Date: Mon, 15 Apr 2002 05:16:49 -0500
From: bobby blue <blbobby2@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Children of the Night - Boarding School Chapter 1

The Children of the Night
The Boarding School 1

The usual disclaimers and copyrights apply here.  If you don't like stories
about kids enjoying life--including its sexual aspects--then read no
further, because that's what this story is about.

My thanks to Edward Arlington Robinson for writing the poem which inspired
me to write this and other stories.  If you wish to e-mail me with
criticisms, praise or story ideas, contact me at
blbobby2@hotmail.com.

The Children of the Night

By
Edwin Arlington Robinson


For those that never know the light,
The darkness is a sullen thing;
And they, the Children of the Night,
Seem lost in Fortune's winnowing.

Let us, the Children of the Night,
Put off the cloak that hides the scar!
Let us be Children of the Light,
And tell the ages what we are!



This is a true story.  It takes place at a state supported boarding school
for the blind.  Since the time of this story -- late nineteen fifties --
attitudes towards those of us with handicaps have changed significantly.
Children are no longer sent off to a boarding school, where they reside
with other legally blind kids for nine months out of the year until they
graduate at seventeen or eighteen.  Now they mix with other kids in their
own community most of whom are not handicapped.  But, that wasn't the case
in 1959, when this story took place.

We, all of us boys who lived at the state supported school for the blind,
had visual problems severe enough to classify us as legally blind.  I was
one of the lucky ones, I was totally blind and had been since my birth.  I
say I was lucky because, in my case, there was no waiting for a miracle
drug or preacher.  I knew I was going to be blind for the remainder of my
life, so I might as well settle down and get on with living.  For many of
the kids who had some vision, there were always miracles over the horizon,
but none of them ever worked out.  There were legends aplenty, telling of
guys who had their sight restored by some benevolent ophthalmologist.  But
no one knew these legendary heroes, but the teller always knew some one who
knew them.

On this particular day, a November Saturday, I was more concerned with
warding off the boredom brought on by a rain-filled cold wind which blew
relentlessly outside ruining all my twelve-year-old plans for one of my two
days of freedom from the classroom. I was listening to a lady reading
Johnny Tremain on the "talking book" record player, and trying to imagine
myself as a revolutionary war kid fighting for freedom.  It wasn't working.
Let's face it, I was just plain bored.  Earlier I had tried to play with
some of the little plastic pirates my Mother had purchased for me last
summer, but I no longer had any interest in little plastic people.  I
didn't know it then, but those pirates were the last "kid's toys" my Mother
would buy for me.  I had reached the age where music, (especially
rock-'n-roll music) would take the place of toy soldiers and children's
dreams.  I was becoming a sexual animal in my own right, but, most of that
was some where in the future.  Today, I was just !  flat bored.

Suddenly, there was a knock at my door.  "Come in, unless you are a
supervisor!"  I yelled.  That was a pretty stupid thing to say for the dorm
supervisors never knocked, they just walked in.  I thought it was funny
though.

"Hey, cat, you whacking off?" it was the voice of Bill.

"Nah," I replied, "I was just waiting for you to come do it for me." I said
with a laugh.  My words of vibrato about whacking off, were just that.  I
had only been playing with myself seriously for the past couple of months,
since my cousin had taught me how last summer.  But, that is another
story--and I think I'll let her tell it.  I had not yet orgasmed, I guess I
didn't have the patience for it, but I probably would have soon.  I had
discovered that it made me feel good, and was beginning to do it with
increased frequency and intensity.

Bill was a friend I had known since the second grade, when he joined our
little group of freaks.  Though he was thirteen years old, he was a grade
behind me in school.  He was not well accepted by the kids his own age
because he was kind of small for his age--the results of having been born
prematurely; but he wasn't despised by them either; he was merely ignored.
Therefore, he hung around us younger guys, and we looked upon him as a
guide; someone who could teach us the ways of the street, and Bill thrived
on this position.

"So, whatcha doing chicken shit?" he asked.  To Bill everyone was chicken
shit.

"Just trying to read this stupid book." I responded.  Even if I had loved
the book, I would have called it stupid to keep from being labeled an
egghead.

"Let's do something," Bill said.  I could tell from the sound of his voice
that Bill had a scheme in mind, but he wasn't going to reveal it yet.  So,
I patiently waited.  Bill's "adventures" were interesting enough, if you
let him lead them.  Otherwise, he did everything he could to undermine
them.

"What do you have in mind?" I asked.  So much for patience.

"How about we play some dice."

"I only got one die," I said idly.

"Well, we'll play high number wins," he said.

"What do we play for?"

"How about two bucks I have, against your Buddy Holly record."  Buddy
Holly's "Peggy Sue" was one of my prized possessions.  I had just bought
it.

"No way man.  That Buddy Holly's worth a lot more than that to me."

"Okay, let's just play for money, then."

"I don't have any money," I said.

"Okay then, let's play strip dice," he said.  "Low number has to take off a
piece of clothing."

"Okay," I finally agreed.  Anything to break the boredom.  So I rummaged
through my dresser drawers and came up with the single die.

We started playing.  Bill would throw, and then I would.  Since Bill had
pretty good vision he would read the die.  The game started off pretty
evenly divided.  I would win a hand, then Bill would win.  The loser would
take off an article of clothing, or something out of his pocket, anything
to postpone the inevitable for a little while.  Back and forth like that,
until I was lulled into a sense of well-being.  I was actually day dreaming
about watching "gun smoke" and "have gun will travel" that evening on the
TV that was in the living room of the dorm.  Suddenly I realized that I was
losing.  I was down to my underwear, and Bill still had his pants and one
sock on.

"I'm bored with this game," I said abruptly, "let's play something else."

"You can't quit now chicken shit." Bill said angrily.  "Well, I don't want
to play any more," I said petulantly.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," Bill said.  "We will play one more hand, if
you win, then will do anything you say."

"And, what if you win?" I asked.

"Then we go into the closet and play nasty," Bill said.  "You have to do
anything I say."

"Hey, I'm no queer," I said.  My heart was beginning to race, and my voice
sounded a little shaky.  Queers were mythical ogres who somehow corrupted
little boys.  I had never met one, but I had heard plenty of stories about
them from the more experienced kids.  Being thought to be "queer" was
something that could ruin one's reputation in a heartbeat, and to be
avoided at all costs.

"I'm not queer either," he said, "we'll just show each other our dicks and
stuff.  Nothing queer."

"Well, okay," I said, my status and sexual orientation being reassured.

So, we threw the die one more time.  I threw a one and Bill threw a six, at
least that's what he said.  I knew he was lying, but I wanted to experiment
as much as he did.  This was his scheme all along, I realized.

We got up and went into my closet.  Lighting was no problem for us, we were
both use to working in the dark.  I heard Bill unbuckle his belt and drop
his pants and underwear, so I dropped my underwear.  Now was the moment of
no return.  I reached out and touched his dick.  My God, it was huge.  Mine
was a whopping 3' and his must have been six or seven inches long.  Of
course I was no expert on guys dicks as my own was the one I was most
familiar with, for touch was my best sense of discovery, and since touching
another guy's dick was a good way to get into a fight, my experiences were
limited.  However, Bill's dick felt huge to me.  He was circumcised and the
head felt like a ping pong ball in my hand. The shaft seemed to go on
forever.

"That feels so good," Bill said, grabbing hold of my hardening dick.
"Would you suck my dick?" he whispered.

"Only if you lick my ass first." I chuckled.  I thought this would stop
him, but he thought about it for a moment and said, "Okay, turn around."  I
was flabbergasted, because I really didn't want to either suck his dick or
have my ass licked.  I had just said that to put him off.  I was busy
thinking about that long hard dick.  Would mine ever be that big? I doubted
it.  I turned around and heard Bill kneel behind me.  He parted the cheeks
of my ass and began to feel the crack.  This was the first time since we
had gone into the closet that I began to get aroused.  Before that it was
just two kids playing.  He stuck his finger in my hole and began to move it
around.

"Kiss it," I said.  My voice sounded very shaky, and my breathing was
difficult.  Then I felt his tongue gingerly touch my asshole, and it began
to move around.  He stuck his tongue between my two cheeks and began to
lick my hole.  My young dick sprang to full attention.

"No way, man," I fairly shouted, quickly jerking up my underpants and
opening the closet door.  "This is sick.  Really sick."

I went out into the room, and could hear Bill behind me adjusting his
clothing.  "You chicken shit," he said.  "You said you'd suck me off."  He
had me there.  I couldn't tell the other guys that he had licked my ass,
because he would tell them that I had agreed to suck him.  We would both be
labeled "queer" and ruined for life.  It looked like we had a stand off.

"Well, I don't want to do it," I said cherlishly, feeling almost like I
wanted to cry.

"I should beat you up for being such a chicken shit," Bill said.  Bill's
words were mainly words of vibrato.  He was no fighter--as I said, he was
small for his age, and had probably been bested in every fight he had been
in.  I realized that he felt desperate.  He was a little taller than me,
and the fight would be pretty close, but he had me on body mass.  Then he
reached out and grabbed me, and threw me on the bed.  We began to wrestle
around, half serious and half playful.  This game had gone too far, there
would be repercussions from this day, I knew.

Suddenly, Bill's body was laying across my upturned face, and I realized
his dick was still exposed.  It was right next to my lips.  I could smell
the slightly rank smell of him, and that smell immediately got my dick hard
again, and started my heart racing.  I could feel the head of his pecker
thrusting insistently against my lips and there was no doubt what I was
going to do.  I tentatively opened them and took the head in my mouth.  The
taste surprised me; I had expected it to taste dirty, but the skin had a
sweet taste.  It was soft like baby's skin.  The smell was a definite turn
on.  It was, in some way, reminiscent of forbidden mysterious places;
reminding me somehow of the sounds I use to hear after my father and mother
went to bed some nights.

Bill began to move his dick up and down in my mouth.  At first I could only
feel the ridges of his hard dick move up and down past my lips.  Then, as
he began to thrust deeper and deeper, I found myself gagging and fighting
him with my tongue.  I feared that I was going to throw up or choke to
death.  But, I did neither.  I learned to breathe through my nose, and to
relax a little.  He began to say things like, "that feels so good." And
"suck it, lick it."  I felt that I had some kind of mysterious power over
him; as he liked it so much, then he must like me as well.  Then his body
gave a shudder and he almost pulled his dick out of my mouth.  "Oh God," he
said, "I'm going to cum."  I quickly pulled away from his dick and left him
humping the air for a second.  Then he stopped.

We were both breathing very hard.  "Why did you stop?" he asked.

"Man, I can't do that," I said.

"Oh, please," he pleaded.  "I won't tell anyone, I promise."  I felt weak.
I had wanted to do it so bad, but I felt that I couldn't.

Bill put his arm around my neck, leaned down and began to kiss me.  It was
strange, I loved it.  I felt like I was under his control and had no will
of my own.

"Please suck my dick?" he pleaded.  "I won't tell anybody, I promise."

"Okay, if you promise," I whispered.

Once again I took his still hard member in my mouth and began to move up
and down on it.  Since his orgasm had been forestalled, it didn't take Bill
long to hit his stride again.

"Here comes!" he panted, "do you want it?"

"Oh yes," I mumbled.  Then he pushed his dick further in to my mouth than
it had ever been before, and I tasted something sweet and powerful being
squirted into my mouth; five or six powerful squirts.  I knew that this was
the stuff that could cause human life to come into being and for the first
time in my life I had a dry orgasm.  My whole body shook with the feel of
it, and I knew that I wanted to go on like that forever.

Bill was finished.  He put his softening dick back in to his pants and
finished getting dressed.

"Hey, cat," he said, "are you going to tell anyone what we did?"

"Hell no," I said.  I was still very shaky.  "I won't say anything if you
don't," I whispered.

"Nah, I won't say anything.  I was just kidding anyway.  I just wanted to
see if you would do it."  Bill was now easing toward the door.  "I'll see
you around chicken shit queer." he said as he slammed the door.  I didn't
know if he was kidding or not; I don't even know if he knew whether he was
kidding or not.  The worse thing was that he was right.  I was queer.  I
had loved it.  I would love to do it again if he asked me.  Yet, I didn't
want to be queer, I wanted to be normal.  After all, I had been normal
about thirty minutes ago; but I could never go back to being that guileless
kid again.  I began to cry, not the hysterical wailing of a child, but the
silent violent tears of someone in serious trouble.

Bill and I kept up our secret relationship for several years, until it
ended rather tragically one day.  But, our near detections and the
involvement of others at the school are for other stories.