the back of
his shorts, his underpants, to let my middle finger tip caress his love
button. I'd ease my finger deep inside, then find a rhythm to match the
boy's.

Yes, life was good.

What I remember about Joseph is his voice. Though not broken, it seemed
deeper and richer than the boys around him, and his diction was
flawless. Completely natural, completely flawless. And it was this voice
that was calling me: "I like having a hard-on, I really do."

And the seasons they go round and round

Let's call him Dean

Dean is sitting in my study-bedroom in the boarding house for the Senior
Boys. The boarding house is an old, dilapidated extension of the manor
house that holds the main school here, somewhere, as the used to say, in
the south of England. Manor House is a private school, an independent
school, a rip-off that 'caters for' the sons of professional families from
all over the world. I sometimes sit in this room and wonder how the fuck I
ended up nowhere, at the back of beyond, right slap bang in the middle of
nowhere.

I love it.

Being Housemaster to the Senior Boys is a dawdle. We came to an
understanding early on: they do not drink alcohol before my very eyes, they
dispose of the bottles off-school, they do no fug up the place with the
smell of tobacco or cannabis, and they most not take the slightest of
anything that happens in my rooms. Someone said 'Happiness is a warm
gun'. So it is, as long as it isn't pointing at someone's brains. My gun
didn't point at theirs; theirs didn't point at mine. Result happiness for
all.

We of the Senior House had little to do with the Junior House, who, anyway,
had their own resident pedophile. Even I was staggered on the few occasions
I visit the juniors to find their Housemaster stretched out on a mattress
in his bedroom surrounded by small boys, drinking in his tall tales, eyes
watering at the incense, if it was incense, that hung in the room. Dean
bunked in the Junior House but otherwise spent most of his time in class,
on the sports field, or in the Senior House, where he had several friends
and was accepted by everyone, though not permitted to drink or dope in
which he had no interest. Dean is 14 and has pubic hair; ipso facto, he is
of no interest to his housemaster. He interests me.

Dean is sitting in my study-bedroom. It is late September, a Sunday
afternoon. We have been out on the soccer field. Dean is my goal
keeper. I'm taking pot shots at goal. I'm expert at hitting the ball above
his head so he has to rise and tipit over the crossbar. As he rises, he
reveals an expanse of skin kissed by his long hot summer in Turkey, where
the family have lived for a few years. His skin is so beautiful I'm
paralysed by the need to see, touch and kiss it. Does Dean suspect? At the
time I would have said no - now I'm not so sure. Did I seduce Dean or did
he seduce me? I hope it was mutual seduction.

We've been cassette tapes to each other. Dean is dressed in his denim
'uniform' - jeans and battletop studded with badges. He loves my company
and I love his. Our conversation wanders across the continents; his father
is CEO of a major Turkish-Canadian company; Dean has lived in four of the
five continents. Our conversation strays to what the boy in the Junior
House do, and Dean takes us on to what they do at bedtime - how horny they
are, who jerks off in bed, who is shy and goes to the toilets, which boys
their housemaster fancies most.

"Sometimes I get so horny, I wouldn't care..."

Dean leaves the sentence unfinished. His eyes drop to the bulge in his
jeans. He tells me about the manager of the London hotel where he stops
overnight before flying home to Istanbul.

"The guy's a homo," laughs Dean, "but I don't give a shit about that. He's
always giving me treats. I'm not stupid. I know he's trying to seduce
me. What the fuck. I just wish he'd get on with it." The boy squeezes his
legs together - "You know how it is."

"Look," I say, "don't do anything stupid. You don't really know anything
about the man."

"I know," Dean smiles, and pushes his hips towards me. I gulp, yes, I
actually gulp. I lean forward and let my fingers run across the tight denim
of his jeans. The palm of my hand slides towards his crotch, my fingers
define the shape of his erection. Pull my hand away.

"Continue."

It is not a request, it is an imperative. And a strange choice of word. Not
"Go on," or "Please," but "Continue."

Moments later I am kneeling between the boy's legs, his denims are wide
open, his boxers pushed down his knees. I am holding his thick cock which
bends slightly to the left. His cock is around six inches in length, very
thick, set in a bush of thick, silky, dirty brown and golden hair. His
balls are big and press the column of his cock up towards me. His foreskin
is loose and slides back over the slick, wet head. The smell is
intoxicating... sweat, urine, pre-cum.

I slide my lips down the shaft. Tighten then. Begin sliding my lips up and
down, taking almost all of the boy into my mouth, my throat, till my lips
brush his pubic hair. I hold there for a few moments, raise my lips, then
thrust them to his base again. I feel his hands grip my shoulders - and
tighten till it hurts. The boy lasts all of thirty seconds. Then his legs
are shuddering, shaking, as his arse lifts from the chair. Two - three -
four thick spurts hit the back of my throat. I gulp him down. He pushes my
mouth away from his cock. I look up. His head is thrown back, eyes
closed. Gently I lick away the last of the cum before it drips on his
jeans. He looks down at me. He is laughing: "Wow! Fucking wow!

"Did you like that?" I ask.

He grins at the stupidity of my question.

"Look at that."

He shows me his hands. They are still clenched in tight fists. He is
breathing heavily.

"I never thought..." he begins. "Shit, this isn't comfortable," he
continues.

Dean stands, hobbles backwards and lets himself fall onto my narrow
bed. His legs are raised for me to yank his denims off. I push his shirt up
past his nipples. He is a well-built boy with skin like old ivory, hot to
my lips as they brush over his body, chest, nipples, stomach, thighs. He
pushes himself towards me, eager for what...

"Do you want to...?

Dean doesn't wait to hear the question; he knows what it is.

"I can come three or four times in a row," he laughs.

I bend over him again. I lower my head. Then on impulse I roll him over
onto his front. He lays his head comfortably on the pillow. I slide down
his body and prise open his buttocks. I breathe in a rich, pungent
smell. Dean hasn't showered yet. I use my thumbs to prise his cheeks
wider. Creamy skin gives way to the light brown circle round his anus. The
skin is wet, slippery, sweaty. I use my thumbs to to dig deeper. I see the
deep pink within. I lower my lips, fasten them round the hole and begin to
suck.

Dean grunts and jumps. He turns his head to me. He is frowning.

"I've never been fucked," he whispers.

"I don't want to fuck you," I say.

"Then what're you doing? I haven't even had a shower."

I can see how embarrassed the boy is. I lean forward and kiss him on the
forehead and whisper, "Dean, every little bit of you is beautiful to
me... and I mean every bit."

He looks confused. I turn him over. He settles on his back, his head
nestling on the pillow, eyes closed. I push his shirt up to his neck and
make love to his body. He has prominent nipples; I nurse on them for a
while. My lips slip down to his genitals; my mouth engulfs his cock. He is
as hard as the first time and comes within thirty seconds. He groans and
stretches. Opens his eyes.

"Give me ten minutes and I can cum again," he tells me.

I laugh and say, "Get your clothes on, you dirty little fucker... I can
hear the boys coming back."

"Fuck them," laughs Dean, and then with a grin adds: "No, sir. Fuck me -
next time."

Later we talking things over. Throughout our year together, Dean and I are
always able to talk things over together.

"I've never done anything like that before," he says. "I just wanted to do
it with you. Fucking horny, I guess. I'm not a homo. At least I don't think
I'm a homo. I don't want to do stuff with any of the boys in the dorm, or
with any of them..." He nods in the direction of the Senior Boys beyond the
door. "Or with any of the other teachers. Just with you. I don't know why
it's this way... it just is."

For the young that's the way it is. Things just are or they aren't. And
Dean says something I've never forgotten:

"Sir, can I say something? I'll say it anyway. Don't go on fucking guilt
trip. I mean, don't try to get rid of me just cos you feel guilty about
what we're. I don't. So it's great if you don't. In fact, it will be
fucking boring if you do." (pause) "And, sir, can we be friends? Shit, I
know we can't be friends out there, around the school, I mean, but here,
when it's just us. Please, sir, can we, sir?"

Dean doesn't wait for an answer; he knows what it is. He lies back on the
narrow bed and pushes his underpants to his knees again. "I can come three
or four times in a row," he laughs.

I bend over him again. I lower my head. Then on impulse I roll him over
onto his front. He lays his head comfortably on the pillow. I slide down
his body and prise open his buttocks. I breathe in a rich, pungent
smell. Dean hasn't showered yet. I use my thumbs to prise his cheeks
wider. Creamy skin gives way to the light brown circle round his anus. The
skin is wet, slippery, sweaty. I use my thumbs to to dig deeper. I see the
deep pink within. I lower my lips, fasten them round the hole and begin to
suck.

Dean grunts and jumps. He turns. He looks at me. He is frowning.

"I've never been fucked," he whispers.

"I don't want to fuck you," I say.

"Then what're you doing? I haven't even had a shower."

I can see how embarrassed the boy is. I lean forward and kiss him on the
forehead and whisper, "Dean, every little bit of you is beautiful to
me... and I mean every bit."

He looks confused. I turn him over. He settles on his back, his head
nestling on the pillow, eyes closed. I push his shirt up to his neck and
make love to his body. He has prominent nipples; I nurse on them for a
while. My lips slip down to his genitals; my mouth engulfs his cock. He is
as hard as the first time and comes within thirty seconds. He groans and
stretches. Opens his eyes.

"Give me ten minutes and I can cum again," he tells me.

I laugh and say, "Get your clothes on, you dirty little fucker... I can
hear the boys coming back."

"Fuck them," laughs Dean, and then with a grin adds: "No, sir. Fuck me -
next time."

And there is a next time, lots of next times till the last time comes and I
finally fuck him.

Our last time together. The last Friday of the school year. Next day we'll
all be on our way until September. But I won't be back in September. Again
I've found it too claustrophobic. And too dangerous, both for me and for
Dean. The bubble's going to burst sometime. The senior boys in the House
cannot not know. It doesn't seem to be a problem for them, and, if
anything, they accept and welcome Dean even more readily - he's that kind
of kid. But what's going on in the Junior House can't go on. It's going to
end in an explosion of shame and blame, and I don't want to be there when
it happens. If what Dean tells me is true - and of course it is - there's
kids being fucked over there in the Junior House, and when I say 'kids' I
mean kids. I won't be unhappy when the explosion comes; I just don't want
to be there when it does.

The final Friday. Our last time together. The House is empty. The Farewell
Disco is underway; the beat booming across the small wood that separates us
from the Manor House. It will go on late, very late. 'My' boys will come
back drunk, stoned, ready to collapse into bed, if they can make it that
far. I'll be there to tuck them in. But I'm not on duty and, to be honest,
I'm not sure if I can spend an evening so close to Dean, and yet unable to
reach out and touch him.

My bedroom door swings open. Dean stands on the threshold. He steps into
the room, swaying a bit. He has walked out of the disco, and his way
through the wood, and here he is. I get ready to make him a very large mug
of coffee. He lets himself fall uninvited onto the bed; it's a long time
since Dean needed an invitation.

"How do you want me?" he asks. "You can fuck me if you want."

Moments later Dean is lying on his front scanning a porno mag I brought him
from Amsterdam. It's a fucking hetero mag! It's what he wanted; it's what
he got. I'm lying between his legs, my face jammed between his buttocks, my
middle finger sawing its way past his anus into his rectum. His hole is
wonderfully sweaty, greasy. The alcohol has relaxed him, so soon my digit
finger and it's neighbour are fucking him with only the occasional moan
from the boy. Only when I add my middle finger to them does Dean protest:
"Take it easy, sir. Never done this before." I remove my fingers and place
my lips over his arse hole, kissing, sucking, then pushing, probing,
penetrating with my stiffened tongue. I can't believe it when half of
tongue slips past his sphincters and I rest a minute, as much for myself as
for the boy.

Why am I so hungry to get as deep inside this boy as I can? What's this
fascination with his anus, his rectum, his deep inside? Freudians have
their theories, but at that moment theory is the last thing on my
mind. Dean has a large, well-muscled bottom, not fat but solid in its
presence. I push my tongue in harder, deeper until I imagine I'm licking
the inner flesh of his rectum... but a tongue can only do so much. I roll
from the bed, rip off my jeans and briefs, mount the bed, knees either side
of Dean's buttocks, spread them, and press the swollen head of my cock
against his hole.

Getting that first entry isn't easy, and I can hear from his moans it isn't
easy for Dean either, but bravely he pushes his bum back in an unspoken
word that says: "Continue". My thumbs hold him open as much as they can. I
lean forward and apply forward and slightly upward pressure. Suddenly I'm
in! Or at least the head is, and I rest again letting Dean get used to my
invading flesh. The urgency in both of us increases. I lay my chest down
onto his back, inch forward, the shaft of my cock entering him millimetre
by millimetre... until... my legs are locked round the boy's buttocks, my
pubic hair is pressed flat against him, and my cock is buried deep inside
him. I rest, think of the innver vision, of the boy's red flesh wrapped
round my erection, the head o my cock brushing against the walls of his
rectum.

From far away I hear, "Fuck... fuck... fuck..." but is a cry of desire and
pain as I begin to speed my thrusting in and out of the boy. He is
thrusting back. He doesn't want to lose me, I don't want to lose him, will
we ever be this close again.

I'm sure I took longer than thirty seconds but not much longer. I felt I
was blacking out. My hips out of control as I frantically pumped cum inside
him. I hadn't masturbated that week, and now every last squirt was shooting
inside the boy beneath me. From not so far away, I heard moaning, groaning,
grunting, garbled sound that might have been words - were they from me, or
the boy, or both of us: "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

I lay there for a few minutes. Dean seemed comfortable beneath me. Then I
slid myself out. Rolled over alongside him. He turned over to lie
alongiside me. I risked a look at those wonderful hazel eyes - wet, glazed,
distant - but the grin said all is well, and more than well. Then a frown
darkened the boy's face. For a moment panic.

"Sorry, sir, I think came....."

And he did. All over the sheets below. But who gave a fuck? It was the end
of the school year. And I imagine the laundry who did the school's sheets
were familiar with fabric crusted with semen.

I laughed and hugged the boy... and he kissed me.

He held me tight and he kissed me full on the mouth. And when I opened my
mouth he stuck in his tongue. And we french-kissed like beginners for the
next few minutes. The first and last time. The first kiss. The last
kiss. The never-to-be-forgotten fuck and kiss.

The last time I saw Dean was Saturday afternoon. In a public park that
served the small town that served our school. Hewas lying there surrounded
by boys and girls his own age. He was smoking a joint, passing it
round. Just another teenager lying in a park on a warm afternoon in June,
sharing a joint and his life with other teenagers, just the way it should
be. I saluted them with a smile, a wave and went on my way. I was an adult;
they were kids; there was no place for me amongst them. All was as it
should be. Our paths had crossed, met, and then separated as we continued
our separate journeys.

I still have the Year Book. There's Dean with his classmates, smiling out
at a world in which he was entirely comfortable. Dean, my Canadian explorer
and adventurer, who knew how to give as much as he took. He is with me -
always.

Spin the bottle and it's Luigi.

And what I'm doing with Luigi is skinny-dipping with Luigi on a blistering
summer afternoon is skinny-dipping in the outdoor pool when everyone has
gone off in the coach shopping, and I've been left behind while the rest of
the Italian group has gone off in the coach shopping - and here I am with
crazy, beautiful Luigi. And there he is, with me, swimming naked, in the
back-garden pool, frolicking like a baby dolphin, climbing on my shoulders,
then diving headfirst into the water's sparkling embrace. And I'm
embarrassed to feel my cock rising hot and hard as he wriggles underwater
between my legs.

Luigi, with his shoulder-length corn-coloured hair, green eyes, perfect
teeth, and smile that has escaped from a TV commercial. Luigi, whose
English is so fractured it is difficult to determine when he's switched
from Italian into the language he's come to England to learn.

Damn it! Don't tell me I'm a pedophile. Just let me enjoy Luigi for what he
is - a beautiful, crazy Italian boy having a great time with me in the
pool. And out of the pool he climbs, butt white in the tanning sun, to
sprint into the house. Proibito! He hasn't even tried to find his
towel. Just out of the pool across the lawn and into the house. The carpet!
I'll get my ass kicked, or my wrist slapped by the boss when the coach get
backs. I'm 19. I should be able to control a 10-year-old Italian kid.

I climb from the pool, grab a towel, give myself a perfunctory rubdown, and
stride into the house after him.

"Luigi! Luigi!"

Where the fuck is he?

Up the stairs. Check the boys' dorms. The toilets. The broom cupboards. No
Luigi.

My room.

There he is, stretched across my double bed, legs hanging over the edge,
splayed out on the green bed spread, lying on his back, holding above his
face a copy of 'The Beano' and laughing at the Bash Street Kids.

God, but he is beautiful. Skin-kissed by the Italian sun. Shoulders broad
for his age though he is close to being skinny. Cream-coloured chest topped
by the cherries of his nipples. His stomach so flat there could only be
five inches in depth. The dimples of his thighs carved by Donatello. Long
legs, big feet, long toes. His genitals curled up like...

Not quite.

Luigi has an erection. A hard on. His stiff dick rises like ivory asparagus
about the tiny sac lying between the join of his legs. Long legs that bend
at the knee as his toes brush back and forth across the carpet. Reading
'The Beano' with an erection, or at least looking at the pictures. He
laughed and his hard penis, around three inches in length, wobbling in time
with his laughter. I sit beside him, slop off my towel and slip it under
his wet hair. I lean over and kiss his belly button. Tiny kisses. Flutters
of tiny kisses. The boy smells of chlorine and sweat. I run my lips across
his tummy, up his chest, into his armpits as smooth as a chalice, and down
to the forbidden lands again. Pressure on the back of my head. Luigi is
pushing my head downwards. This is crazy. This is impossible. This boy is
ten years old. He's from one the richest families in northern Italy. I know
we have developed a close, a special relationship over the past two weeks,
but what signals have I given off that have led to this?

My mouth slides over his stiff penis, lower still to take in his small sac
and balls. I hold them there till I feel saliva fill my mouth and I begin
to gag. I release his balls and concentrate of making love with my lips to
his erection. My hand edges his legs open till I can slip it between the
cheeks of his arse. Deeper still till my middle finger is sliding over his
tiny anus. I finger it with the tip of my finger but apply no pressure. My
free hand reaches up Luigi's chest, strokes his lips, his mouth opens and
let a finger slip in. The boy sucks on my finger as I slobber on his
erection and gently stroke his anal opening.

Suddenly Luigi's head jerks to the side to release my finger. I hear his
high, unbroken voice. My Italian is poor but I recognise the words: "Bagno!
Bagno! Doccia! Doccia!"

Luigi wants to have a shower, and he wants to have it with me!

He springs from the bed, grabs my hand and hauls me in the direction of the
bathroom. We both have erections! This is insane... but it's
exhilarating. I've never showered with a pre-teen boy before. But what the
Hell. It's summer and there's a first time for everything. So into my
bathroom we go. I turn on the shower, keeping in lukewarm. Luigi stands
there, arms raised high above his head, face raised, the water bouncing
from him in tiny fountains. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I
take handful of shampoo and lather his hair, run my soap fingers down his
body, reach his buttocks, slip to my knees, spread his cheeks and my soapy
fingertips against his anus. The old obsession, addiction, has me again. I
could spend forever on my knees, but, though Luigi is wriggling and
giggling, he has other ideas.

The boy turns to me. His penis is flops against his sac. He grabs it, and
while I'm still on my knees, points it at me and starts pissing! Pissing
right at me! On me!

Now let's get something straight: I have no interest in piss, either my own
or anybody else's. But I'm not taking this from a ten-year-old. And the
lukewarm water has done it. My bladder is full, my cock not so hard I
can't piss. I raise it like a small firehose, aim it at the boy and let him
have it. And there we are: man and boy pissing at each other. Laughing,
giggling, having fun.

It can't last. Not only the piss, but the situation. Noises in the drive.
Coach crunching over gravel. Voices squabbling. The Italians are back. I
grab Luigi. Pick him up. Half carry him to the boys' dorm and stick him in
THEIR showers. I return to my own, turn on the hot full blast, until the
witness of my lust subsides, and, prayerfully, the smell of man-boy piss is
gone. I dry myself, sort of, drag on jeans and T-shirt, and hop downstairs
to greet the weary shoppers. Two minutes later Luigi comes bounding down
the stairs, three at a time. Frayed blue jeans, Mickey Mouse braces, no
shirt, no socks, no shoes.

That was close, so close, too close. But close to what? Catastrophe or
ecstasy? Depression or delight? Self-knowledge or self-denial? That summer
I did not find out. I surrendered to the joy of being with Luigi as his
friend, his teacher, but never his lover. No shadows, no complications,
just one of the Italian boys, the crazy, beautiful Italian boys.

And I was 19, and still, in many ways, the crazy boy I'd been not so long
before.

I was 12. I was late out of school. I'd been kept in back in detention by
some sadistic bastard who'd driven away in the falling darkness while I ran
along the lane in the pelting rain towards the bus station. The bus had
gone. Half an hour to wait. Rain bouncing like hailstones from the tin roof
of the shelter. Only the station toilets sent out a beacon of light in the
gathering gloom. I made my way into its shiny tiled comfort. I only half
needed a piss, and the slight pressure in my bowels could wait till I got
home. At least it would pass a couple of minutes.

There were two urinals with a tiny partition between them. I stood at one
fishing my penis out of my thin grey flannel trousers. It was half hard and
pleasantly warm. The door behind me swung open, then closed. A man took the
urinal next to mine. I kept my head down. I tried to focus on the wet
tiles, but my eyes betrayed me and slid to the left. Wow! He was big, and
he was making little effort to hide it. I jerked my eyes away, they slid
back, the piss was squirting from him in an almost continuous flow. It was
beautiful. Shit - was I sick or what? Between my own fingers I felt my own
dick thicken, harden and stretch to a fullness through which I could never
hope to piss.

The man half turned to me. He edged me backwards, I hardly resisted, edged
me backwards into the single cubicle. The back of my knees bounced against
the toilet seat. Reflexively I sat down, then risked glancing up. The man
was about thirty years old. Dark-haired,strong eyebrows, straight nose,
cheekbones, good-looking. Good-looking! Yes, he was! And wearing what
looked like expensive clothes.

"I won't do anything you don't want me to do," he whispered. His voice was
low, dark and warm.

His penis, his cock, his dick. Shit - it was huge. Hard and huge. It looked
tanned though the head sticking out from the foreskin looked a mixture of
brown and purple. And, like him, it was beautiful. Don't do anything you
don't want to do. That meant to anything you want to do. And I knew what I
wanted to do. I raised my hand and fitted my fingers round his shaft. Shit!
My fingers hardly touched. It was hard and soft at the same, warm, satiny,
slippery.

Pointing it right at my face. At my mouth. I flicked my tongue out and
licked the head. Shit! Was I crazy or something? I knew people did that. I
knew prostitutes, fallen angels as my mum called them, did that to men for
money. I even knew that gay men had their own way of having sex. I knew
that some men liked to do things to boys. But here I was, sitting on a
toilet seat, in the bus station toilets, in my full school uniform, licking
a man's erection. I'd done it before - to Alan, my best friend - the same
age as me. But this was a man, a full-grown man, and that's who I wanted to
do it to. Even if I didn't know it then, I know it now. I was a boy and I
wanted a man.

"Do what you want," came the whisper above me.

Go on. So I did. I let the head of his cock slide into my mouth till the
tipped touched the roof of my mouth. Then I adjusted my mouth until his
cock was sliding in and out like a huge stick of Brighton rock you've just
started and you think you'll never finish. My lips slid up and down
theshaft, a bit of an exaggeration since I could only take in about half of
the hot hard shaft. Sometimes I let it slide out and pressed its length
along my cheek.

The pressure felt wonderful, but, to tell you the truth, it was the smell I
loved. You can't describe the smell to anyone who hasn't experienced it.
You might as well describe a rose to a blind man. It was the smell of a
man, of a man in heat, of a man who had the hots for me. It was me who was
exciting him, me who was arousing him, me who had taken possession of
him. And I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

I slid my spare hand under his balls. They hung heavy and low. I wanted to
feel their weight, feel their texture, feel the dark hairs brush against my
hand. My fingers slide past his balls to his crack, and he shuffled his
feet wider.

The man moaned! He fucking well moaned! And he moaned for me!

I'd been scared. Maybe he didn't want me to touch him there. Maybe I was
being too forward, or even dirty, in seeking out his most private place. I
put the tips of two fingers against his hole, not that easy to find as they
wriggled through the dense hair, but I found it! The entrance to King
Solomon's mines and I had found it. The opening was hot, sweat-slick, and
hot. Do whatever you want? Go for it! I brought my fingers back, raised
them to my mouth, let his dick slide out for a few moments, slid my fingers
in my mouth and sucked them. Bliss!

Okay, I'm crazy. Twelve years old. A grammar school boy from a good
family. And I'm sitting on a toilet seat in the bus station sucking two
fingers that I'd just removed from a grown man's arse. Crazy! I'm not even
going to try and describe the thrill, the terror, the ecstasy of holding a
grown man's hard cock in my mouth, letting it slide in and out as he held
my head. I heard his moans high above me. I felt his cock push deeper and
deeper into me, until I gagged. He withdrew. I insisted. He invaded my
throat again and again. His cock seemed to swell, even thicker, suddenly it
exploding, spurt after spurt, deep into the back of my throat. Too much,
too much, and still I wanted more. So much that my mouth couldn't hold it
all, and it came squeezing out of the sides, through my swollen lips, until
I was coughing, choking, still trying to lick and swallow every last
drop. It was the man who had to push me away from him.

He stood me up. Turned me round. Gently pushed my head towards the
urinal. His hands reached round me and undid my belt, my zip, lowered my
school trousers, my underpants. For a moment I panicked. I'd never been
fucked. I didn't want fucked. Not here. Not now. His hand came round my
mouth. His voice whispered in my ear: "Don't worry, don't worry. I'm not
going to fuck you. Don't worry. You'll like it."

Don't ask me why, but I trusted him.

I felt my white school shirt being flipped over my back. I blushed all
over. He was looking at my bare arse. He dropped to his knees. "He must be
staring my arse straight in the face!" I felt his fingers open my
cheeks. Then he was kissing my base bum, all over, even the inaide of my
buttocks. Then something wet and warm was tickling my hole. Jesus Christ!
He was licking and tickling my hole with the tip of his tongue. Now he was
kissing it! His lips were fastened to my hole. He was pulling the hole
open, gently, with his finger tips, He was sucking at my - What do you call
it? - my anus. The man was sucking my anus and my legs were shaking.

Then the tip of his tongue was inside me, and I panicked again.

I needed a shit. I'm not stupid. I know where shit comes from. There was a
hard shit up my arse. If he pushed his tongue any further, he was bound to
feel it. His tongue would tuch my turd. I tried to tell him but the words
stuck in my throat, and, to be strictly honest, I wanted it. God knows why,
but I wanted it to happen. But too embarrassing, way too embarrasing. I
tried to pull my arse away from him.

"It's okay. Just let it happen. Just let go."

I couldn't. I just couldn't. Maybe I managed to say something. I don't
know. But suddenly he was standing up, turning me round, pulling up my
trousers and underpants. Doing the zip. Tucking my shirt in, just like my
mother used to do - still did. Then he was driving me home.

A BMW! And he was driving me home. Driving me home and telling me what a
wonderful, silly little fucker I was. Having sex with a
stranger. Swallowing what he called his cum. Getting in a car with a bloody
stranger. Didn't I have any more sense than that? Fucking hell, it was like
getting told off at school. But the man was smiling at the same time,
stroking my hair, tracing my cheek with his fingers, showing me where his
'cum' had splattered onto my school shirt. Thank god for that; at least I'd
be able to dump it into the laundry basket as soon as I got home. Stick it
under the tap first. Soak it. Tell mum it got soaked in the rain.

Silly little fucker. Yes, that was me. But not that silly. I gave the man a
false name. Leo. I gave him a false telephone number. I told him to let me
off on a street two away from my own road. I went hopping and jumping and
skipping home in the rain, half worried I'd end up pregnant, and half
worried that I was stupid enough to believe a boy could get pregnant. But I
was elated, yes! I wanted something, and I had got it. I had made a man
love me, not only love me, but take a desperate risk to show his
love. well, at least his desire. The cubicle door in the toilet didn't even
lock, was half off its hinges, and I'd sucked off a grown-man when, at any
moment, anyone could have walked in! I'd let him lick my arse, my hole, my
anus. Let him lick my turd, well nearly.

The night I couldn't wait to bed. I lay there playing with myself, bring
myself to the edge then back off again and again. I couldn't keep the
images out of my head, especially the man kneeling behind me, my shirt
tails over my naked back, his lips kissing all over my bum, kissing my
hole, sucking my anus. I imagined a turd up my jacksie making its way down
until he could touch it with the tip of his tongue. It was
disgusting. Fascinating. Repulsive, Thrilling.  What if it had come all the
way down? Would he have wrapped his lips around it? Let it slide into his
mouth like a big brown cock. The more I thought about it, the more I
couldn't leave the idea alone.

I got out of bed. The house was quiet and dark. I sat on the toilet. I'd
been so excited by what had happened I'd forgotten to take a shit when I
came home. Now I let the turd make it way down the chute. I didn't try to
hurry it along; it was unbelievably exciting to make it last. Finally
gravity did the job and it plopped itno the water with a splash. I stood
up, wiped my arse and looked in the pan. There it was. A really
biggie. Just floating innocently. I pulled the lever. The water thundered
into the bowl snatching my turd in a whirpool and swirling it away to the
sea, or wherever turds go. I felt a little sad; it was like losing a
friend. I nipped back to bed, stuck the middle finger of my left hand up my
arse as far as it would go while wanking furiously with my right hand. I
exploded, saw stars, and shit a rope of cum straight up my belly. I'd never
come like that before. I pulled my pyjama bottoms up to soak up the cum the
best they could. I made a mental note to bury them in the laundry load in
the morning. I rolled over on my left side and fell sound asleep. I slept
the sleep of the happily dead.

I have got lots of photos of me from that year, school photos, summer
photos, Christmas photos. God, I'm just a baby! Twelve years old and
looking about ten. Not a hair round my dick, but checking most mornings,
praying for them to show up, and praying for a man to come along who wanted
me as much as the man in the bus toilets. I had to wait more than a year
for the right man to come along - but it was worth it.

Crazy, crazy - beautiful and crazy!

I was 13. It was Christmas. The house for once was empty except for me and
Dan who was one of those people you call 'cousin' though you're not quite
sure if he really is a relative. The house empty. Everyone had gone to
visit grandmother - mum's mum - and I'd invented a headache to stay behind
praying Dan would stay to keep me company. Dan was gay, you see. 'Gay'
isn't a word we used in those days but I don't like the word 'homosexual' -
there's no fun in it. Of course nobody mentioned Dan was gay; it was just
one of those things you heard about. But I hoped he was because I knew I
was.

Dan was 17. Handsome, movie star handsome. And he was fun. We were playing
'Truth or Dare' combined with 'Spin the Bottle'. Every time Dan lost, he
let me have a couple of sips of cherry brandy. The stuff made me
light-headed and a lot more daring. Dan put on some music. Do I remember
what it was? Will I ever forget? It was 'Unchained Melody', one of my mum's
favourites, and I dared Dan to dance with me. Let the music play in your
head. One moment we were sitting on the carpet, next we were dancing a slow
dance, body to body, skin to skin, my head resting somewhere underneath
Dan's chin.

It didn't take long. As usual our house was over-heated. Outside snow was
falling, drifting down through the street light. We both had on T-shirts
and shorts. One hand stroked my hair - I wore it shoulder-length at the
time - the pressed my buttocks as he swayed against me in time to the
music. His lips were on mine, our mouths opened, his tongue tasted cherry
brandy. Then we were on the carpet, naked except for our socks. I was on
top of him, taking him into my mouth as he took me into his.

Dan had thick black hair down there, not on his chest, but down there,
black and silky. It tickled my nose. I felt like sneezing but knew that
would be cheeky. I felt him grow harder as the head of his cock moved
through the foreskin and tiuched the back of my throat. I inhaled smells of
soap and sweat, of unamed sex smells as his cock eased back and forth in my
mouth. I tightened my lips, then relaxed them, I sucked fast, then
slow. Alan and I had had lots of practice. I felt Dan's tongue run from my
scrotum backwards towards my most private place. I gulped, almost bit him,
prayed for more. I felt the hot tip of his tongue press against my bum
hole, my anus, probe and push its way in. I think I sighed out loud even
with my mouth bulging.

U2 were rocking in time to our motions: I need your love, I need your
lu-u-v, I need your lu-u-u-uv...

Every nerve in my tectum seemed to rush towards his tongue as it pushed,
probed and wormed its way into me. Too much, it was too much to bear. I
pushed him away, swung myself round to lie beside him, keeping my lips
round his hard-on, and sucked, my head moving up and down, taking in as
much as I could without choking.

Suddenly I felt it, a rush, a squirt, a spurt inside my mouth and throat,
again and again. I kept my lips tightly round his shaft and swallowed as
best I could... "hunger for your touch a long and lonely time..." I held on
as he pulsed himself into me. I opened my eyes and felt more than saw his
stiff cock slowly draw back into itself, leaving a big silvery drop hanging
where the foreskin had folded itself up like a flower as evening fell. I
ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth: I both tasted and smelled the
after-taste of toasted salted almonds.

Dan pulled up and held me against, running his tongue over my eyebrows and
closed eyelids. I couldn't open my eyes; I was ashamed, but I wasn't sure
of what I was ashamed. Certainly not of the sex; I loved that. But maybe
ashamed that I wasn't enough for him, that I was only a boy, only 13, with
a boy's cock - small compared to his - and no muscles, and only a patch of
hair, a baby, still a baby.

I felt his breath on my ear, heard his whisper: "Tell me what you
want. Just tell me what you want."

And I whispered back and told him what I wanted.

He rolled over on his front. Folded his arms and laid his head on them. I
could hardly breathe. I slipped down between his legs. Urged him to open
them. Knelt between them Placed a palm on each muscular cheek and pushed
them apart. There it was. Not hairy as I'd expected. But the starfish at
the middle was much bigger than mine, the skin browner. I leaned forward,
stuck out my tongue and ran it along the serrated lips. At last I was doing
it. Up and down, round and round ran the tip of my tongue. I prised the
little lips apart. I wanted to see inside. It sounds crazy but I wanted to
be inside. The smells that rose up made me feel faint. I couldn't get
enough of them. I leaned in and began to suck at the little mouth, trying
to fasten my lips against his. I wish I could say I got my tongue inside
but I couldn't and I didn't. For a moment I wished Dan would take a shit, a
huge shit, so that his hole would open wide and I.....

I crawled back up his body. I whispered to him. Sex things, dirty things. I
whispered: "Put it inside me. You can put it inside me. If you want. I want
it inside me." I was almost crying.

He held me tightly while he pushed a finger against my anus, trying to slip
it into my rectum; my body betrayed me, resisted, contracted. Dan raised
his fingers to my mouth. I sucked his digit and middle fingers together. He
pressed again, and down there I opened, slowly, until he could slide in two
fingers, then three. I'd been fucking myself with a home-made dildo for
months, a home-made dildo smeared with facecream, but this was the real
thing, and I wanted it, no matter how much it hurt. I bit my lip to stop
from crying out. Dan moved them around, opening me, to widen me. Pain, dull
then sharp sliced through me.

"Tell me if it hurts too much," he whispered.

I said nothing. Stretched out on my back. Lifted and swung my legs over his
shoulders, closed my eyes and tried to relax. "God speed your love to
me..."  I felt his stiff cock against my hole. He began to push and
withdraw gently. I felt the sphincters give way, felt the head bludgeon its
way in. Excruciating pain, and I wanted more. I was unable to speak; I was
impaled and felt his cock slide into me deeper and deeper. He asked if I
was all right, and I pushed my arse harder against him, sliding more of him
into me. Nothing mattered except what was happening everywhere and nowhere
in my body. "I'll be coming home, wait for me."

Dan stopped.

I opened my eyes and frowned. "Do it," I hissed. I clasped my legs round
his back and humped him best I could. From behind closed eyelids I saw
stars spatter my eyelids, the universe exploding in a million pinpoints of
light. I thought I could feel him thicken and pulse inside me. His hair
tickled the inside of my buttocks. He was cumming, cumming, cumming. No!
That was me! I was spurting hard against his belly, and for a moment I felt
ashamed again. What would Dan think? A little boy who couldn't even hold in
his own... And Dan was cumming, too. And I thought of the million trillion
zillion little spermy-Dans swimming in my bowels.

I fainted.

I know I fainted because Dan told me later. Because for a few moments he
was sick with worry. Then, he says, I stirred, opened my eyes, wrapped my
arms around his neck and pulled him to me. Cherry brandy kisses, kisses
sweeter than wine.

"Oh, my love, my darling, I hunger for your touch."

We showered together, in the hot and splashy water. Dan checked my anus to
see if there was any damage. Just a little. He put some cream inside my
with his middle finger, and I started to hump it. Dirty little bugger, he
laughed.

Then we dressed in woollies and anoraks, went outside and build the hugest
snowman you could ever imagine. I know it was a Snow-man, not a Snow-woman,
because it had Snow-balls!

Dan died that Spring. In Sri Lanka. An accident, they told me. He was doing
a GAP year before university. He wrote me every week. I've still got
everyletter. And every time I hear Unchained Melody I cry - "lonely rivers
flow to the sea."

That Christmas I gave Dan so much more than my virginity, and Dan gave me
more than he'll ever know: the courage to be myself.


Another Christmas - another 13-year-old boy - an older me.

How can I convey the immediacy of Michael?

Michael is 13. Michael is cute. That's not a word I use often but there's
no other word that fits the bill. Michael is cute, close to being
girl-pretty, but there's enough of the boy in Michael to keep that epithet
at bay

Michael has thick dark hair. Sometimes it's shaggy. Then his mum hacks it a
bit but there's not much she can do to stop it being the kind of hair you
want to run your fingers through, and flick away the hair that hangs over
the boy's left eye. Is that how it started? Me walking Michael to school
some mornings, and flicking the hair from his eyes as we walked up the
narrow dirt path alongside the cemetery. The dirt path, fenced on one side,
thick bushes on the other. And Michael hanging around at the entrance to
the path so we could walk the half mile or so together.

On cold mornings his ivory skin glows with a red flush. His lips are
bee-stung. He has thick eyelashes, those double eyelashes some say are
wasted on a boy. His features are regular,teeth straight and true, though
they could use regular brushing. His shirt is usually grubby, his school
uniform shabby, his shoes wrong for the winter weather. Michael walks with
me to school though he isn't in any of my classes. He enjoys my company; he
seems to have little around the school. Michael is the archetypal loner.

Michael's family are poor and weird. The day that Michael was born, so he
tells me, his father announced he wanted to be a woman and be the mother of
the family. He put on a dress, a wig, and a few years later had 'the
operation', as Michael puts it. He left the family when Michael was eight,
and access to the family is now barred. Michael has a step-dad who seems to
be a rotten shit. Example: a few days before Christmas he came into the
boy's bedroom and announced: "Know what you're getting for Christmas -
nuthin. Well, not nuthin, cos you're gonna get a surprise but you won't
like it."

It's easy to see that Michael is upset and shaken. He claims his step-dad
doesn't abuse him, says Michael, but he's just rotten to him. The boy
doesn't want to tell anyone else about his home life, just me, and he
swears me to secrecy. It is clear he wants to be with someone, and the
someone he wants to be with is me. It all rattles around in my head;
Michael is a lovely boy, I am attracted to him, but, as they say, there be
dragons in that land.

A few days before the Christmas break we are walking home. Michael has
ambushed me at the top of the path. It's no big deal, everyone knows this
is the way I stroll to and from school. We reach the centre of town.

"Lots of people know that. I'm the only teacher who lives in the centre of
the town. And you live in Albert Street, which is... just over there." (We
live about half a mile away from each other.)

"My house is empty till 7," says Michael. "They've gone Christmas
shopping. I can't watch TV even."

I know the family has to hide the TV when the TV licence detector van is in
the area. They have no licence. Sometimes they even have no TV when the
step-dad pawns it, says Michael.

"And the house is cold." Michael pauses, then adds: "There's penguins in my
bedroom." He says this absolutely straight-faced. His dry humour is one of
several things about the boy I find attractive.

Michael's eyes are huge in the Christmas lights. His skin glows, his breath
rises in misty vapours.

"I'd like to see your house," he adds. "I promise I won't tell. I know how
to keep secrets."

I do not investigate what it is that Michael won't tell. I sigh and say
come on then. We cut through the alley and within four minutes we are home.
The central heating is already on, the house is very warm, the Christmas
tree, the lights, the decorations, the size of the house seem magical to
the boy.  I heat Christmas punch for us both, and sort out some
shortbread. Michael snuggles down on the huge sofa running the length of an
entire wall. He sips the punch, nibbles the shortbread, and sighs: "I wish
you could be my step-dad," he says, more to himself than to me.

"I'm still a bit young for that," I smile.

"Well, you could be my older brother. You could look after me."

I break the promise I made to myself. I get up, sit beside him, put my arm
round him. He snuggles into me. Our bodies touch, our faces centimetres
apart, his eyes are shining, I feel myself begin to stiffen. I excuse
myself and head for the bathroom behind the utility room. "Back in a mo',"
I hear myself whisper.

I am standing in front of the toilet, holding myself, watching the piss
splash down into the bowl. There is a shuffle of feet and Michael is
standing behind me.

"Can't wait," he whispers.

He unzip and fishes himself out with a struggle. I hear him tinkle into the
bowl. I try not to look but I am only human.

Like me, Michael appears to be semi-tumescent, his penis is surprisingly
long and thick, he has pulled back the foreskin. The skin is a brownish
ivory, the head a purply cream, the shaft is true and straight. Like the
rest of him, Michael's penis is beautiful.

"You've got a big one," he says.

"Pardon."

"You've got a big one," he repeats, "much bigger than mine. Look."

I'm taken aback. Michael sounds so confident, so sure of himself, and there
is a smile in his voice. "I bet I could hardly get my fingers round yours."

I'm stunned, even more so when his fingers close around the shaft of my
cock. They feel so warm, they feel so right. As the last trickle dies away,
he shakes it for me. He is finished, too, but he makes no attempt to slide
his back into his trousers.

"Can I? Please, please?" he asks, and before I can work things out, Michael
is seated on the toilet, holding my stiffening prick only inches from his
face, from those red lips. "Please, please?" He opens my belt and gently
eases my trousers to my knees, then draws down my underpants, making sure
my cock is released from the opening. I am so hard now that it aches.
Michael pushes up my shirt so it is round my waist. He leans into me and
presses his face against my erection. I am absolutely stunned, absolutely
horny.

Michael is masturbating me now, openly masturbating me.

"My daddy likes this," he says. "My real dad. He used to like it, I mean. I
mean. I liked it. I'm good at it."

He leans forward and slides his free hand between my legs, between and
under till his fingers are deep in my crack. "I'll stop if you want," he
whispers. "Just tell me what to do. I'll stop if you want, but I don't want
to. Really I don't."

I push the boy away. I stand up. He looks scared. Terrified. I put my arm
around him, tell him it's okay, but not here, not in the bathroom.

A time-shift of maybe ten minutes. Michael and I are lying on my double
bed. The bed lamps are dim, the music low. We are both naked. He is cuddled
deep in my arms. I can see my hardened semen glisten on his chin, his neck
and his chest. I can feel his hot hard penis press against my stomach. I
never intended any of this, but here we are. I am immensely happy and
immensely terrified. But Michael, well, if boys could purr, Michael would
be purring.

There is movement and he is scrambles up my body. He kneels astride my
chest. He smiles down at me. My hands are around his buttocks. I gently
urge him further up and forward - his pubic hair is black and thick. His
erection touches my lips. I flick out my tongue and tease the head of his
cock. He is very aroused - his foreskin is rolled back. His boy smells are
intoxicating. I pull him further forward and hear him sigh as he sinks his
penis into my hot hungry mouth. His balls hang against my chin He begins to
fuck my mouth. He is face-fucking me. The expression is crude but that's
what he is doing. He reaches behind, scrabbles to find my hand, slips in
between the cheeks of his arse, grabs my middle finger and let's me know
where he wants it. His hole is hot, slippery, sweaty, and I find it easy to
slide in one, two fingers. I'm finger-fucking Michael while he face=fucks
me.

I wonder if he did this with his father when he was eight. How small and
slim was he then? If his father was 'a woman' what else did they do
together? Did he/she get Michael to fuck him/her? How far did the operation
go? If the boy fucked him/her, in which orifice did he do it? Did his
father fuck him? It is all wonderfully weird. I am working it out when I
hear Michael meow like a stricken kitten; his body arches; and he is
cumming into my mouth with sstrong spurts. His semen is hot and there's a
lot of it. I gulp to get it all down.

The boy collapses across me as I ease him down my body. I cuddle him and
pull him under the duvet even though the room is warm. It is shelter we are
seeking, not warmth. Shelter from public opinion, from outraged adults who
would flay me alive, and Michael, too, if they knew. He whispers in my
ears, tells me things he shouldn't but needs to. Tells me things I don't
want to know... because... because...

"You can even shit on me, if you want to," he whispers.

"Shhhh," I say to him, and hold him tight. I think I was in mid-sentence
when I realised he'd fallen asleep in my arms.

I woke him at 6.30. Time for tea. Time to talk. Then time to walk him home.

"Michael, I want to be a friend of the family. That will keep me your
friend, too, but if it happens that way, no more sex. At least not till you
are 16, and not while we're in the same school."

Michael argued fiercely and eloquently, but I refused to budge. He gave in
and that's the way it worked out. I got to know his mother and step-dad:
she was weak but she loved her son; he was weak, and essentially frightened
by authority. For him I represented authority, and so did one of my best
friends who worked for local Social Services. Between us, we did what we
could for Michael and his mother. I know Michael had sex with other
teenagers - boys and girls - he told me about some of them, possibly to
reassure himself as well as me. By the time he was 17, I was abroad again,
but I know he was serving an apprenticeship as a carpenter. He carved for
me a small cat from living hardwood. I often type with my right hand and
play with the cat with my left. It brings me comfort.

I've had the cat for 20 years and there's something I only noticed last
week. On the base Michael has carved two tiny letters: MS

His intiials.

If I were a romantic, I'd say the same initials are carved on my heart.

When I finished writing this section, I popped downstairs, grabbed half a
bottle of chilled wine, stuck a video cassette in the player and stretched
out on the couch. And there he was on the screen - Ben (Benjamin) so fresh,
so alive, so utterly beautiful it's hard to believe he actually existed in
the flesh. Another 13-year-old. Are 13-year-old boys the flame that
attracts this moth?

Benjamin - Ben - His hair is light brown, streaked with gold. Thick hair
that managed to fringe his left eye at all times. Almond eyes, gold and
hazel. Wide set eyes. Elegant nose. Mischievous dimples. A wide mouth that
smiled at every opportunity. A happy boy from a happy family. No traumas
there. Benjamin, Ben - you deserve to be 13 forever.

A happy boy from a happy family, and yet as sexually voracious boy as I've
ever encountered. Ben was waiting for me the day he joined our school. He
knew of me since I'd taught his sister, and she went home rabitting on
about this terrific teacher, with the ridiculous sense of humour, who
actually liked kids and got outstanding exam results for them. I learned
later that Ben insisted he be in my Tutor Group, and there he sat for five
years, directly in front of me, every morning, every afternoon, with a
smile that said: "I know, and I love it!"

Ben didn't take me to bed until his 14th birthday. I resisted him that
long. I had a golden rule: nobody from school, and definitely nobody from
my own Tutor Group.

Girls swarmed round Ben from the age of 10 and he loved it. He came from a
well-balanced family. His sister was beautiful; she knew it, and she loved
to be surrounded by boys. And Ben had girlfriends all the way through from
11 to 14 and beyond. I have never been sure if bisexuality exists; but in
Ben an insatiable desire to experiment with both sexes seemed to be what
satisfied him most. I don't want to make Ben sound promiscuous; he wasn't;
he was fiercely loyal to the girl of the month.

Whether or not Ben and I would ever have got it on had it not been for
Activities Week, I will never know. But away from school we went, me in
charge of 46 kids, on the hottest week of a hot June that turned out hotter
than I could ever have expected.

Ben fell out of a chestnut tree on the second day. That was not much of a
surprise. An intensely physical boy, Ben had several absences from school
following falls from walls, bicycles, motor bikes, trees, buildings, and
pretty much anything above six feet. Although well co-ordinated, Ben took
risks. If any act could be complicated until it was risky that's the course
he took, so it was little surprise when Ben was carried back to the House
at 10 in the morning to be dumped unceremoniously on my bed.

He was not badly injured, little more than a twisted knee, but the rest of
the day was going to be on a bed, or by the river, or in the swimming pool,
or at least somewhere with the weight off his leg. And that first place
happened to be my bedroom with its commanding view out over the grounds and
up and down the boys' corridor.

Benjamin lay there grinning. Smiling broadly is better though he winced
when I turned his knee.

"It needs cream," he announced, pushing his track-suit bottom to his
ankles, no mean feat when he could hardly sit up in bed. I obtained the
most inoffensive cream I could find and applied it to the hollows around
his left knee. Benjamin chattered on, but when I tried to take my fingers
away, he whispered, "Stroke it, please. It feels so nice." I don't often
blush but I guess my face was afire.

Ben had this ability to make every conversation personal and intimate
within a few moments. Even in a crowded classroom, you'd find yourself
without warning in the middle of an intimate chat as if you were the only
person in the world Ben could confide in. It was not so much what he said
as the way he said it.

"I like being here with you, sir. Just us. Not all them kids. Just us. In
here. On our own. It's cool..." he giggled. "It's cool and so cool. Just
being here. Could you stroke higher please, sir. Please, just a little
higher."

His underpants were snow white, gleaming white. Old-fashioned jockeys, but
a bit too tight for him. And as we chatted and I stroked, Ben got a
hard-on. I watched it happen. He knew I was watching, and he let it happen.

"Just me and you, sir. Nobody coming. Nobody to disturb us. We can say what
we like. Do what we like."

His hard cock was outlined beneath the thin white cotton; then it arched
and tented the cotton. How easy it would be to let me fingers run the
length of this boy's erection. This boy who lay there, golden hair splashed
on a ducki-blue pillow case, lying there, touching me with his smile,
inviting me to ecstasy.

Suddenly he turned over.

Embarrassed, I thought.

Did I have time to sigh in relief? I don't think so... for Benjamin reached
round, raised his tummy and jerked his underpants to his knees.

"Cramp, sir. Awful, sir. Right at the top of my legs. Could you, sir,
please, sir."

Medical, it's medical, I told myself.

I laid the tube of cream aside and gently dug my fingers into the tender
places where his long legs ran into the arch of his buttocks. Press,
release, press again. Knead and manipulate.

"That's good, sir, harder, sir. And a bit higher."

I have always been anal. I don't know why. One of life's mysteries, one of
life's little tricks. Almost unconsciously, my fingers parted his cheeks,
enough, just enough to see the pink wink of his pucker, so sweet, so
vulnerable. A sigh rose from the pillow. Benjamin spread his legs so that
one of them dangled over the edge of the bed. It was hot in the room, in
there, in that little furnace. The smell of cream and sweat and pure boy. I
pressed harder, manipulated more openly, leaned closer into him.

"Kiss my bum, sir."

Had I misheard?

Was that Benjamin's voice or a tiny inner one of my own?

"Please, sir, kiss my bum."

I leaned forward and ran my tongue from the hollow of the boy's back into
the crack between his cheeks. How far to Babylon? Can I get there and back
by night again? Benjamin's hands came round to pull his buttocks wide
apart. "Please, sir." His whisper was hoarse, a whisper from a voice on the
edge of breaking.

I leaned all the way and ran my tongue along the inside walls of his
buttocks. The tip touched his anus, pinky brown and sweetly puckered. A
magnet. It drew my tongue to its very centre. I stroked it with my tongue,
pushed and probed, lost in a universe that had always been calling me name.

Ben swirled on the bed, grabbed me and pulled me to him. Tall for his age,
he was slim but strong. He pulled me onto him and kissed me full on the
lips, his tongue pushed at my lips frantically, I surrendered, opened, and
let him invade me. I fenced back the invader, attack, retreat, attack
again. His saliva poured into me in retaliation for mine. The flood gates
opened. He kissed my mouth, my lips, my face. His hands pulled and tugged
at my T-shirt while I jerked his up and away from his shoulders. Chest to
chest, belly to belly, we were glued to together by the heat of the room,
our bodies and our own sweat.

I was caught in a maelstrom of desire.

Ben jerked at my track-suit bottoms, my briefs, and pushed them down my
legs. He flopped around like a landed fish until we lay head to feet, faces
jammed between each other's legs, sucking the life out of each other. Me on
the bottom, Ben on top, his legs straddling my head to give him as much
leverage as possible. Frantically, he drove his cock into my throat until I
felt the silk of his pubic hair against my lips. He jerked the base of my
cock and suck halfway up and down the shaft.

I tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he grabbed my bum and forced
me as deeply into him as he could cope with. My hips jerked and heaved in
time with his own; we emptied our balls into each other simultaneously. I
felt the semen was being sucked out of as much as I was squirting it. We
flip flopped around the bed; it bounced a couple of inches across the room;
we held on for dear life until the earthquake pitched, passed, the
turbulence passed, and peace fell over the kingdom.

Benjamin struggled up the bed and wrapped my arms around him. He grinned
directly at me, hair matted across his forehead.

"Wow, fucking wow! Shit! That was the greatest!"

I almost told him to mind his language, but then laughed myself and pulled
him to me.

"Hey, careful about your knee," I whispered. "What fucking knee?" he
whispered back.

We lay for a short time, then he whispered again, "May I go exploring now?"

Not quite sure what he meant, I nodded assent.

Down the bed he scrambled, heaved at legs until I got the message, and
turned myself over. The chance to bury my head into a pillow and dream too
much to pass on. Then I felt it. Bens's long fingers pulling me apart, his
smooth cheeks against my own, his finger tips pulling me gently open, and
his tongue probing, inching, penetrating me. My sphincter sighed and gave
up. I turned and looked quizzically down the bed: "Are you sure...?" The
boy looked with - I hesitate to use the term - a shit-eating grin on his
face. Then our intrepid explorer dived headfirst into the Dark Continent
again.

Later, that night actually, after lights out, Benjamin crept into my bed
and told me with a grin he didn't love me. But he liked me lots, he
respected me, he loved having me as his Form Teacher, he loved my jokes, my
moods, my dictatorial whims. He didn't think he was gay though he'd
"pulled" four or five of the boys, and nine or ten of the girls, in his
Year at school. He'd never had sex with a man, didn't really want it, but
wanted it with me.  Wanted me to be his teacher. Had wanted it since he'd
joined my class. But he'd been 11, only a baby, hardly worth my
time. Didn't know about my sexuality, wasn't interested in it, wouldn't
pester me, but he did want to be with me, for now, for this time. And would
he let me...?

Images of Ben dance in my head.

We are up the river, having gone at least a mile in our canoe beyond the
others. We are lying in a field, the grasses are high, I am on my back. Ben
is trying to lower himself onto me, trying to fit my cock inside him as he
squats across my hips. We are both laughing between the grimaces because
neither of us brought Vaseline, cream, or any lubricant other than our
spit, and we've already kissed all that away. We gave up and canoed our way
back down the river, blinded by the sunlight bouncing from the water and by
our unsatisfied lust.

Finally he gives up and lets himself fall in the sun-bleached grass.

"Well, you can't say I didn't try," he grins, then frowns.

"What's up?" I ask.

"A huge shit, and it's right up my arse," he laughs. "I gotta do one, right
here, right now."

There must have been something in my look.

"Wanna watch me?" he says. "I don't mind. It's only shit. And you've been
half way up my hole already."

I nod.

"How should I do it?" he asks.

I find my voice.

"Could you squat over me?  I mean with my face under your arse..... but
don't you dare on shit on me."

"So you want to watch close up," Ben laughs. "In glorious technicolour?"

I nod.

"Well, get over here."

I crawl over, then lie on my back. He squats over me, a foot on either side
of my head, holding himself up by his knees. My eyes are no more than three
inches from his anus. I hear him strain: "Christ, this is a big one." Then
his anus opens like the aperture on my camera. There's a dark brown dot at
the centre and as I watch intently it grows, blooms and emerges, a living
cigar. The smell surrounds me but it's curiously inoffensive. The boy's
turd emerges and descends millimetre by millimetre. For a moment I'm
tempted to touch it with the tip of my tongue, then realise it's something
I don't want to do. Being part of the boy's most intimate, personal
function is enough.

"Bombs away. You'd better get out of there," grunts Ben.

I roll away and from the side watch as a long brown turd descends almost
vertically. Still on his haunches, Ben hops away and we both watch his
steaming column of shit. It stays upright for a few moments and then
topples exhaustedly onto the grass.

"Do you want to clean my arse?" grins Ben, sticking out his tongue and
wiggling it at me.

I grab a handful of the nearest doken leaves and throw them at him.

"Clean your own shit," I laugh, and Ben joins while wiping himself
ceremoniously. He gives the shitty leaves a sniff, then throws them into
the bushes. Then it's back to the river and the canoe.

We get back to the House earlier than the others.

That week we are sharing a shower. Ben is pissing on me, holding his
foreskin tight and squirting over my stomach and legs with the
not-so-little hose of his cock. He's read about Golden Showers; he wants to
try one, wants to try everything. Five minutes later I'm sitting on the
toilet trying to take shit while Ben sucks me off. It's his idea. It's
damned near impossible; try it and see. It's Benjamin idea. I am very
dubious but he talks me into it. That same night we are in my bed again, in
the 69 position, trying to make each other come, but only by tongue-fucking
each other up the bum. I can't come that way but Ben explodes with a series
of yelps that could wake the dorms if the boys weren't stunned by the
activities of the day and the heat.

Am I ashamed of all this?

I tried hard to be ashamed but I couldn't make it. After all, it seemed to
be something Ben needed, and if not with me, with whom? Because I would not
put anything past the boy. I know what it's like to be standing in a bus
station toilet on a wet and windy miserable afternoon being sucked off by a
strange man, hoping, praying he will not bite my dick off, or force me to
suck him, if I don't choose to, or murder me and hide my mutilated body,
etc. etc.

The coach pulls back into school grounds. I'd already arranged to give Ben
a lift home. As I drive, he chats. Mostly it's thank you; it's so warm, so
sincere, I begin to wonder if we've been through the same experiences. And
he tells me before I tell him: it's over. The people in our Tutor Group
wouldn't understand the closeness between us; they would misinterpret it as
favouritism, and I never indulge in favouritism, especially with my
favourites.

We reach Benjamin's home, we see his mother at the door. She waves to us. I
pull the car in, he leans across me and gives me a big open kiss full on
the mouth. I'm literally gob-smacked. Then he jumps out of the car and
dives into his mother's arms. As I haul his hold-all from the back seat, I
hear Ben shouting: "Told you I'd do it, mum. Told you!"

His mother comes towards me, smiles, says: "Ignore him, he's an idiot, but
he has won a fiver from me."

Then she grabs me and kisses me, full on the mouth.

"There, I got my fiver back!"

Five years, five long years that passed by all too quickly. And during that
time, sex was probably the least essential element in my relationship with
Benjamin. That's the way it should be. Those who give themselves the name
of Boy Lovers should have this in common: loving all of the boy is so much
more satisfying than a silly, self-defeating exclusive focus on genital
(and anal) areas. Oh, don't get me wrong; that side of being male is
wonderful, but taken in the context of a whole relationship, it is only
part of the whole, the rays of sun that light up an already breath-taking
landscape.

It is the same for Man Lovers, those boys, who like myself, wanted a man in
their lives, a whole man. For if you look at those boys you will find they
have something in common: they are missing a significant male figure in
their lives. Absent fathers, inadequate fathers, insignificant fathers
won't do. Boys are hungry for role models, and the only role models who
really matter are the men in their lives because finally that is what they
have to be - men.

Don't get me wrong.

Many of the sweetest, strongest, most tolerant, independent boys I've met
are those from single parent families where it is mum who has raised them;
it is mum who has passed on to them so many of their caring qualities,
their ability to listen, their ability to feel, their ability to share
emotions; it is mum who has allowed them to develop their female side. But
in the end boys have to function in the world as men, and if they have no
men as guides, mentors, role models, they will go out and try in whatever
ways they can to find them.

Ben is married. Ben and Sue have twins, one boy, one girl; he never does
anything by halves. He still pops in from time to time; he is great
company, but the past is the past, and never casts its shadow between us,
only its sunlight.

The twin are lovely, but I would say that, wouldn't I?

After all, I'm their Godfather.

You can skate on thin ice so many times but in the end you're going to go
through it. You can skate on thin ice for a long long time, but the longer
you skate the more the chances increase you're going to go through it. I
was weary of skating on thin ice. And after Ben I didn't want to go through
the whole process again. The glory and tragedy of being a Boy Lover is that
boys grow up, the very things that attract you to them are the things they
lose so quickly, and you're back on the treadmill again, or, more
accurately, your the hamster in the hamster cage running round in circles,
getting nowhere, gdetting older, and losing the very things that attracted
the boys too.

It was time for me to get out of the hamster cage, or at least try. It was
insane to think I could stroll through the corridors of a boarding house
watching boys sprinting past me, pubescently glorious; naked boys crowding
into the shared showers; boys on warms nights stretched out almost naked on
their beds, boys coming to my room for this or that or the next thing, with
the lock to the door only a flick away.

So I left, smiling wryly but gratefully for all the years of pleasure, fun
and fulfillment they'd given me. And I took up an appointment at a
university by the sea, specialising in, of all things, educational
psychology. At least I would still be amongst the young, but out of
temptation's way.

And I was... for all of three months.

His name was - and still is - Stephen.

Stephen was 17 going on 18, and had that ridiculous bloom of youth that
Sixth Formers have when they embark on the adventure of university life,
and all the new freedoms it offers. And Stephen was beautiful. Tall(ish),
slim, thick black shoulder-length hair, perfect skin that no blade had yet
touched, big eyes, made huge by his glasses, wide shoulders, narrow waist,
rounded buttocks drawn tight by denim, sensitive, music lover, but with a
fierce intelligent and a mind of his own.

October 27th. Stephen's birthday. A late seminar. Six students, all 17 or
18. They'd gone on ahead to the pub. Stephen and I were to follow. He
wanted to ask me about... oh, I can't remember. We were comfortably
ensconced before an open fire. Stephen sighed and told me this was the kind
of life he wanted, a life like mine. I was laughing and saying he knew very
little about my life. Stephen frowned and gave me his disturbingly intense
gaze. My heart skipped several beats. "Oh, no, fuck, not again,"

Falling in love again, never wanted to What am I to do, I can't help it
Love always been my game, play it how I may I was made that way, I can't
help it

Boys cluster to me like moths round a flame And if their wings get burned,
I know I'm not to blame

Falling in love again, never wanted to What am I to do, I can't help it

Marlene Dietrich or Nina Simone? I can't remember which goddess was singing
it. Maybe nobody was. Maybe it's a false memory. That doesn't matter. I was
singing it, silently, and that's what matters.

I began to wonder what Stephen would be like naked, on the carpet, beneath
me, me looking into the depths of those almost-black eyes, waving for help,
waving goodbye as I drowned yet again. What would it be like to press my
naked body against his, our pubic hair mingling, our cocks batting for
space between our bellies?

"Come on," I said, standing up abruptly. "Let's not keep the others
waiting. It's your birthday we're celebrating."

Stephen stood up, slowly, and sighed again, "But I'm so comfortable here."

I slapped his ass and drove him towards the door.

"Come on you're a big boy now."

He turned to me with a smile close to a grin: "Yes, I am. I'm a big boy
now, and I can do what the big boys do."

Exeunt both of us - laughing.

Two hours later we staggered out of my local hostelry into a battering gale
of the kind only found by the Northern Sea. Not drunk but happily
inebriated, though I was concerned Stephen had drunk a couple of vodkas
more than any non-experienced drinker should. What the Hell. It was the
boy's 18th birthday, and, as Stephen had said: "I'm a big boy now, and I
can do what the big boys do."

Rain blew wildly into our faces, cobblestones were slippy under out
feet. There was no way I was going to let Stephen stagger the half a mile
to his Hall of Residence when my cottage was barely five minutes away. I
had a comfortable spare mattress, pillow, and huge tartan blanket. He'd
been comfortable on that for the night. We linked arms and toddled home.

Embers still glowed in the hearth. I chucked on two logs, yanked the
mattress out, placed it a few feet from the fire, fluffed out the pillow,
spread the blanket, and watched Stephen stretch out his long legs. I sat in
the armchair, waiting for him to drift off.

"I won'try to stop you if you try to seduce me."

There's no point pretending I didn't hear him. I did. And I understood what
he was saying. I looked down. The firelight played off his glasses. I felt
a lump in my throat. I swallowed it. I sat on the edge of the mattress. I
took off his glasses. That intense gaze from those big eyes.

"Sure?"

"I'm a big boy now," he smiled.

I leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed me back. I opened my mouth. He
opened his. I pressed my tongue into his mouth. He pressed back and entered
mine. My hand reached down. I outlined his erection with my fingers - he
really was a big boy - and unzipped him.

I suppose I could go into erotic detail but I won't. Our first love-making
is far too personal for that. I made love to Stephen's body and brought him
to orgasm in my mouth. But the boy was exhausted, he was close to drunk and
he needed sleep more than he needed sex. I'd hardly covered him with a
crisp linen sheet and the tartan blanket than he was sound asleep as only
teenage boys can be. I went off to my bed, already beginning to worry if
there would be regret and recriminations in the morning.

"Oh good, you're awake at last."

I opened my bleary eyes and focused. Those big eyes were gazing down at
me. Closer and closer they came. Then I felt Stephen's lips on mine, our
mouths opening, the exhange of alcohol-sweetened saliva. I grabbed a moment
to yawn: "You're up early."

"So are you," came the smile.

His fingers were round my hard-on, so stiff I realised it was aching.

"Fuck me," the boy said.

I got up on one elbow and faced him. He did the same. We faced each other.

"Wait a minute, Stephen," I said. "Have you had sex before?"

"Before what?"

"Don't try to be funny," I said, but I was smiling.

"Not really," he said, "but when I was at school a man gave me a lift home
in his ark. He put his hand on my knee and started to slide it up. I
panicked. I told him we were at my house. He stopped. I got out of the
car. When it was gone I walked the rest of the way home."  (a pause) "And I
fingered my cousin's cunt in the wardrobe and she played with my willy. But
we were only eight, so I suppose that doesn't count."

"No, it doesn't," I agreed.

"Stop talking," he frowned. "Fuck me."

"Are you sure?"

"Stop fucking talking and just fucking fuck me!"

"You know it can hurt - at first,"

"I'm not stupid," he said, adding, "just do what you have to do so it
doesn't hurt too much."

I threw back the blanket and the sheet. We were both naked. The boy was
ravishing. I put my hands on his waist and indicated he should turn over
and lie on his tummy. He did, and adjusted the pillow to make himself
comfortable. I slid down between his legs, lifted one at a time and spread
them apart. I slid my had between his cheeks, found his anus, and began to
stroke it with a finger tip. I was horny as fuck. I got my face between his
buttocks and began to lick his anus.

"Wow, that's really personal," came his voice. "But it feels really
nice. Keep doing that."

I obliged.

"Christ, I think your tongue is half way up my arse. Wiggle it a bit."

I release my tongue for a moment.

"Shut the fuck up," I said. "I don't need a running commentary from you."

"Sorry," came the reply. "But it feels great. See if you can get your whole
tongue inside me."

I fucked Stephen. Then he fucked me. Then I fucked him again. Then it was
lunchtime.

We still fuck every Sunday morning before breakfast.

Stephen got a 1st Class Honours degree. We now share the cottage. He's
doing his PhD. Wee've been friends, companions and lovers for six
years. Nobody minds. Nobody cares. They care about us and our friends share
our lives.

There's far more to the relationship than sex, though the sex is
great. Stephen loves my tongue up his arse; sometimes he reads a book while
I'm down there exploring. I fuck him more than he fucks me; we've got the
balance just right. We love a lot - and we laugh even more.

And young boys?

Well, I can look, can't I?

Occasionally Stephen catches me looking and sighs: "Grow up, can't you?"

"I'll grow up when Peter Pan does," I laigh back.

But I've resisted temptation these past six years, and even when my tongue
or cock is up Stephen's bum it's him I'm thinking about.

Who knows?

One of these days maybe I will grow up.

But not just yet.