Date: Sat, 11 Aug 2001 02:31:08 -0700 (PDT)
From: Chris Kent
Subject: LUVERBOY  by CHRIS KENT

This is a work of FICTION for ADULTS only. Do NOT read this if you are
under 18 or if you are not an adult according to the laws of your state or
country. Do NOT read this if you are offended or by fantasies involving
boys with boys, or boys with men. This file contains sexually explicit
material.

This is the first piece of erotic writing I did. It has the virtues and
faults you might expect from its naive enthusiasm. It also has a special
place in my affections. None of it is true, none of it happened (but then
he would say that, wouldn't he?)


LUVERBOY

One boy's story,
told by Chris Kent

If I get there by one o'clock I sit through a cartoon, the Pearl & Dean
advertisements, the trailers for next week's films, local advertisements,
then the main film. Often I am alone in the cinema, at least until the big
film begins, even then, there is rarely more than a handful scattered
throughout the deep cavern of the interior, even in summer, or maybe
because it is summer. Has everyone gone to the beach?

My mother thinks I'm down at the beach. The money mum gives me provides a
far more satisfying afternoon in the cinema with enough left over for
popcorn and orange squash.

I love the struggle to pierce the silver membrane as the plastic straw
pushes its way down into the juices; I love the rude gurgles that the last
dregs of orange make as I suck them up the straw into my mouth, swirling
the liquid there until the lack of breath forces me to let it drain down my
throat. The juice is gone but I can feel the taste on my lips for the rest
of the afternoon.

Sometimes I sit in the middle seat of the front row. I can stretch out my
legs there. The screen and the sound are overpowering. Distractions are
impossible.

Sometimes I sit in the front row of the balcony. Watching a movie from
there, I have a bird's eye-view. I feel I could swoop down into the action
on the screen. Sometimes, especially when I am alone in the theatre, I sit
in a corner of the back row and wonder what it is like when the theatre is
completely empty.

Does the film roll on when there are no eyes to watch, or does the action
slow and stop until the first patrons drag themselves in, perhaps from the
rain, to flop down on the plush velvet seats, all of them stained, many of
them ripped with the grey wool foam hanging from the rips like the grey
innards of gutted fish down at the docks.

The mock torches dim, the heavy red curtains swing open, the music dies
away. Here we go.

I met him, or he met me, at the sweets counter. I was buying glazed popcorn
and orange squash. "Is the orange squash any good?" he asked. I ignored the
question. Strangers don't speak to each other in the cinema. Why not? I
didn't know. That's just the way it was. The fat lady behind the counter,
bored already, yawned, and handed me my squash. The plastic cup was full to
over-flowing. I had popcorn in one hand, my ticket in the other.

"Here, let me get that for you."  The same voice, young, good-humoured,
almost laughing. A hand took the cup. I looked around and up. An older boy,
no, a young man, eighteen, nineteen. At eleven years old, age doesn't
matter much. Anyone over sixteen is grown up, and to be avoided, but he had
my squash, so I followed him into the cinema. The lights were still up. We
walked down the central aisle, almost to the front. He sat down, holding my
cup. I sat down beside him and reached for the cup. He gave it to me.

"I can't drink orange squash," he said.

"Why not?" I did not want to speak to him, but I was intrigued. Everybody
likes orange squash, especially the kind you got in the cinema, why not
him?

"Additives," he said. "Things they put in the squash. Chemicals. So it
doesn't turn sour. Additives make me hyper-active."

"What's that?"

"Hyper-active?  It means I jump around all over the place, like a chimp in
heat. I get high as a kite. So I have to avoid anything with additives in
them. Does popcorn have additives?"

"I don't know."

"Can I try some?"

Reflexively I held out my tub of sweet popcorn to him. He took a handful,
popped them in his mouth, crunched and swallowed. I watched his reactions
closely. Nothing. I felt a little disappointed.

"Hey, you've got longer hair than me."  He freed my hair from the back of
the seat and let it hang down over my neck. He stroked my hair until it was
uniform in length. Then he freed his own hair and let it hang loosely over
his neck.

"What do you think?"

"About the same."

"Yeh, you're right, but your hair's like gold. How do you get it like that?
Does your mum dye it?"

"Course not. It's just the sun." I was indignant, proud, embarrassed,
feeling the colour rise in my cheeks. I stole a glance at this boy, this
man, who admired my hair.

He was slim, almost almost, dark, almond-shaped eyes and thick eyelashes
that cast shadows on his tanned skin.  I could see the faint outline of a
moustache above lips that seemed a little too full for such a slim
face. His nose was thin, the nostrils slightly flared. He wore a thin,
beige roll-neck sweater which showed off his thick black hair. I realised I
wasn't glancing, I was studying him. He seemed amused. I blushed. The
lights dimmed, the music died away, the curtains swung open.

"Here we go," he whispered, his breath sweet and warm on my ear.

He shifted his position in his seat until he was fully relaxed. I did the
same, I always did. It was good to have company for once. I was a little
tired of being alone.

Halfway through the ads, I drained the last of my squash, gurgling the
juice noisily and rudely up the straw. He giggled and I joined in. Then I
began on the popcorn, taking a chunk at a time to make it last. He
whispered in my ear again. "Can I have some? I'll get more when we've
finished."  I nodded. He slid his hand across my bare knees to find the tub
and took a piece. "I'm Eric."  I whispered back, "I'm Ben."

It took us half an hour to eat the popcorn. Each time Eric took a piece, he
slipped his hand across my knees and then up to my lap to find the tub,
insert his fingers and take a chunk. At first I was embarrassed. I raised
the tub towards him, he pushed it back down into my lap. "No, it's better
there. Just watch the screen."  I got used to his hand sliding across my
knees, his fingers brushing my lap as he sought the tub, his fingers
pushing down into the tub exerting gentle pressure on my groin. I felt my
penis gently stiffen. I stirred in my seat, surreptitiously moving my
stiffie towards the groove my thigh. I was used to hard-ons. I gave myself
a hard-on in the shower and watched the water run down my chest, my tummy,
my groin, the length of my prick. I sometimes gave myself a hard-on in the
bath, then lay back as the water drained away, my stiffie pointing straight
up, as pink as candy, at the aertexed ceiling. But those were private
hard-ons. What would Eric think of me if he found out there was a stiff
prick below our tub of popcorn? When the popcorn ran out, I held the tub in
place.  Eric's fingers ran around the bottom of the tub, probing,
searching, feeling for any last little chunks.

"Come on," he whispered. "The film's about to begin. It's a war film. It'll
blow us right out of our seats if we stay here."

"Where?" He tilted his head back, and I knew he wanted to move to the back
row. "Come on." I realised I was with Eric. I had come to the Odeon Cinema
alone but now I was with somebody. We scrambled towards the back row as the
titles came up. Guns were already firing, and I was glad of the cover as I
straightened my penis below the thin fabric of my summer shorts.

Eric ushered me along the back row until we were in the furthest corner. He
took the seat next to me. We both twisted and turned until we found the
most relaxed positions we could. "Shit, this seat is touching the
floor. Shift over. I'll share yours," Eric said. There was no need to
whisper. The cinema was almost empty and guns were blazing from a German
battleship. He twisted his slim body until he was half into my seat. He
pulled me towards him, laughing as he did so. "Come on, let's get really
comfortable. This is a long film." I found myself squashed against Eric,
but comfortably so, my head almost resting on his shoulder. He did not seem
to mind. Why should I?

"Any popcorn left?" I felt his hand slide along my knees and come to rest
on my lap. Fortunately my erection had subsided. "Sorry, none left," I
murmured. "That's okay."  I could feel his breath stir my hair. "We'll get
some later. Too comfortable to move now." His hand lay in my lap like an
after-thought. We stayed like that throughout the film. Eric was warm, he
smelled good, like mom's stem ginger biscuits. Sometimes, when the film was
very exciting, he pressed down on my groin with his fingers. At first I was
disturbed but as the film and the pressure continued, my anxiety gave way
to a dreamy feeling of contentment. Even when I got another hard-on, Eric
didn't seem to mind.

Gently he manoeuvred my penis until it was straight up my tummy. I sat
there frozen, but he giggled in my ear, "That happens to every boy your
age, Ben. It happens to me, too." I turned my attention back to the
film. The gentle squeezing below was happening to someone else. Eric eased
my legs apart until his fingers could free my balls, then he gently gripped
my penis, letting his fingers squeeze their way along the shaft until his
thumb ran around the head before sinking back down to the base again.

I dreamt on, until I began to feel breathless. There was so much warmth, so
much pleasure in my groin. The pressure and the pleasure built until
something between a gasp and a groan burst from my lips. "Please don't,
Eric, please."  He stopped, laughed, hugged me to him, and said, "Good,
it's the climax now. This is where the Germans get what they deserve."  We
sat back and watched the rest of the film. Eric cheered and punched the air
as the German battleship was finally blown out of the water. It was
irresistible. I joined in the cheering, too, surprising myself by my own
show of emotion, the relief and the delight that it was all over, but a
little sad too that I might never experience it again.

As we made our way out of the cinema, I was too embarrassed to look
directly at Eric. But he made light of my confusion, laughing and saying,
"That was great. I'm coming back tomorrow. Same time, same place. What
about you?"

I looked at the floor of the foyer. "I don't know," I mumbled, "maybe."

"It's up to you, Ben. I hope you'll be here. Tell you something, I'm buying
the popcorn tomorrow, jumbo-size, so you'd better be here.  See you, kid."
He turned and walked off down Langton Road. I had to go up Morley Street,
the opposite direction. I watched him go. Did I want to see him again? Did
I want to feel his breath on my hair? Did I want to smell the stem ginger
of his body? Did I want him to touch me? I didn't know, I really didn't
know.

That night I lay in the bath and looked along the length of my body,
summer-tanned except for a thin belt of pale white skin around my groin and
hips, my penis bobbing amongst the bubbles. I wondered what Eric found so
attractive about my body. I wondered what Eric would look like stripped,
naked, nude, stretched out in the bath tub. My penis stiffened and poked
its pink head above the bubbles. I wondered what Eric's stiff penis would
look like, much bigger than mine, of course, but how much bigger? And would
he like me to stroke and squeeze his penis as he had done mine? I shuddered
at the ripples of pleasure that ran through me, excited but scared by what
I felt. My legs opened, my hand reached below my balls. I squeezed them
gently, pulling them back so that my stiffie would seem as long as
possible, the foreskin rolling back from the spongy heart-shaped head. I
began stroking and squeezing just as Eric had done, the dreamy state,
almost a trance carrying me back to the dark theatre and the awful
pleasures that his hands and fingers gave me.

"Ben! Are you still in there? Have you drowned yourself?"

Mom!  "No," I squeaked, "just coming."

I pulled the plug, stood up in the bath, my penis sticking straight out at
ninety degrees from my groin. I towelled myself vigorously, viciously,
willing my erection to subside, collapse, give me a break.

"How was the beach, luverboy? You look a bit pale. That's not a summer cold
coming on, is it?"  My mother shovelled more mashed potatoes on to my
plate, ruffling my still damp hair with her free hand.  "Time you were
getting a haircut."

"No, I'm fine," I replied, giving her my most innocent gaze, opening my
eyes as wide as I could. "Stayed in the bath a bit long. Water got a little
cold. Yes, I think I'll go to the beach again."

Mom sighed and brushed my fringe back from my eyes. "Sorry, I can't come
with you, Ben. Got to put in the hours. Might as well make the money while
it's there. God knows we need it. But that's my problem, not yours. You're
young, it's summer, and having fun is what you should be doing."  She
paused and stirred her gravy with a fork. Her huge grey eyes mirrored my
own. Then she grinned. "Anything for the wash?"

"Nothing I can think of."

"Well, I can. Leave those blue shorts. You've got grass stains all down the
back. Wear your red shorts. It's going to be a hot one tomorrow. I still
think you should get your hair trimmed."  But there was no conviction in
her voice. She liked my hair as much as I did. Half the boys in my class
had hair as long as mine, the other half wore theirs longer. It was the
summer of '75, and that's the way things were."

Morning dragged along like a Friday afternoon in school. I dithered
about. Would I go down to the Odeon Cinema at one? Would Eric be there? Did
I want him to be there?  Maybe yesterday was a mistake. Maybe he was only
teasing. Maybe everything would be all right.

"Hi! You look great. I've got the popcorn. I've even got the tickets. You
owe me. Come on, let's grab the same seats."

Eric ushered me into the corner of the back row. Giggling, we sort of
wrestled until we were in the same position as before. The lights dimmed,
the music died away, the curtains swished open, the show began again.

Eric wore a white cotton shirt and faded blue jeans. He wore white
plimsolls and white socks. I could see the tanned skin of his ankles as he
stretched himself across two rows.  He ran his hand lightly across the
silky red material of my shorts. "Beautiful. Are you wearing these for me?"
I stared straight ahead, feeling myself rise below his touch.

"You see this little thing, this thing that you piss with?" He was stroking
me gently, squeezing, manipulating. "In a couple of years it's going to
grow and grow, just like Pinnochio's nose."  I stifled a giggle. "No, I'm
serious, it's going to grow and grow, six inches, seven, maybe even eight."
The thought was horrifying.  "You don't believe me? Well, I'm going to
prove it. You don't think I can prove it. Well, I can."

He lifted his hand from my groin and closed it around mine. It felt so
small. Then he pulled my hand into his crotch. "Feel anything?" He scooted
my hand around until it was stopped by a log, not a log, of course, but
that's what it felt like, a huge hot log under his jeans. "Go on, put your
fingers around it. See how it feels. See how big it is." He was leaning
into me, his lips level with my ear, whispering the words, his voice right
inside my head. I ran my palm along the length of the log, gripped it,
pulled it away from his lap. It felt hot, it felt alive, both hard and soft
at the same time. I let it spring back against his belly.

Eric kept on whispering in my ear. I couldn't understand everything he
said, I couldn't make sense of some of it. "Are you really my friend? Can I
trust you? I want to tell you a secret. Can you keep a secret? We can't be
friends if you can't keep a secret."  I wanted desperately to be Eric's
friend. I nodded dumbly.

"Okay then, here goes." He held on to my hand with one of his, while his
other hand tugged at his zip. The noise seemed impossibly loud. He would
pause, then inch the zip a little lower until it was down all the way. He
reached inside his fly and pulled out the log, a thick, pale column of
flesh like nothing I had ever seen. He edged more and more of the column
out of his fly until a few tufts of brown spiky hair appeared. I was
terrified. I thought I'd be sick. I looked at the screen.

I felt Eric pulled my hand towards this huge, hot penis. I sat there in a
trance, my hand had nothing to do with me. He edged open my fingers and
wrapped them around the shaft, then closed my fingers. They hardly met my
thumb. He wrapped his hand round mine, sliding both our hands the length of
his penis. It felt hot, sticky, gummy, so alive. He noticed I was not
looking at him.

"Come on, Ben. Look at it. This's what yours is going to be like, maybe
even bigger." I looked, my stomach heaved. He slid his free hand under my
T-shirt and caressed my stomach, my chest, his thumb lingering on each
nipple and my belly button. The stroking scared me, then calmed me, making
me feel almost drowsy as he worked my hand the length of his hot, hard,
impossibly long penis.

After what seemed an age, Eric's body stiffened, his head stretching
backwards, his bottom seeming to rise from his seat. His breath quickened
until he was panting, almost gasping. I became scared again. But he gripped
my hand tighter and moved it quicker and quicker until it was a blur of
fingers and flesh. His mouth opened, his eyes rolled back until there was
more white than brown. His body jerked, out of control, as he fountained,
spurted, gob after gob of creamy ivory-coloured liquid shooting on to his
shirt, his chin, and over my hand. I couldn't seem to let go but now I was
holding on rather than actively jerking. three, four, five spurts. I
thought he was dying. He looked like he was dying. Can dying give so much
pleasure?

At last his body stopped jerking. He still trembled and shook
spasmodically. I took my hand away, watching the thick, milky substance
hang and dribble from my fingers. Eric was grinning, laughing as he
stripped off his shirt. He wore a tiny red T-shirt beneath. I was
relieved. Nakedness would have been too much. He wiped himself with the
shirt, then wiped my hand carefully. "Sorry, Ben. Lost control a bit." He
bundled the shirt and pushed it under his seat. "Don't let me forget
that. Now let's get comfortable and watch the film. I missed most of it
yesterday. Too busy concentrating on you."  He pulled me into him and
cuddled me into a comfortable position. His hand slid back under my T-shirt
to resume its meanderings across my chest and stomach. He kissed the top of
my head while his other hand soothed the back of my neck. I closed my eyes
and played another film, an entirely different film in my mind. My penis
was stiff by the time his fingers edged beneath the waistband of my shorts
to play with me.

"That's my boy," he murmured. "That's my Ben." Fingers touched my
cheek. "Tomorrow. Let's go to the beach tomorrow. There's nothing to worry
about now. We trust each other now." His fingers memorised my face. "Scoot
down in the seat a little. Let me get under." I scooted down until my
bottom was off the edge of my seat. "Open a bit, wider, just a bit
more. Yeh, that's it." His fingers wound around my balls, weighed them,
pulled gently at my scrotum. A finger probed my crack, probed at my most
secret place. I closed myself as tightly as I could. Eric whispered in my
ear, "Okay, it's too soon, but when you open up, you'll like it, just like
I did."

I loved the beach just a little less than I loved the cinema. I'd spent
most of the last few weeks on the beach and was as brown as a berry, my
hair streaked blond by the sun. I bolted a snack and hurried down half an
hour before I was due to meet Eric. I wondered what kind of costume he
would be wearing. His face and hands were tanned. What would his body be
like? What would he think of my body, an eleven-year-old, skinny, without
fat or muscle? How could he take me seriously? How could he accept me as a
friend? What could I do to make him want me?

I saw him before he saw me. He strode along the promenade, taller and
thinner than I remembered though we'd been together less than twenty four
hours before. Dark glasses hid his eyes, hid what he was thinking. He was
wearing the same as yesterday, the shirt looked freshly laundered. I
blushed to think of the cum, yes, that's what he'd called it, the cum
smeared across his cotton shirt, dripping from his chin and my hand. I
could smell him on my fingers still, had smelled them again and again the
night before, sniffing them as I lay in bed, the smell comforting me as I
fell asleep. I was disappointed. Wasn't he going to come swimming with me?
What was the point of coming to the beach if you didn't go in the water?

He saw me. He waved and strode on my direction. I suddenly realised he was
a man, a real man, a grown-up, an adult. A small cloud blotted out the sun
making me shiver, but it passed as he laid his hand on my shoulder. "Hi,
man, sorry I'm a bit late. Been waiting long."

"No, just got here," I lied. "Aren't you going swimming? Haven't you got a
costume?" He swung a plastic bag towards me. "Course I have, it's in
here. I'm going to rent a cubicle, so we don't have to worry about our
stuff."  We began to walk and talk. I was thrilled that he took an interest
in me, that most of the conversation was about me. I'd never found myself
very interesting and didn't expect people to be very interested in me
either.

"Where's your costume?"

"Got it on. I'll go home wet. I don't live far from here. You can come,
too. Have your tea. You'll like my mum. She's fun."  Eric grinned at my
invitation, his small teeth straight, white and even.

We reached the cubicles, small cabins really, each with a bench and a
couple of hooks. Eric paid and took a key with a piece of numbered wood
attached. 31. Right at the end of the row. They were doing good business
that day. We walked the length of the row, Eric turned the key in the lock,
the door swung open. I shuffled a little nervously. "I'll wait here."

"Don't be silly. There's plenty of room. Get in."

Eric ushered me into the gloom of the interior. It was damp and warm. Eric
closed the door behind us. Enough light streamed in from a skylight. I
turned away from him and began to tug my T-shirt over my head. "Let me help
before you get stuck," he laughed. He turned me towards him and began to
tug my shirt up. Instinctively I raised my arms. My head got stuck in the
hole. I felt Eric's hands drop to my waist. He could almost get his hands
right around me. His hands stroked the length of my sides, his thumbs
smoothing their way over my little boy's starfish nipples, and into my
armpits. I felt his breath, then his lips criss-crossing my chest, pulling
on my nipples, sliding down to my tummy button, his hot, wet tongue
probing, sucking, pulling at me. His hands ran across my back, slid down to
my bum, squeezed my buttocks, slid up to my neck, my shoulder blades, then
worked my head free from the shirt. He turned me round until he was sitting
on the long narrow bench with me facing him.

He hung my shirt on a hook. My hair hung over my face, hid my blushes. He
reached for the snake belt that held up my shorts. The metallic clicked as
he freed the clasp. His fingers on either side of my waist began to push
down the shorts, caught my swimming costume and pushed them down with the
shorts to my knees. The hair that hid my face now hid my shame. But there
was excitement too, an excitement increasingly obvious as my penis
lengthened, hardened and stiffened until it stood straight out from my
body. Eric's hands smoothed my inner thighs, his thumbs brushing the flesh
above my balls, his fingers pressing and squeezing my buttocks. His thumbs
edged closer and closer to my straining flesh. I willed him away, willed
him closer, lost in an utter confusion of feelings.

One thumb brushed my penis. It jerked upwards with a will of its own. I
heard the rustle of Eric's denim, a dull thud as each boot landed somewhere
in the dimness of the cubicle. Still I hid behind my hair. Then I felt the
impossible: light, hot, wet kisses brushing the tip of my cock. That was a
dirty word, a really dirty word. And what he was doing to me was
dirty. Exciting. Thrilling. But dirty. His kisses reached the juncture of
my body and the base of my cock. Fingers edged my foreskin back, other
fingers stroked the ridge beneath my balls, the ridge that ran to my most
secret, my most dirty place.

His lips touched the base of my cock. My knees trembled. He couldn't. He
shouldn't. He wouldn't. He did.

His hot, wet mouth enclosed my penis and began a gentle but firm sucking,
his lips running the length of the small shaft. For one terrible moment I
thought he was going to bite off my penis, spit it out and laugh at me for
being such a dirty cry baby. But the sucking went on, hot and wet,
gathering me into him, releasing me, gathering me again. His fingers worked
my balls, probed my crack, running the length of the lips of my secret
place.

I didn't want to fight any more. I didn't want to close myself to him. I
relaxed and let one fingertip enter me. His mouth went lower, took me in
deeper, until my cock and balls were enclosed in his hot, wet, urgent
mouth. My hips began to jerk, rhythmically, beyond my control, pushing into
him, withdrawing, penetrating again.

My hands went round the back of his head, pulling him on to me. When would
it end? How would it end? Would I spurt the hot ivory-coloured milk into
his mouth, down his throat? Would he hate me for it? I was jerking,
pulling, pushing, as he sucked, soothed and probed? My body shook and
shuddered.

Something like an electric shock shot through my arsehole, shot the length
of my cock, and left me jerking like a stickleback on the end of a fishing
line. No more, no more, it was too good, but no more, I pushed him from me,
and collapsed over his shoulders, shuddering, shaking, almost sobbing. I
was only a boy, only eleven years old, we shouldn't be doing this.

After a minute or so, Eric pushed me gently away from him, supporting me by
the shoulders. I fell against him. He hugged me to him. I could feel his
hot, hard, huge penis pressed against me, his hairs tickling my belly
button. He pressed downwards on my shoulders. I resisted. Without putting
it into words, I knew what he wanted. He wanted to put his huge penis into
my mouth. He wanted me to suck him. He wanted me to play with his cock and
balls, stick my finger up his hot, dark hole, to shoot his heavy load into
my mouth, down my throat, into my tummy.  Maybe, maybe later, but not now.

Let's go to the beach. Let's swim in the sea. Let's be clean again. Eric
stroked my hair and whispered, "I'm not greedy. I can wait. Let's go
swimming - first."

I felt Eric slide down my body. I felt his hands pulling up my swimming
costume, the silky blue material sliding over my bum, over my limp penis,
over my desire, over my shame. I could not look at Eric's body. I did not
know what I would feel.

"Come on. Let's go swimming. We've got plenty of time later." Eric was
laughing, the sun broke through again. He was struggling into a tiny pair
of red swimming trunks, falling over as he wrestled with them. Black hair,
thick black hair. A penis like a baby elephant's trunk. Tucked inside his
little red costume. He opened the cubicle door. More sunlight flooded in. I
stepped out into the bright light. What had changed?
Nothing. Everything. And the afternoon had only begun.

Sun. Sea. Hot sand between my toes. Blue water fringed with rippling waves
that rose, foamed, splashed and regrouped to rise again. We larked around
in the water, ducking, weaving, bobbing.

Standing on Eric's shoulders, I was a prince of the sea, lord of the
summer, diving deep and wriggling between his open legs. He pulled me
under, held me tight, kissed me hard on my closed lips, then held up above
him like a prize fish, smooth, slippery and clean, hurling me away from him
so that I hit the water in a sparkling splash that left me gasping for
breath, gasping for more.

I watched as he dived from a rocky ledge into deeper, colder water where he
would not let me go. The lines of his body stunned me, the hair in his
armpits fascinated me, the bulge in his costume seduced me.

The afternoon was perfect, almost. In a corner of my mind, I knew how it
would end. I would be sitting on the bench in the dark, dim cubicle, Eric
towering nakedly over me. His huge, hard, hairy penis would be in my mouth,
down my throat. I would be choking as he rammed it home, my arms wrapped
round the hard flesh of his arse. What would he taste like? What did the
ivory-coloured spurting 'cum' taste like? I didn't know much but I knew
this 'cum' made babies, but that was inside mothers, it was not meant for
boys. If only he would let me stroke it, play with it, learn to love it. I
remembered his words: "Let's go swimming - first."

"I'm going to get some ice-cream. We'll have it here and then get
changed. Okay?"

"Okay," I answered. "Can I stay here? I'm really tired."

"Sure. Put your feet up, but promise you won't go into the water till I get
back. The tide's coming in and there are dodgy currents around
here. Promise you won't go in."

"Promise."

I watched Eric stroll along the hard-packed sand by the water's edge. His
brown hair hung limply over his broad shoulders, the muscles of his
buttocks clearly defined, long legs tapering to large feet, toes splayed
out rather like a duck. He swayed slightly as he walked, each buttock
rising and falling with the rhythm of his walk. I was too young to
recognise beauty but now I know Eric was beautiful.

He turned beyond the promontory, out of sight. I rose and quickly headed in
the other direction. The cubicles were less than a minute away. I collected
our key, found 31, went in, grabbed my things, locked the door behind me,
returned the key and headed for the park that lay on my way home. There I
sat down, my back resting against a tree, and fought for breath.

I sound like Lee, a wheezy asthmatic boy in my class. I felt like a
criminal, a traitor, but I needed time to think. How long I sat there I'm
not sure. It must have grown chilly because I put on my shorts, T-shirt and
plimsolls. Did I want to see Eric again?

Why did he do these things to me? Did I like what he did to me? Why did it
feel so good in my body and bad in my head? How did I know what he wanted
to do? Why did he want to do it? Was that the thing called love? My mum
loved me. I loved her. Was that the same kind of love? I knew it had to be
a secret. Would I go to the cinema tomorrow? Would Eric be there? Would he
want to sit with me? It was safer there. He couldn't put his penis in my
mouth in the cinema. Could he? Maybe he would just stroke me. Maybe he
would want me to stroke him. Would I do it? Would he be my friend if I did?
What did Eric really want from me?  Why did I want to be with him? Being
with him was enough. Why did there have to be that other thing?

The sun was beginning to fall in the sky as I stood up. I'd been to the
beach often enough to know it was time to go home. How could I go home
without seeing Eric again? What would he think of me? I turned and began to
walk back to the beach. He was probably gone but I had to be sure. If he
was there, I'd tell him I had to go home...why?  Why? I'd left the back
door open. I had to lock it. I was sorry. I'd be at the cinema
tomorrow. There'd be a new programme. Would he be there? I would buy the
popcorn? Where would we sit? I couldn't stay. Had to get home. Mum would be
worried. But I'd be at the Odeon tomorrow. I wouldn't be late. Promise. I'd
be there.

I reached the row of cubicles. The beach was emptying now. I counted the
cubicles as I passed them by...27, 28, 29, 30...31.  Eric wouldn't be
there. He was gone, but I had to be sure. There was no key in the lock, but
I had to be sure. I tried the door. It opened a fraction. The door was
still open. I pulled it open and stepped inside, closing it quietly behind
me. I wanted to speak to Eric, quietly, sensibly.

I heard them before I saw them. A vague grunting and gasping. The air was
hot, sweaty and still. Eric's back was to me. He was naked, his swimming
costume around his ankles. The crack in his bum was dark and hairy. He was
standing in an odd way, an awkward way, facing the bench, his back to me,
his clenched, muscled buttocks pistoning towards the bench and back towards
me. Sweat trickled down his back and ran into the deep dark cleft between
his buttocks. "Take it. Take it, you little fucker, just relax and take
it."

My eyes got used to the gloom. I realised Eric was leaning over someone. I
saw slim, pale legs between his, spread wide. I saw a second back, pale and
slim stretch out from where his hairy stomach would be. I saw thin, pale
arms beyond and below his, leaning against the back wall of the cubicle. I
heard a second voice, lighter, younger than his.

"It hurts, it really hurts."

Eric voice was deeper, darker, brutal. "Shut the fuck up. Just relax. Take
it. Take it all."

He rammed himself forward and held the position. The younger, lighter voice
became a squeal of pain. I stepped a little to the left. Below Eric's
knees, a head turned towards me, a face appeared, a young face, a boy's
face, the face of a boy a bit older than me, maybe thirteen, maybe
fourteen. He was a good-looking boy.

Even though his face was contorted, red and sweaty, streaked with tears, I
could see he was a good-looking boy, a boy not very different from me. With
a shock I realised where Eric's hot, hard penis was. His cock was in the
boy's bumhole. Where else could it be?  But that was impossible. I felt a
spasm of pain in my own hole as I remembered Eric's fingertip. How could a
boy's hole take that thick column of flesh? Then I realised what was going
to happen.

Eric was going to shoot his 'cum', that thick creamy sour milk, up the
boy's hole. Where would it go? What would happen to it? I knew that boys
couldn't have babies but I didn't know that boys could be
fucked. Fucked. Fucked. The word ran in circles round my brain. I felt
sick.

A boy like me was being fucked by Eric. Eric was fucking a boy like
me. Eric wanted to fuck me.  Fuck you, Eric. No, I didn't mean that. I
didn't want to fuck Eric. Did I? No, I didn't. Little boys didn't fuck big
boys. Daddies fucked mummies. That's the way it was, that's the way it was
meant to be.

The grunts, groans and gasps were louder now, urgent, insistent,
desperate. I had to get out of there. Eric would be finished soon, he would
see me, he would pull down my shorts, pull down my costume, and fuck me up
the arse. Where had he found this boy? On the beach? In another cinema? It
didn't matter. I had to get out of there, the sex smell was choking me. I
turned to go and banged my knee into the door. Shit!

Eric turned his head. His buttocks kept on banging the boy's head into the
wooden wall. He saw me. His face was red as if he'd lain in the sun far too
long. His eyes were puffy, narrowed to keep out the sweat trickling from
his forehead. It was a face I hardly knew.

"Ben, Ben..." He was breathless. He kept on fucking as he spoke, his hips
banging against the boy's narrow buttocks. I imagined his horse-cock
driving into the boy's tiny hole.  "Ben, don't go, I'll just be..."  He was
looking into my eyes as he 'came', a word he had taught me only the day
before in the corner seat of the back row of a darkened cinema. His eyes
closed. He threw his head back, sweat and salt water spinning from his
hair.

By the time he opened them, I was gone, running across the park, not
knowing what I thought, perhaps not thinking anything coherent. I wanted to
be home, back to what I knew, back to just spending summer on the
streets. I did not go back to the beach that summer. I did not go back to
the cinema. I never saw Eric again.

But sometimes at night, as I lay under my single blanket, my hand slid down
to my cock, and, as I replayed the movie of Eric and Ben in the cinema, I
felt it stiffen at my touch, and in time tingle to the memory of Eric's
body, Eric's hand, Eric's mouth working its magic. But memories fade like
childhood summers and in time I could no longer remember Eric's face.

Do I have to tell the truth? Do I have to tell it all? I did not go back to
the cinema but I did go back to the beach. Not the public section of the
beach but west to the sand dunes and the long sharp grasses that could cut
so deeply. Eric never found me. But I found Louis, or perhaps we found each
other. And lost each other, all in the same day.

I was wandering the dunes wondering whether I should chance the public
beach. Part of me was terrified by the thought of encountering Eric, part
of me longed for it. Louis appeared from behind a dune, zipping himself
up. He was fourteen years old. I could understand that in French but not
much more. He laughed and waved to me, then jabbered on in the language
that we approached so half-heartedly in school. We made ourselves
understood, boys always do. His family were on holiday. They were from
Calais. His father was a baker, or owned a chain of bakeries. He was like
me an only child. He was bored. He was not allowed to go exploring alone,
so he did, like me.

Louis was beautiful and he knew it. He pushed his beautiful, thick light
brown hair behind his ears again and again. His olive skin was burnished by
the sun, stretched tautly over fine bones, his ears were tiny, his eyes a
hazel-green flecked with gold and intelligence. His body was beautiful,
especially his legs, long legs, satin-skinned, that stretched into his
thighs in single curves. His hands were too big; I adored that single flaw.

Louis wore an adult's long-sleeved shirt hanging open over cut-off jeans,
frayed, well-worn. They could not have been his. He wore no belt. They
sagged down exposing his smooth olive-skinned belly, his light blue
swimming costume. He had taken a lot of sun. He was brown over olive, his
eyebrows bleached to blond, matching the streaks in his hair, slightly
shorter than mine. He had a red bandanna tied round his head.

Formalities over, we crashed into the sea, swam like dolphins, spouted like
whales and wrestled each other under. Of course Louis was stronger than me,
but he never abused his strength, never tried to dominate. We hunted
amongst the dunes, and I saw that his thighs were smooth and muscular, his
shoulders bony, flesh taut, skin tight and glowing. We dried out amongst
the dunes. He took the bandanna from around his head and tied it around
mine. He found a seagull feather and stuck it in the bandanna. He leaned
close as he fixed the feather, his body smelling sweet, not at all of
sweat, milky like my own. He sat back on his haunches and studied me
gravely. He leaned forward and blew softly on face. I blushed. My penis
stirred in my costume.

Suddenly his seriousness dissolved into laughter and he flung himself on
me. We wrestled again, this time in the hot sands, and this time there was
a struggle for supremacy, but light-hearted, laughing, choking as the hot
sand sprayed our faces. We rolled down a high dune, body over body, until
we came to rest in a warm hollow sheltered from the breeze and the heat of
the sun. Louis was astride me, looking down into my face. He blew in my
face again.

I was staring into those hazel-green eyes. He lowered his bottom onto my
crotch. I felt my penis lengthways into his crack. I could feel my face
redden. His eyes were wide. He ran a fingertip from the hollow in my neck
across my chest, my tummy, to the line of my costume. His face was
flushed. He was looking past me at something far away.

His breathing, like my own, became more laboured. He pushed himself
backwards onto my knees. He ran a fingernail across my erection causing a
shiver to run through my stretched frame. He slid down to my ankles. I
closed my eyes and raised my bottom from the sand.

I felt Louis ease down my swimming costume, slowly, tenderly. I imagined
myself down there, exposed to his gaze. I felt his fingers close around my
stiff penis. I felt him measure its length, tracing the shaft with those
long smooth fingers, running a fingertip around the swollen head of my
cock, wet with desire.

"Ben," he whispered, bending and pressing his face against mine, whispering
words that had no meaning to me other than naked desire. Louis wanted me,
and I wanted him. He slipped from my body to lie along side me. He squeezed
me rhythmically.

The delicious terror and excitement grew as he pressed his lips first
against my neck, then slowly slid them the length of my hot-skinned
body. He reached the base of my stomach. He slid me between his lips and
held me there. His mouth was hotter than my stiff cock. I felt the tip
brush against the ridges in the roof of his mouth. He applied pressure on
the shaft, his tongue slipping lower to lick at my sweaty balls.

I wanted to share this feeling with him. Keeping us joined together, I
eased my body sideways in a half circle that brought me parallel with this
French boy's body. The pressure on my cock told me I was doing something
right. So did the bulge in his blue swimming costume. I eased the costume
down with my fingers, intrigued to find that his pubic area was covered by
a tracing of fine silky hair. His cock was considerably longer and fatter
than my own shaft. His costume was round his knees. I gripped the cheeks of
his bum with both hands. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and took him
in, hoping that I was doing it right.

With my lips I pushed his foreskin down the shaft. Louis was about five
inches long, the skin of his penis much darker than the rest of him, the
head purple and swollen, with pearl-coloured drops oozing from the slit. I
gazed at this beautiful object of desire, slid him between my lips again,
feeling the hard, warm sponginess touch the roof of my throat.

I loved the taste, I loved the smell, I loved the silky smoothness against
my lips. I sucked him in to the hilt, released him to the tip of his cock,
sucked him in again. I still cannot understand how I knew what to do, and
do it so well.

I heard muffled gasps and moans. Louis groaned and with his left hand
pushed my head down and thrust hard into my mouth. His back arched again
and again, his legs stretched their full, tanned length.

My own breath was becoming shorter and shorter, it was hard to distinguish
between Louis' gasps and my own. I could not concentrate on sucking him
because of the pleasure his sucking gave to me. Then I learned the
trick. Don't concentrate at all, just do it, just let it happen. Our hips
were bucking as we forced our cocks deeper and deeper into the hot young
mouths that adored them. I felt my saliva run down the shaft of Louis'
cock; I felt his saliva run down mine. And suddenly we were there.

The pleasure that is so close to pain, the intense moment of the explosion
in the brain, the utter sensitivity of the cock-flesh itself, and the
release and relief of orgasm. We lay in that hot hollow of sand and shook
with pleasure. I felt hot spurts of cum hit the back of my throat, spurt
after spurt, and I wanted more, I wanted it never to end.

All things end, and suddenly we were in each other's arms, wrapped around
each other, glued by the sweat at our bellies, glued by Louis' semen at our
lips. This was no hard, closed-mouth kiss under water; this was open
surrender as our tongues ranged in each other's mouth, ran in circles
around the caverns and probed the fillings in our teeth. Our noses rubbed
against each other; we were novices in the art of love, but willing
novices. Already our cocks were hard again - had they ever softened? And we
rubbed against each other until the sand made it painful, and laughing we
ran together into the sharp and shiny sea.

Our parting was sweet and solemn. We had few words, and no means to
exchange and record addresses. Standing, where the dunes gave way to
civilisation and the promenade, there was no place for a farewell kiss. We
shook hands, smiled, turned and went our separate ways. But not before we
swapped swimming costumes and Louis gave me his red bandanna to keep. His
last word was 'Au revoir'; mine was 'Good-bye'. Which was prophetic? Only
time will tell. It always does.

Louis was gone. The summer was over.

I suppose in some ways that summer was never over. I carry it with me
always. It changed me. Because of it I see the world differently. For me
the world became a sexual place. I looked at older boys with different
eyes. Did they find me attractive? Did they want me? Did I want to be
wanted by them? Would they like to see me naked, hold, caress me, run their
fingers through my hair, play with my most intimate parts, and suck my
secret self into their own secret selves. I was no longer simply a
pubescent boy; I was an object of desire.

Sometimes I stood in front of mom's wardrobe mirror, watching my naked
full-length self, flicking my hair back over my shoulders as I'd seen Louis
do, stroking myself to arousal or standing in underpants white against my
tanned skin, thumb hooked in the waist band, pushing downwards until brown
gave way to a creamy ivory that reminded me of Eric's semen dripping from
my fingers.

Sometimes I lay naked on my bed, legs thrown back over my chest, a
hand-mirror positioned so that I could gaze at my own puckered slit, so
pinkly innocent. I tried to see myself with Eric's eyes and found that I
was seeing with Louis', hoping that one day I would become Louis, both
hunter and hunted.

Summer gave way to autumn. I returned to school and was carried away on the
comforting swell of school life. Routine is a great deadener and my secret
self went into hibernation to await the warmth of Spring and the heat of
Summer. Would I have returned to the cinema, to the beach, in search of
Eric, or another Eric, or Louis, or another Louis? I never got the chance
to find out. In September, only three days short of my twelfth birthday, we
upped stakes yet again and moved further down the coast.

Since my father disappeared into the great blue yonder sometime around my
sixth birthday, we'd moved several times. Mom was restless, always looking
for something vague, indeterminate, remote from anything I could
imagine. She found it easy to get jobs and difficult to keep men of the
right sort though plenty of the wrong sort swarmed around her. She drank a
lot, laughed even more, and ran our little family as a happy-go-lucky
partnership. She could stand neither rules nor authority, and I think it
was the excitement of being around her that made everyone else seem so
dull.

When she held me tight, so tight I could hardly breath, called me
'luverboy' and swung me off my feet, I became sick with love for her. I
adored her, worshipped her and disapproved of her.

Our first week in our new town was baptised with rain that seemed
endless. Local schools were not yet on holiday, so I had the rain, our new
home and myself to myself. Mom left promptly at eight. She was something in
a local supermarket. I rose at eleven and found cereal and toast in the
kitchen. I dumped the cereal and made myself hot black sugary coffee. Then
I sat and watched the rain wallop the windows.

I explored the bungalow room by room. There was an attic. Mom had not yet
cleaned it out, so it was forbidden to me. That made investigation
obligatory. I climbed the ladder and found that light switch worked. There
was much of the flotsam and jetsam you might expect to find. I rummaged
around the bric a brac finding nothing special until I ripped the sealing
tape from a small teabox addressed to a future it would never
find. Magazines, gardening and photography. Disappointment swept over me
until I found magazines of a different nature. Half a dozen of them. With
names like Macho, Hunk, and Sweet Teens. I skimmed through them.

Men, naked men. Young men, naked. Young men, little more than boys. Men
doing things to themselves. Doing things to each other. Flesh. Hot flesh,
cool flesh, soft flesh, hard flesh, limp flesh, erect flesh. Carefully I
searched the box until I was sure I had them all. Then I redid the sealing
tape as best I could, dropped the magazines down into the hall, switched
off the light, descended the ladder and heaved it up until the spring
mechanism pulled back into position. I gathered up the magazines, went into
mom's room, stripped off my pyjamas, scrambled under her sweet-smelling
duvet, flicked on the bedside lamp and made myself comfortable, propping by
back against a huge pillow and the magazines against my knees.

My favourite was Sweet Teens. My favourite boy knelt on all-fours on a huge
heart-shaped bed, a boy behind him fucking him doggy-style, a boy kneeling
in front of him, three quarters of his prick shoved down my favourite's
throat.

In the next picture his head was pulled all the way back by the boy behind
him. The boy in front stood over him, his cock rammed in all the way to his
hairy balls; the boy behind him straining to drive himself home to the
hilt. In the final picture of the sequence, my favourite lay sprawled
across the bed, cum splattering his face, streaked across his thighs and
buttocks. The camera had caught glistening pearls of cum in his hair and
the trail of sweaty, matted hair below his belly button.

The blissful look on his face surprised me. I had seen the same look on
Louis' face. I slipped my hand around my hard-on and was surprised to feel
how wet and gooey the head felt. I worked my fingers around my cock jerking
gently until the more demanding rhythms took over, led me to the cliff of
desire, pushed me over the edge, and left me in shattered glowing dry
fragments.

I got up, took a piss and washed myself in the bathroom sink. It felt good
to stroll naked around this strange house. I dressed, jeans, T-shirt,
sandals, no socks, no underwear. I explored some more. I found a loose
plank in the wooden floor under the carpet in my bedroom. I stashed the
magazines in the hollow beneath. I turned the television on and settled
down for some day-time tedium.

"Hi, luverboy, I'm back!"

I stirred out of a light sleep. Mom!  I ran to the front door. She stood
inside shaking the rain off, deliberately showering me as I made to grab
her. She flung her arms around me, swung me round in our routine greeting,
then smothered me with a flutter of kisses.

"How's my bestest boy?"

"Fine," I lied.

"Liar," she laughed.  "You're bored out of your mind."

"A little," I confessed.

"Well, that's all over. Go fix me a drink while I dump these wet things in
the bathroom." She disappeared. I could hear her singing as I mixed her a
dry martini. Something was up.

Mom emerged from the bathroom in a lacy negligee that I thought a little
racy for the local supermarket. She was towelling her hair dry. She sat on
the coach and threw the towel at me. "Give me that drink and dry my hair."
There was menace in her low growl, one eye was half-closed, this woman
meant business, this was going to be fun. "What's in it for me?" I asked
lowering my voice as deeply as I could. She patted the couch. "Come here
and find out, luverboy."

I handed her the drink. She turned her back to me. I knelt behind her and
began towelling her hair, sometimes rubbing her shoulders the way she liked
it. "Come on now, woman, spit it out."

"Well, boy," she said after a couple of sips, "you are now a fully-fledged,
fully paid-up member of the Elliott Tennis Club, and you can start there
whenever... whenever the rain lets up.  A bit lower, just a bit lower, I've
got a knot in my back, Yeh, that's it, that's the spot, right there."

"How can I... how can you..? We can't afford the Elliott. I've seen
it. Membership costs a fortune, even for juniors."

Mom explained. The manager, the owner of the supermarket, had taken a shine
to her. He recognised quality when he saw it. That was mom's claim. He had
taken her to lunch, and over lunch she had explained that I was the only
fly in the ointment, so to speak. Mom couldn't work afternoons because
there was little me just over the horizon. As it happened, and fate as ever
had a lot to answer for, happy Harry owned not only the supermarket, but
half the real estate in the town, including the Elliott Tennis Club. Was I
interested in tennis? Had I played before? Do bears shit in the forest?

The one legacy my father had left me was a good quality tennis racquet
while my mother in part of her better-spent youth had played the game at
county level. I had been banging balls since I was seven. How long mom had
been banging them she refused to confess? I was delighted and rubbed mom's
hair and shoulders with a vigour that had her rocking with laughter, her
breasts bouncing free in the negligee. She grabbed me and slung me across
her knees face up. I joined in her laughter. It was clear that somebody up
there still liked us.

That night I prayed that the rain would cease. I put my entire faith in He
who must be obeyed. I promised to keep my hands off my cock and my eyes off
other males forever. In the morning the rain cascaded down twice as
heavily. So much for faith, so much for prayer, at least my cock was still
my own.  At least I had the magazines in the hollow under the floor in my
bedroom. I could bear to wait.

A wet weekend gave way to a glorious Monday. Mom and I set off at
eight. The drive took about ten minutes. She explained that the club did
not open until eleven o'clock but that Coach Hunter would be there. He had
promised to let me in early.

Todd 'Call me Coach' Hunter. How easy it is to say the words. How difficult
to sort out the feelings they still engender in me. Sometimes he is all I
think about: him and the times I spent with him. It's as if he and I were
all that mattered, and that everything before and after is a dream
surrounding that nightmare.

"Hi, you must be Ben Kingsley, otherwise known as 'luverboy'." I blushed
and shot mum a killing glance. "Only joking. Private territory. Won't
happen again. Come on, Ben Kingsley, you've got to earn your keep."

I fended off mom's kiss and waved her good bye. "See you at five."

Coach Hunter led me to the locker room and showed me my locker. It already
had my name printed on an identity card. A shiver of pride ran through me.
"Get changed, champ, and meet me on the court in ten. Let's have a knock up
before the crowds get here." He was out of sight as he finished the
sentence. I stripped and pulled on my shorts and T-shirt, then my white
socks and plimsolls. I slipped my racquet out of its cover and posed before
a full-length mirror. Not bad. I had put on a couple of inches in height
and a few more in muscle since last summer. My hair, still long, was neatly
trimmed and my tan had not faded. I liked what I saw.

Coach gave me a good hour's workout before other duties called him away. He
was good, very good, playing just above my ability so that I was stretched
throughout the rallies. He applauded every good shot I made and corrected
my poorer shots all with such good humour that I couldn't take offence. He
was really teaching me, I was really learning, and the more I learned, the
more I wanted to please him.

During the rest of the day I played with kids who came for regular coaching
sessions, pausing only at lunch time to have my packed lunch with a group
of lively youngsters more or less my own age. I was happy. This is what I
wanted to do, just this, play on a tennis court in the sun with no demands,
no complications, no obligations. That afternoon I was nothing more than a
twelve-year-old boy again.

Most of the players had gone by four o'clock. By four thirty only Coach
Hunter and I were around. Mom had arranged to pick me up at five. I was
eager to help Coach sweep the courts but he waved me away. "There's enough
baize on you to lay a fresh court," he laughed. "You can't go home like
that. Get in that locker room and take a shower. There's a fresh towel
hanging on Locker 31. It's yours. Use it. I'll finish up here."

He said it so decisively I could think of no reason to argue, and I was
smeared with red baize. In the locker room I quickly stripped and stepped
into the open shower area. The hot water was heavenly after so much
exercise.

Someone had abandoned a bottle of Sports shampoo. I lathered my hair and
then spread the sweet-smelling suds the length of my body, lingering, I
must admit, on my cock and balls. Was I dreaming of Coach Hunter? I'm not
sure. Certainly he was in my mind's eyes, particularly those eyes of
startling green. I'd never met anyone with really green eyes before but
once having seen them I couldn't imagine Coach without them.

He was long and lean, and already tanned from several weeks on court. His
shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his bottom so pronounced that you
could balance a racquet on it. Perhaps it was the tight tennis shorts that
created this illusion, but they did show off his long finely-muscled
legs. His hands were huge, shovels, but elegant shovels, with long,
tapering fingers that wrapped round his racquet grip like fingers around...
I blushed, realising that my penis was filling, swelling, rising.

The locker room door opened. I heard Coach whistling. Instantly I turned
away from the room, facing the tiled walls on which the water streamed
down. I turned the handle to cold. Freezing water splashed on to my head
and shoulders, ran down my torso, on to my groin and buttocks, down my
legs. My erection collapsed. I thanked any god who might exist. Coach
Hunter stepped into the area and turned on a shower tap for himself. I
heard the water splash down.

"Hi, champ. Pass the shampoo." Gingerly I reached round with the shampoo
bottle. I realised Coach was facing away from me. It was all right. He
acknowledged my modesty. I turned my shower tap to hot again. I needed to
rinse the soap away properly. I was facing Coach Hunter. His head was a
mass of soap suds. They bubbled down his shoulders into the hollow of his
back, down his spine and into the crack of his buttocks. He was tanned all
over and looked almost like a bronzed statue. Broad shoulders, narrow
waist, tight little bum, tanned all over.

Would I ever look like that? I didn't want to look between his legs but I
couldn't resist. I could see the end of his cock swinging heavily as he
swayed beneath the rubbing of his head and torso. He was blinded by a mass
of bubbles. I prayed he would turn towards me. He did. An involuntary gasp
escaped my lips as I saw the length and girth of his penis.

If Eric was big, Coach Hunter was huge, and though he had no hair on his
chest, smooth and tanned with brown nipples as big as fifty pence pieces, a
thin line of hair quickly fanned out beneath his belly button to a thick
delta of auburn hair. He had big balls, so big that the base of his cock
seemed to rest on them.

Even as I looked at them, he took his prick in one of his huge soapy hands,
squeezing and pulling at its length. I stood there mesmerised, my own puny
penis swelling once again.

Coach began rinsing his head and face. I knew that he would see me in a
moment. I stepped quickly from the shower and padded wetly over to Locker
31. He had left me two blue-striped towels. I wrapped one around myself,
faced the other way and began towelling with the other. Just as I had got
my body and legs done, I felt the towel being whipped away.

With a laugh Coach began towelling my hair dry. "This is the way my mother
used to do it," he said. "Pretty rough but it leaves you feeling great
afterwards." He turned me towards him and towelled my head vigorously. As I
looked down, I caught glimpses of his cock swinging from side to side,
still wet, drops of water running from its thick, exposed head. He chatted
merrily as he towelled me, his sentences coming in broken fragments.

"Good player...need coaching...lot of potential...turn on the back
hand...follow through...good-looking boy."

As suddenly as he had arrived, Coach was gone, leaving the towel wrapped
around my head. I disentangled myself to see him stepping around a corner
in the locker room. I undid my towel, climbed into my jeans, pulled on a
T-shirt, and sighed somewhere between relief and disappointment. By the
time my hold-all was packed, Coach was back, in fresh tennis gear, glowing
with health, vitality and humour. He grinned at me. It was infectious. I
grinned back.

"Hey, luverboy, are you in there? Time to go. You've taken up enough of
Coach's time."  It was mom, as infectiously happy as Coach Hunter. I
stepped out into the warm sunlight of a June afternoon, let mom kiss me,
linked arms and called out, "Bye Coach. Thanks for having me. See you
tomorrow."  From inside the locker room came the reply, echoing boomily,
"Bye Ben. Bye Mrs Kingsley. See you tomorrow."

I did see Coach Hunter the next day, and the next, and the next. The
pattern was always pretty much the same, and I began to look forward to my
afternoon shower, alone in the locker room with the coach. The unease I
felt washed away with the bubbles. Sometimes he showered beside me,
sometimes not. Sometimes he towelled my head, sometimes not.

Occasionally he towelled my body, his huge hands running the towel all over
my torso, my hips, my thighs, my bum, my legs, but it all seemed so natural
my wariness slowly disappeared. There was something dreamy, trance-like
about a warm towel coursing its way across my wet skin, moved by huge hands
that could reach round my entire waist.

Once, as he dried me, I slipped and steadying myself leaned forwards so
that my hands were around his neck as he knelt before me. I could have
stayed there a long time, in the hot humid silence, utterly dependent on
the young man who supported me, who could have leaned forward and kissed my
aching tummy so tenderly.

Life was good and seemed to be getting better. Mom announced that she'd
been offered Friday evenings at the supermarket doing accounts. I also
guessed she was keeping 'Happy Harry' more than happy. The offer of extra
money was very attractive and the only problem was solved when Todd Hunter
offered to keep me with him until seven o'clock. He could not hang around
the club till that time but generously offered to have me at his home until
mom picked me up.

Mom offered to pay something towards my keep but Todd's offended dignity
was so amusing that the subject was immediately dropped. This man liked me
for myself, and I was curious to see what life he had away from the
club. It was arranged: Friday evenings at Coach Hunter's for the next few
weeks.

That Thursday night was one of the warmest on record that summer. The air
was heavy and humid. Usually sound asleep by nine, I lay awake in bed,
naked under a single sheet, fitfully playing with myself and dreaming of
Louis. Occasionally the naked figure of Coach Hunter would intrude, but
that was too scary and with an effort I returned to my images of Louis and
myself in the hot hollow of the sand dunes last summer.

I could feel the tension and excitement build in my groin but resisted
bringing myself to that delicious delirium that left me limp, exhausted and
guilty. I had a vague idea of what was happening down there and I sometimes
wished I had a father or some other grown-up I could put my questions to.

I'm not sure if anything in particular caught my attention but I decided to
get up and push my bedroom window open wide. The moon was full, and
together with street lights that overlooked the enclosed backyard of our
bungalow I could see well enough to pad across the room. I had just drawn a
curtain open and was reaching for the window latch when I saw
them. Instinctively I stepped to the side and gazed down into the garden.

Harry, mom's boss, was seated on the garden swing, his shirt pushed back to
his neck, his legs splayed in front of him, trousers and underpants around
his ankle, his penis hard against his stomach.

Around the base of his penis mom's hand worked the shaft. She knelt to the
side of him, her clothes scattered where she'd flung them. She still had
her knickers on. Her breasts swung heavily as her arm moved rhythmically,
her nipples huge and purple under the combination of street and moon light.

Harry swung himself forward a little and pulled her head into his crotch. I
saw her cheeks bulge as she sucked half of his shaft into his mouth. Her
head bobbed up and down on his penis, her hands on his thighs, his hands
reaching to fondle her breasts.

In the still of the night, his words came clearly to me: "Yeh, Yeh, that's
it, baby. Fucking great. Harder, go on harder." My mom obliged, one hand
holding the base of Harry's prick while her head bobbed ever fast and her
cheeks sucked and blew until I hardly knew her face. I stood there
hypnotised, a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. That had happened
to us once when mom was driving us home from a late-night movie.

"Stop, don't waste it." Harry prised mom's head off his prick and fell
laughing on the grass beside her. He reached down into a trouser pocket and
pulled out a bottle of vodka, it might have been gin. He took a gulp and
pushed the bottle in mom's face. She turned her head away but he pulled it
back and pushed the bottle between her lips. I could hear her gulp from
where I stood. Then I swear he dived on my mom, pawing at her breasts,
sucking her nipples, pushing down her panties. I saw mom's bush emerge in
the moonlight.

Mom was casual about nudity around me but I'd never seen her so completely
exposed. She was giggling and crying at the same time. Harry's face slid
down her body until his head was trapped between mom's thighs. I couldn't
believe he wanted to lick her there. What was there to put in his mouth?
Mom gripped his head between her thighs, her body began to rock from side
to side, she was moaning now, cursing, using words that I'd only heard her
use about my long-gone daddy. How much time did all this take? I had no
idea. I couldn't move. I had to see what happened next.

I did not have long to wait. Harry pulled his head from between mom's
clutching thighs. He manoeuvred her half to her feet and guided her to the
swing. Mom slumped against the seat, then slid until the seat supported her
belly, her head hanging on one side, her bum high in the air on the
other. I thought she was going to be sick.

Harry knelt behind her, and I saw his prick, long, hard and enflamed,
sticking out from his groin. He manoeuvred it between the cheeks of mom's
arse and with a grunt he pushed it home. I could see the nipples of mom's
breasts just scrape the ground as Harry made the seat swing gently
backwards and forwards, driving himself deep into mom each time the seat
swung back. I tried to avoid imagining where the man's prick might be.

In school we'd learned how frogs did it. We'd even seen a couple of them
mating, it looked a bit like this. The seat was swinging faster now, Harry
rocking backwards and forwards on his knees, his breathing becoming loud
and irregular, matched by little yelps from my mother. Pain or pleasure? It
was impossible to guess.

I couldn't watch any more. It was too ugly. Compared with what Louis and I
did amongst the sand dunes, what mom and Harry were doing was
gross. Watching them exhausted me, and I fell asleep imagining myself in
mom's position, Coach Hunter behind me.

Coach lived alone in a small house somewhere in a maze of small, tree-lined
lanes, avenues and cul-de-sacs near the railway station. He parked his jeep
- if I'd not been so nervous, the ride would have been thrilling - and
unlocked the front door.

I was struck how neat and orderly everything was, surprised by how little
furniture was in the front room. There was neither couch nor table;
everything seemed at low level, including two huge bean bags propping
themselves up in front of the largest television screen I've ever
seen. Underneath the tele was a VCR, and neatly stacked beside the hi-fi
outfit row upon row of cassettes.

The carpet seemed to be out of a tale of the Arabian Nights, the pile so
thick that you could have dived headfirst into it. Everything was shades of
blue and green. In the subdued light, it felt like being underwater.

"Sling your bag in the hall, boy, and head for the shower room. Second door
on your left. Towels on the right. Use my all-over shampoo. Have a good
scrub. That baize is ingrained on you. I'll be in the kitchen rustling up
some grub."

I was surprised to find no lock on the shower room door. I was surprised by
the room itself. Three of the walls were finished in tiny fragments of
mirror. As I stripped, I saw my body emerge in a thousand tiny pieces. It
was tempting to study my shattered body from several angles, so I did. I
stepped into the shower and turned the huge tap at the wall.

The water was hot. I toned it down a little and watched the red baize run
from my legs. I found the shampoo and splashed it liberally over my hair,
the smell of oranges enveloped me. I liked the silky feel of the soap and
my hands running over my chest, my thighs, my groin. I reached back and
pulled open my crack to let the water stream between my buttocks.

The door opened. Coach stepped in. Naked. He closed the door behind him and
stepped under the shower.

"Room for two? The hot water doesn't last too long, and I pong more than
you. Here, give me the soap. Turn round. The backs of your legs are covered
with baize."

He took the soap and knelt behind my, his huge hands circling my legs as he
ran the soap up and down each one. He lifted a leg, one at a time, and
washed my feet. I leaned against the wall, the water splattering from my
shoulders. I sensed him kneeling behind me. I felt his hands close round my
buttocks. He squeezed them gently several times, then pulled open my
crack. I felt soapy fingers run all the way up to my hole and delicately
trace the puckered opening.

Instinctively I tried to tighten myself, but only succeeded in letting go a
pathetic fart. I heard Coach laughing, not unkindly, and I couldn't help
joining in myself. Then his hands were round my waist, moulding me, shaping
me, as they ran up my back causing my spine to shiver. He ran his hands
across my shoulders, one finger raised to caress each cheek. His hands
turned me to face him. I studied the floor watching the water bounce then
swirl away.

He was washing my face, stroking cheeks, then running his hands across my
shoulders, down across my chest and tummy.

"Raise your arms."

His voice was husky. I raised them and he soaped each one. His broad thumbs
entered my armpits like tongues licking them clean. Southwards again went
his soapy hands, caressing my stomach, lingering in my belly button, then
stroking my thighs. I tried, I tried my hardest, I thought of dead cats,
and macaroni, and Harry thrusting in my mom, but I couldn't help it. My sex
rose before me.

He knelt down in front of me and for the first time took my penis between
his fingers. I could feel the soap, smell it rising, as he stroked and
caressed me. I got a stiffie, a hard-on, an erection as hard and tight as a
piece of asparagus. I felt his hand under my balls, caressing, fondling,
soaping them, his long middle finger once again tracing my most intimate
opening, running its small length again and again.

This time I relaxed. I am not sure what I was expecting but suddenly Coach
was standing in front of me. He took my hands, cupped them and poured in
some shampoo. "You're turn, luverboy."

My soapy hands ran across his finely-muscled chest. I did not look up at
his face. I concentrated on my work. The palms of my hands ran across his
nipples, so much more pronounced than my own. I was surprised by the
hardness of the tips, the way they bent to my touch. I got on my tiptoes so
that I could reach his neck, almost falling against him. I could feel my
erection, hot and hard press against his skin.

I soaped his shoulders, and as I ran my hands their length, my body swayed
against his, my stiff penis rubbing against something soft and hairy. I was
acutely embarrassed but Coach didn't seem to mind.

My hands ran down his broad sides to his narrower waist. I dipped my knees
and look at his belly button, like my own an inner. I concentrated on
getting it really clean to avoid what I knew lay lower, but already I could
feel the thick hair that separated men from boys brush my wrist.

His gentle pressure told me there was no way out. I knelt and found myself
facing that huge, swinging tube of flesh that I'd seen so often in the
shower room at the club. It seemed longer, thicker, larger, hungrier, more
urgent. I needed one soapy hand to hold it as I washed it with the other,
my nose practically touching the hot purple flesh.

I concentrated on the thick vein that wound round its six or seven
inches. As I gripped Coach's penis, I felt it harden, stiffen, elongate. I
stared fascinated as it reared its head until pointing directly in my
face. I squeezed harder. It grew faster rising until it was almost vertical
and revealing its hairy base and the balls that hung in the loose sac
below.

The skin seemed loose on the shaft and I could not help moving it up and
down as I washed its length. I recalled the pleasure that mom gave Harry,
and I began to do what mom had done, working the skin along the shaft, my
little hand caressing the head each time I reached it. I heard him groan
above me. I worked feverishly on the hard column of flesh that towered
above me.

Suddenly I was hit by a swoosh of cold water. I felt Coach pull me up by
the armpits. He lifted me like a kitten until we were face to face. He was
laughing. It was infectious and I began laughing, too, though much of my
laughter was engendered by nerves and relief. Coach held me up under the
cold shower letting the water cascade over both of us. When the soap and
shampoo had drained away, he let me down, slapped my bottom and pushed me
to the door. "Grab your towel. Your clothes are in the bedroom. Second on
the right. Get dried pronto. We're going out for tea."

Fifteen minutes later we were speeding down a narrow track by the river. I
felt fresh and exhilarated. We were both dressed in denim jeans and denim
shirt. With a little imagination I could have been his younger brother.

My hair was still damp, there was soap in my ears, my bum-hole
tingled. Life was brilliant. And got even better when we arrived at a
restaurant overlooking the river. We had T-bone steaks with all the
trimmings, and I was allowed a half-glass of lager. I kept some to wash
down the hot chocolate fudge pudding that left me full, burping and utterly
satiated. Coach was an easy guy to talk to.

He had been in a lot of places for someone just twenty five years old,
which was about five years older than I'd guessed. He'd been places and
done things that I could only dream about. Rafting down white-water
rapids. Camera safari in Kenya.

Canoeing up the Amazon for Chrissake!

I blushed at my blasphemy but Todd only laughed. I blushed even more when I
stupidly asked him if he had a girlfriend. He glanced around, then ran his
fingertips across the back of my hand. "What do you think?" I lowered my
eyes and studied my empty glass.

Coached delivered me home right on time. Mom was almost gushing in her
thanks. Harry was there. I wanted to be elsewhere, anywhere, as long as it
was with Todd Hunter.

"No trouble at all," smiled Coach. "That's a talented kid you've got
there."

"Yes, I know," shone mom.

Coach turned to go, then turned back. "By the way, I'm taking the junior
tennis squad to a movie tomorrow afternoon. Ben's a little younger than
them, but if he'd like... if you'd like..."

Harry threw in his pennyworth. "That would be a great help. Marge and I are
planning to drive to Newton, to check out my other market. We were going to
take Ben, of course, but to tell you the truth, most kids don't get much of
a thrill out of auditing account books, so..."

Mom turned to me. "It's up to you, luverboy. Newtown supermarket with us or
a movie with Coach and the other kids."

"Movie, please."

"Right, that's settled. I'll pick Ben up at 2.45. What time would you like
him back?"

"Anytime after seven will do," smiled mom. "Just make sure you deliver him
in once piece. There's only one Ben Kingsley, and he's all mine." Mom
grabbed me and smothered me with kisses. I fought her off half-heartedly.

"Sure thing," laughed Coach. "Bye for now. See you tomorrow, Ben."

Upstairs I threw myself on the bed and listened as Coach gunned the jeep
down the avenue.  "He's all right," I thought. "Coach's all
right. Everything's going to be all right."

My head hoped that things would be all right, my heart knew better. It came
as no surprise when Coach chimed, "Change of plan, boy" as soon as the jeep
pulled out of our drive. "Far too hot for the cinema. I called off the trip
this morning. Didn't want to let your mother down, so off we go?" He had
probably lied to my mother all along. That scared and excited me. Here was
another secret we could share. Coach trusted me. The least I could do was
trust him.

I glanced across at him. A look of wry amusement lingered on his face. I
couldn't understand what he found so funny.

"Where are we going, sir?" I said.

"Going fishing, boy, going fishing. And it's Coach, not sir. I'm your
buddy, not your boss. He gave my bare knee a friendly squeeze. "Been
fishing before?"

I shook my head.

"You don't say much," he said. "I like that in a boy." He gunned the engine
and the jeep leapt forward. "I guess you spend a lot of time on your
own. Just you and your mother, I mean."

"It's no big deal. I've got the tennis club. And I watch TV or ride around
on my bike." I forestalled his next question. "My dad left a long time
ago. I can hardly remember him."

"I'm on my own a lot, too," he said. "That's the way I like it. When I'm
not coaching, I like fishing or watching TV or riding around in this
thing. 'Course I've got a few good friends, special friends, friends like
you, Ben. I hope we're good friends, Ben. I hope we're going become special
friends, very special."

I stared straight ahead and nodded. What else could I do?

The afternoon was wonderful. In fact, everything was always wonderful with
Coach. He was a natural teacher, patient, good-humoured. He laughed with me
not at me. And when he stood behind me, the water lapping at our shins,
helping me hold the rod and cast more or less properly, I leaned back into
him in the classic gesture of submission and surrender. I felt his chin
brush my hair, one arm encircle my waist. He had me and he knew it.

Back home - when did I begin to think of it as home? - Coach spread a feast
of cola and peanuts and popcorn between the bean bags. We sprawled over the
bags, slurping the cold dark liquid, scrabbling for the munchies. He
flicked the remote control and aliens exploded across the TV screen. My
eyes shot open. Mom had forbidden any films rated above PG, and now I was
being invited to watch the film of the year, of the decade, maybe even of
the century, and guzzle Coke and popcorn at the same time.

Coach didn't interrupt me once during the film though I sensed he watched
me more than he did the screen. At first the colour crept up under my
collar but then I got used to it, ignored it, and secretly felt a little
pleased with myself. I'd snagged this man's attention, this
grown-up. Whenever I was with him, I was the centre of his universe. With
him, I was more real than anywhere else.

As the last images and the pounding music faded away, I lay back
breathless. That had been some film, and I still couldn't believe some of
the things I'd seen in screen. No wonder adults wanted to keep these films
for themselves. Coach rose, extracted the cassette and slipped in another
one. He did not start it up. He reached down and cleared the clutter from
around the beanbags. Then he lowered himself down and reached for me.

"It must be nearly ninety in here," he said, "far too hot for this." He
began tugging my T-shirt up. I raised me arms. My head and arms were
trapped in the shirt. He gave me a slight push and I fell backwards over my
beanbag, unable to move, helpless.

I giggled in fright. I felt his lips on my tummy, small wet kisses centred
on my belly button. I heard his whispers as if from far away, as if
underwater. "I like you, Ben, I really like you."

The kisses continued, interspersed by his hot wet tongue sliding the length
of my chest, kisses in the hollow my throat, nibbles on my nipples.  He
pushed my shoulders until they were flat on the floor, my tummy and groin
forced high on the bean bag. "This is what I do when I like someone, when I
really really like someone, this is how I show it."

He tugged at my shirt until my head was free, my hair splayed beneath my,
my arms still trapped. His fingers soothed and caressed my body, sliding
down to trace the lines and angles of my hips, my thighs, my ass, his nose
brushing against mine. His lips brushed mine. His breath was sweet from the
sugary popcorn.  "Shhh," he said, "shhh, my own little loverboy."

His mouth moved over my face. hot and wet. He pushed his tongue between my
lips. I pressed them tightly together, like my bumhole, but he kept on
probing, pushing, parting them and slipping like a fish into my mouth. I
had to relax a little, had to breathe, and his whole tongue was between my
teeth, filling my mouth. Was he going to eat me, devour me, gorge on my
head like an alien, then suck me entirely into him? Did I struggle, did I
fight back? When did I surrender?

I flick open my eyes, then snap them shut. His face is so big, his tongue
when he withdraws it monstrous. His eyes memorise me whole, capturing me
from myself. He tugs my shirt completely away but holds my arms out full
length above me. I look up. He is smiling. He lowers his head and grazes in
my armpits. I am embarrassed that my armpits are so sweaty. He lies full
length along me, careful not to crush me.

"My prince," he whispers, "my own little prince."

Why is he making everything so awkward? I can't escape. Why don't we just
go into the shower room and do it, whatever it is, get it over with, and go
back to watching TV? I don't understand adults. What do they want from me?

He releases one arm and manoeuvres me flat on to the carpet. I lie beneath
him motionless. I can see the curve of his back, the breath moving his
stomach. He unzips himself and wriggles his shorts to his knees. I can feel
the heat of his stiff dick through the thin material of my own shorts. He
swings a leg across my body and kneels over me.

"Look at it, Ben. Look at it." I look down the length of my small body and
see his penis, huge, heavy, angry-looking sticking out beneath his hairy
stomach. The head, purple, swollen, looks wet and slippery, milky drops of
pre-cum dribbling from the slit. I look and cannot take my eyes away.

He frees my other hand and pulls it towards his dick. He wraps my fingers
around his penis, they hardly meet, and begins to use my hand to jerk the
skin up and down the shaft.  "Ben, I like you so much."

His other hand reaches to open my shorts, unzip me and slide them to my
knees. "Lift." I lift my bum. I can't think of anything else to do. He
slides my shorts and underpants to my knees. He keeps working my hand on
his prick. I feel his hand running over me, manipulating my sex with his
fingers. I stay limp. I am too terrified to be excited. He kisses me again
while he squeezes, caresses, fondles, massages my sex.

"That feels good, right?"

With the tips of his fingers he pulls back my foreskin, then uses it to rub
against the head of my cock. He is tender, rhythmical, sometimes slow,
sometimes fast. I can't control myself. I begin to stiffen.

I work his cock harder. I want him to come. I know that it will lessen his
excitement, calm him down, control him. I close my eyes and pump him
hard. I remember how mom moaned and I do the same. He begins to
shudder. Using both hands, he pushes himself up over me. He is kneeling
over me, a hand on either side of my head, his hair hanging in my face. I
handjob him ruthlessly.

"Open your eyes," he commands. "Look at it."

I open my eyes and for the first time see the full size of his swollen
dick. It reminds me of the model zeppelin I built. The thick shaft is brown
as though it has been dipped in shit, the head an angry purple, slimy in
its need. His cock arches over my chest into my face. My hand is a blur
now, his face is contorted above me.

Without warning he shoots, fountains, spurts, gobs of thick viscous liquid
hit me in the face. I snap my eyes closed. Hit me in the face, slap across
my cheeks, then dribble down on to my chest. I try to take my hand away but
he holds me there, pumping gently. More squirts, more gobs, more
dribbles. The smell is salty sweet. I keep my mouth closed.

The room is utterly silent, utterly still except for Coach's breathing,
ragged, gulping. I wonder about the mess. Then I feel his tongue, licking
me like a cat licks her kittens, cleaning away the splatters of cum across
my chest and face.

If there's any in my hair, I'll have a shower. I'll have a shower anyway,
alone. I feel his finger across my lips. I open them and feel a thin trail
of cum across my lips, saltier than Louis', thicker, older, not unpleasant
but not something I'd like for breakfast.

What next? I close my eyes. Coach slides down my body and lays his head on
my tummy as if he is going to sleep, his hair soft against my skin. He
slips off my shorts and underpants. He strokes my sex. I am hard but I
don't care. As long as everything is calm, safe, untroubled, I will lie
here without moving. I'll just play dead.

Under his touch my cock begins to jerk. I can do nothing to stop it. I feel
his mouth close around me and the sucking begins. My cock must be lost in
the cavern of his hungry mouth. I am lying there, disconnected from the
excitement below, almost bored, waiting for this to end so that life can
begin again.

I think Coach senses my boredom because he is suddenly behind me,
manoeuvring me onto my stomach so that I am facing the TV. How
considerate. I suddenly see myself, lying naked on my stomach, my stiff
prick rubbing against the carpet, watching a blank screen.

Coach begins to massage my shoulder blades, my sides, my bottom, my legs,
his big hands running up and down the length of my body. I am so
comfortable I could sleep. Then I hear the click of the remote control and
the screen fades into life. Hands continue to caress me. I reach for what's
left of my cola, sip and watch.

There is a boy on the screen. Younger than me. Wearing jeans and a striped,
short-sleeved shirt. His feet are bare. He is red-headed. In fact, his
thick curly hair is a burst of flame. He is a good-looking boy, his clear
skin splattered with freckles across his nose and cheeks.

He is propped against a beanbag. He is watching the TV. It is the TV I am
watching. He is talking to someone off-camera but there's no sound. I watch
as the camera zooms in on his face, his lips. He cheekily sticks out his
tongue, it is blue-purple, he has been drinking cola. There is a jump cut
in the film. The boy is in the same position but is shirt is gone.

He is looking at his bare chest. He is laughing. His nipples are no bigger
than mine but they look dark and swollen, almost as if they'd been dipped
in cola. He is leaning back on the bag, rhythmically open and closing his
legs. The camera pans around him, zooms in between his legs, then up his
body to his chest.

The boy is tweaking his nipples, pulling the tips away from his body then
releasing them. The camera pans up to his face, his eyes are closed, his
mouth open. The film remains silent but I can hear him breathing.

I am aware that the cheeks of my bum have been parted. I feel Coach's
fingers stroking the insides of my cheeks. It is strangely soothing. His
thumbs are on the lower part of buttocks, they spread me like a split
peach. I feel his breath in the crack of my arse. It's all very silly. I
concentrate on the screen.

Another jump cut.

The boy is in the same position. He is naked now. The camera pans between
his legs again. He pulls them open and raises himself off the carpet. The
camera zooms in. The picture is shadowy but I can see his asshole, see the
way the flesh tries to force itself back, watch his fingers keep himself
prised apart. He lefts himself go.

The camera pans up to his groin. The boy's hands are busy. Two fingers and
the thumb of his right hand are masturbating his stiff little prick. The
other hand is working his balls. Like me he is completely hairless,
completely smooth, cream-skinned, except where the wrinkled sac and the
shaft of his prick give way to a pink dusky hue. Both hands are busy. The
camera cuts to his face. His eyes are closed. His breathing seems to be
getting faster. The camera stays on his face.

I am shocked away from the screen. I realise that the something warm and
moist is probing my bumhole. It is Coach's tongue. He has been running it
along the tiny slit but now he is seeking entrance, pushing gently but
insistently at the opening.

Does this man have no shame? It is not an unpleasant feeling but it is so
unexpected I don't know what to make of it or do about it. I close my eyes
and rest my head on my elbows. I need to think this out.

The tongue keeps stroking, probing, pushing. I feel myself give away a
little. I'd like to fart in his face, do a good hard shit. That would get
rid of him. I feel a finger probe me and I tense my hole tight. The finger
disappears, the tongue returns, I feel soothing caresses on my back.

The beanbag is pushed under the middle of my body. It raises my bum in the
air. I feel silly but I do nothing. He probably wants to masturbate me
while he is kissing my hole. I'll just lie here and watch the screen. He's
bound to get tired soon.

My eyes open. On the screen the camera is back up the boy's bum, not quite,
but not far off it. Almost the entire screen is taken up by this boy's
asshole. Then a middle finger appears. It has some slimy cream around
it. Looks like mom's Vaseline.

The finger is spreading the Vaseline on the boy's hole. It presses
insistently against the hole and I am surprised to see it slip inside down
to the first knuckle. The finger holds steady for a while. The rocking of
the boy's bottom makes me suspect that he is still masturbating out of
shot.

The finger, thick and long and brown, begins to move in and out of the boy,
slowly at first, but then picking up speed so that it seems in time with
the rocking of the boy's hips. I'd like to see the boy's face again.

Behind me Coach is rubbing a smooth, cool finger between my buttocks. He
says unintelligible words that remind me of mom and Harry in the
backyard. He cuddles and caresses me but he has me in an iron grip, my
forehead pushed lower to the carpet. His huge, hard cock is between my
legs, between my buttocks, the head butting at my little hole.

I arch my back, tense my legs, and tighten at the feel of this prodding
thing that seeks to gain entrance to me. Coach is muttering in my ear
again. "Come on, baby, relax, baby, it'll only hurt for a few minutes. Then
you'll like it."

I raise my head to tell him to stop, to leave me alone. I see what's on the
screen. The finger has gone from the boy's asshole. In its place is the
neck of the cola bottle. A hand holds the bottle. The hand is using the
bottle to fuck the boy's arse hole. I see the hole stretching as the bottle
is driven deeper and deeper.

Another image flashes on to the screen inside my mind. It is mom, bent
double over a garden swing, her naked arse in the air, a fat sweaty cock
driving between her cheeks. I hear a scream from the TV screen. But it
isn't from the screen. It's coming from me.

The pressure on my body relaxes a little. I wrench myself free and scurry
away to the farthest corner of the room. There is nowhere to hide and I
kneel there panting.

"Leave me alone. That's dirty. You're dirty. I'll tell my mom."

Tears are streaming down my face.

Coach is kneeling in front of the television. Behind him the picture
flickers on. I stare from the picture to his face and back again. Without
losing eye contact, he reaches behind him and switches the TV off. "No, not
that, you're my best boy. I'd never do that to you." He has misunderstood
my scream.

"C'mere, baby, I won't hurt you. You know you're special to me. C'mere." He
opens his arms to me. I crawl across the floor towards him. What else can I
do? He's a man, I'm only a boy. He's so much bigger than me, so much
stronger. He could kill me if he wanted to. Just like that. And he's been
good to me. Apart from the sex thing, and even that's not all bad, he likes
me, he treats me well, he gives me his time. I don't want to lose him.

I crawl into his open arms and we sink to the carpet together. I am
stretched out against him, my arms around his neck. There is the smell of
sugar and sweat and cum, his body is soft and hard, he smells of warmth and
sleep. His voice is soothing in my ear and I feel our bellies breath
together. I calm down. I stop trembling. I press my mouth to his neck. He
pulls me into him and whispers in my ear. This time I understand what he
says. He says, "I'll be your daddy."  Was it from that moment I began to
despise him? I like to think so.

Sometime later - I may have fallen asleep - Coach packed me off to the
shower. I expected him to follow. He didn't. Was I relieved? Was I
disappointed? Perhaps a bit of both. When I'd dried and dressed, he was as
cheerful as ever. As we left to find a MacDonald's, he pushed a five pound
note into my pocket. "For being such a good sport."

Do I have to tell everything? Do I have to detail all the sex in that
submerged room on so many afternoons that summer? Do you want to know about
the money he gave me, the lessons I learned, the lies and secrets we
shared? Do want to know how he used me, used me as bait, used me to lure
other boys to that room, the shower room, his bedroom? Do you want to know
about Sean Kite. I don't want to tell about Sean, so I suppose I'll have
to. Do you want to know how it ended and why it ended? I want to tell you
about that. I'm not ashamed about that. But I am ashamed about Sean. Maybe
I deserved it. Sean never did.

Can a twelve year old fall in love at first sight? I don't know, but it
took Sean Kite and me an afternoon to decide that we enjoyed each other's
company more than anybody else's. Sean came late to the tennis club that
summer but he announced his presence with a laugh that tinkled across three
courts and a steely determination that nobody younger than himself would
ever beat him.

Sean was everything I was not. Taller, stronger, a year older, he had a
sunny disposition that lit up the locker room, a self confidence that had
me trailing in his wake. But it was a confidence without arrogance, it
attracted rather than repelled, though it was not long before Coach Hunter
and Sean were snapping at each other, especially as Sean insisted on
calling the coach 'old boy'.

Since Sean called everyone older than himself 'old boy', there seemed
little harm in it, but for some reason Coach took Sean aside and insisted
he called him 'Coach Hunter' like everyone else. Sean nodded affably and
went on calling him 'old boy'.

Sean also liked company in the shower room, company his own age, and as I
was about the nearest, he often dragged me in well before four o'clock and
the end to the afternoon. I was wary, but Sean was so obviously having 'boy
fun' that I soon dropped my caution and horsed around with him. After all,
Harry owned the club; I was a member, Coach an employee.

There were other differences. I was not far from pretty but Sean Kite was
handsome. He reminded me of the portraits of Roman generals in my history
book. Eyes wide set, lips thin, nose long and straight, his features came
together in a coherence that anticipated the emerging man.

His dark hair, almost blue-black, fringed strong eyebrows above eyes of an
unlikely blue. His frame was spare with more muscle than fat, his feet
already a size ten. The emerging man was also obvious in the fringe of dark
pubic hair above a straight prick that hung a good four inches. In the
showers he would pull at his cock until it was around six inches long, then
laughing wave it at me. He once took me by surprise, pointing his prick at
me and without warning squirted yellow piss all over me.

Fortunately, I had been holding in a full bladder out of politeness, but
once he gunned me, I let him have it full frontal. As luck would have it,
Coach walked in on us, gave us a good telling off and flounced out again. I
noticed that the man was reluctant to shower with both of us, so more and
more I found excuses to shower with Sean. Of course I was still being
packed off to Coach's house once or twice a week and he made up for his
disappointment when he got me alone on the carpet.

I should have said no when Coach asked me to invite Sean home with us one
afternoon. I expected Sean to refuse the invitation so I asked him. I even
phoned Sean's home to explain he would be with me until about seven that
evening. I let them assume he would be at my house. Coach had trained me
well in the art of deceit.

As we bounced along in the jeep, taking the riverside track, Coach was
bubbling with good humour. The junior tournament was coming up, and he
expected Sean and I would make a cracking doubles team. If we wanted he'd
do some doubles coaching next day, only if we wanted. We jumped at the
offer.

In Coach's house Sean and I settled down on the beanbags to a game of Hunt
the Cunt. I'd played the game a lot and Sean was suitably impressed as I
flayed his ass several times. His tinkling laughter, which dropped at times
into something deeper and throatier, filled the room. Coach brought a tray
of soft drinks and snacks, dragged another bag between us, joined in the
nibbles and gave a running commentary about my unscrupulous tactics. He was
convincing and amusing. I'd never been in the room when everything was so
relaxed, especially if another boy was there.

Finally, the game exhausted itself. Sean and I collapsed in a heap and
finished off the grub. "What about a video?" asked Coach, reaching for the
first one on the pile. He pushed it home and flicked the remote. Black
dissolved to grey, dissolved to colours, to hazy images, to a crystal clear
picture of two teenagers, boy and girl, naked, on a water bed in a
non-descript room. She was giving him a blow job.

He knelt up on the bed, she crouched before him, his swollen prick drove in
and out of her lip-sticked lips. Coach let the video run for about a
minute. The room was silent. Then he laughed.

"Sorry, men, didn't know what was on that cassette. You're a bit young for
this. Just tell me if you want me to switch it off. I've got the Bedknobs
and Broomsticks here."

Silence. Frozen with embarrassment, I waited for a signal from
Sean. Silence. He was gazing at the screen.

"Fine then," said Coach. "I suppose you boys have got to learn sometime, so
let's just go with the flow." He leaned back and relaxed. I watched the
screen, my stomach churning. The action got hotter. Now the boy was
kneeling behind her, giving it to her doggy style. The camera came in
really close. He was giving it to her up the ass. You could see how her
brown hole stretched to accommodate him. Her tits swung brightly at the
other end.

I looked at the screen and saw my mother and Harry. Did she take it in the
ass, too?  Abruptly the screen went black, flickered and lit up
again. There was another couple there, teenagers, hardly more than our age,
lying head to foot on the water bed sucking each other's hard cocks.

"Now, that's more our style, eh, Ben."

Before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me, not roughly but firmly,
and swung me over his knees. I was on my back, my head hanging towards
Sean. I could see his startled upside-down face. We were all in shorts from
the tennis court. I felt mine and my underpants dragged to me knees. I
tried to protest but Coach's mouth sealed my own, his tongue past my lips
before I could close them tightly. I felt his hand part my legs and begin
to manipulate my sex. I was sideways into Sean's eyes. It was the last
thing I wanted. My prick began to stiffen.

"You can go, Sean, if you want." That was Coach's voice. "But if you stay,
well..."  He let the consequences hang in the air. My cock was hard now. I
hated Coach, myself and the flesh that betrayed me. "Go on, it won't bite."
Coach's voice again. I felt the man's hand leave me. I felt smaller,
cooler, slimmer fingers close around me. Sean. The jerking was tender,
tentative.

"Come on, Sean, he's used to more than that. Usually it's my mouth around
that sweet little prick."

Tears started to me eyes. The jerking became firmer, steady, regular. Coach
lowered me to the floor. He leaned over and slid off my tennis shirt. I
closed my eyes in shame, the jerking continued, shame dissolved into
pleasure. I felt a mouth close around my prick as the hand slid to the
base. It was not a mouth I had felt before. Sean!

I opened my eyes. Sean was kneeling, leaning over my groin, his head
bobbing up and down as he sucked my hard-on, his saliva already running
down the shaft. I looked beyond him and watched Coach strip off Sean's
tennis shirt, mouth losing contact with my penis for only a moment. His
shirt was followed by his shorts and underwear. "That's my boys."

There was amusement in the man's voice. "Come on, Sean, you've seen how
it's done on the video." He shifted the boy around until Sean knelt facing
my groin, his own poised above my face. His prick was stiff, a good four or
five inches. I pulled it down towards my mouth and sucked it in.

Coach ever helpful pushed a beanbag under my head so that I could reach the
boy comfortably. Despite what had happened, I loved the feel of Sean's
penis in my mouth. It was thicker than my own, longer, silky hair at the
base, his balls bigger, bouncing against my chin, but it was still a boy's
prick, not a man's, and most importantly this penis belong to someone I
cared about. If Coach had not been there, it would have been paradise.

But he was there, and he was clearly enjoying himself. He was talking filth
and rubbing his hands over both our bodies. At times he took the base of
Sean's prick and jerked it harder into my mouth, careless of whether I was
ready or not.

He pushed hard at the back of Sean's head so the boy was forced to take in
my balls as well as my prick. Naked, he rubbed his sweaty, slimy cock
against Sean's face, rubbing pre-cum over the boy's cheeks and lips. I
heard Sean gasp, grunt and felt him thrust harder into me. I thought he
must be coming. I sucked harder. He didn't come.

I didn't feel the familiar jerking in his prick. Sean gasped again and this
time the grunt was a moan. Using my hand, I twisted the shaft of his prick
and sucked the head in short, fast strokes. That usually brought Coach off
very quickly. I felt Sean spurt into my mouth again and again. I couldn't
hold it all. His cum, his semen, trickled and dribbled from the side of my
mouth. His groin mashed my face and still his sweet boy cum squirted into
my mouth. I was smothering. I pushed him away, completely losing any sense
of my own dry orgasm.

Sean collapsed beside me. I looked up into Coach's face. There was an
expression I hadn't seen before. A combination of malice and triumph. I
examined Sean. He seemed okay though he was silent and shivering.

Then I saw it. Creamy. Between his legs. One of Coach's dildoes, one of his
rubber cocks. Smaller than the one he made me use on him. Sean lay on his
back, his eyes open, but glazed. I parted his legs and saw that the dildo
was driven in to the hilt. I eased it out. Sean made no sound. A good four
inches.

No Vaseline. Just shit and blood. I threw the dildo across the room. I
helped Sean to his feet, wrapped his arm round my shoulder and half-carried
him to the shower room. "You keep out, you fucking keep out," I hissed at
Hunter. He looked dazed, hardly aware of what he'd done.

In the shower I helped Sean wash himself down. "Is it bad?" I asked. "Could
be worse," grunted. "Could have been that bastard's big prick." He handed
me the shower head, bent over and parted his cheeks. "Would you do the
honours, please?" I could see his asshole. It was red and raw but nothing
looked torn, at least on the outside. I sprayed the water as deeply as I
could.

Sean jumped. "That's fucking hot, Ben. Add some cold." I adjusted the taps
and tried again. "Mmm, perfect, just keep it there."  After two or three
minutes I heard Sean's voice again.

"Kiss me."

"Where?"

"Where do you think?  Go on. Kiss me there. A little kissy always
helps. Didn't your mommy ever tell you that?"

Still holding the power shower, I got down on one knee. Sean pulled his bum
cheeks wide apart. He was completely exposed to my gaze. I put my face into
his crack. I put my lips to his. I kissed his hole. It felt right. I kissed
him again, and again. He pulled away laughing, "Don't be greedy. There'll
be lots of other times."  My heart leapt.  "Now come on, luverboy, we're
getting out of here."  I knew Sean had heard my mother call me loverboy but
that was the first time he'd used the expression.

Outside the shower room, Sean took over. Finding out where the bedroom was,
he marched me in, slamming the door behind us. We towelled each other
dry. Naked, he strode into the living room, handed me my clothes and stood
in front of me. I pulled on mine, he his. Coach began to speak.

"Shut the fuck up," snapped Sean. "Don't speak. Listen. We're leaving
now. And we're going to the tennis club tomorrow. But you won't be
there. In fact, you'll never be there again. So we'll just have to win the
doubles on our own. Because if you're there... well, you know who my father
is."  I was bewildered.  Sean turned to me.  "Detective Inspector Stanley
Kite, Newton CID, my father."

Todd Hunter turned to me. He looked smaller, thinner, less substantial,
almost insignificant.  "Ben..."  Sean intervened, his voice deeper, darker,
"I told you to shut the fuck up. We're going. Adios. Or maybe, go to hell
would be better."  We picked up our things, opened the door and walked out
into the warm night air. We walked about half a mile. Sean stopped. He
turned me to face him. "God, we've done it. Shit, was I scared. Close to
shitting myself, except my arse hole hurts."

He pulled me behind some bushes in the park. Both sun and moon were in the
sky. He put his arms across my shoulders. "You do care about me, don't you,
Ben. You do care about me. I care about you. I've tried to make it
obvious. That's why I came along this afternoon. I wouldn't go near that
creep if you weren't there. You do care about me, just a little. Say
something, say anything."

I couldn't think of anything to say. No, that's not true. I couldn't think
of anything I dared to say. I stood there in silence, fretting, biting my
lip.

"Okay, I'll say it," said Sean. "I'm not scared." There was a pause. What
was he going to say?  My bowels loosened. Sean edged closer until I felt
his breath on my face. And he then he said it.

"I'm gay. Always have been, always will be."

I was even more bewildered.

He looked at me searchingly, then began to laugh.

"God you're so fucking green. You don't even know what gay is. Listen,
dummy. I'm a boy and I love boys. And that makes me gay. And the boy I
happen to love is you. I love you. Sean loves Ben. Do you want me to carve
into that tree? Now say something, anything."

The word stuck in my throat. "I don't know if I'm... what you said." Sean's
face fell. "But there's two people in the world I love. One is my mom, and
the other is... you."

Sean sighed a warm breath across my face. "Can I kiss you?"

"Where?" I was alarmed. After all, we were in a public park.

"No, not there, stupid. Well, not right at this minute. I mean here." He
pulled me into him and kissed me on the lips. I was fed up of the
shilly-shallying, mostly my own. I gripped him tightly and forced my tongue
between his lips. They, and his eyes, snapped open. I dug deep, foraging
for his tongue, gathering his saliva and exchanging it for my own. Overhead
the nightbirds sang. I pushed him away and held him at arm's length.

"Just one thing."

"What?"

"No sex before the doubles tournament."

"Fuck you."

"Yes, please, but only after the doubles tournament."

"Come on, let's go home."

We wound our way arm in arm down the long and winding road that took us to
my house. When you're twelve and thirteen years old, you're allowed to do
that.

Two out of three wishes is not bad except when it's the wish you really
want that is not granted.  Coach Hunter did not show up at the club next
day, and never again as far as I knew. That weekend Sean and I won the
junior doubles tournament. Then Sean left Newton for good.

"It's only Wales we're going to. Dad's been transferred there. It's only
for a year. We have to leave this weekend. We'll keep in touch."

Big boys don't cry and they don't keep in touch. The summer had given and
the summer had taken away - blessed and cursed be the summer.

But the summer was not quite over.

Why I went back to Coach Hunter's I don't know. It wasn't for the sex, I
know that. Maybe I needed to know why he had to hurt Sean and through Sean
me. He was supposed to love me, he said he'd be my daddy, who had failed,
him or me. I had to know.

It was mid-afternoon, the last day of August, when I cycled up to his
house. As usual the curtains were drawn. I knocked at the door. No
answer. I knocked again. No reply. My pocket was full of the money he had
given me during the summer. I'd been frightened to spend it. And mom would
ask how I could afford things on the pitiful pocket money she gave
me. There was also something dirty about the money. There was a key in my
pocket as well, the key to his door. I wanted rid of the money, I wanted
rid of the key, I wanted rid of him.

I opened the door and stepped in. The television was on. The shower was
on. I froze. The water stopped running. I could hear him whistling. All I
wanted to do was turn and run. Coming here was such a stupid idea. I could
see through to the shower room door. I saw them coming out of the shower
room. Hunter was naked, the little boy wrapped in a towel.

He was a very young boy, about nine or ten old, looking even younger
cradled in Coach's arms. His matted hair was dark, his eyes huge and
dark. He looked dazed. Coach was smiling, nuzzling his ear. I stood
motionless, hardly breathing. The man carried the boy into the bedroom. I
wanted to turn and run but I couldn't. It could be innocent. I know it
wasn't but I had to be sure.  I edged towards the open bedroom door, the
sounds of the TV covering my movements. From the side I could see across
the room to Coach's double bed.

He had lain the boy on the bed. The towel was on the floor. He was tickling
the boy's tummy, his head bent over the small body, talking the whole time
the way a lover does. I knew that. I probably knew the words. I had heard
them on that bed often enough. He was sharing secrets with the boy, telling
him he was special, that he was handsome, big for his age, the very best at
tennis, he had good muscles, he was smart, he was lucky, he was going to be
Coach's special friend. And Coach would show him a secret. What he had done
with his fingers, he would do with his mouth.

Coach lowered his head over the boy's groin. I didn't need to see
anymore. I knew what was going to happen. I didn't know how long he would
take with such a little boy but I knew the words by heart. "Go ahead," he
would say. "Take it, take it in your mouth." I remembered how it felt and
tasted, so much of it, too much of it, stretching my mouth wide, wider than
it was ever meant to go. My stomach rose to my throat. It wasn't fair, he
was such a very little boy.

I turned and crossed the living room. The video camera was set up. I
stepped outside and breathed deeply, the fresh air shocking my lungs. I put
the key into the lock and left it there. I crossed the road. There was an
old-fashioned red telephone booth. I dialled Emergency Services.

A lady answered. Good. It was easier to speak to a lady. I told her what
was going on and where. I didn't give any names. I refused to give mine. I
began crying. She was very kind. She said a police car would be there
within minutes. She said I shouldn't hang around. She told me to go
home. She told me to find someone and tell them what I needed to tell
them. I listened. She was crying, too. I put the phone down, left the booth
and started the long cycle home. As I went, I threw the notes away one at a
time into the gutter.

The summer had one final insanity in store.

Harry, Mr Hapgood, mom's boss and lover, had become more and more a part of
our lives, and the more I got to know him, the more I liked him. He was
good to me, never patronising, never condescending, and always generous. My
new BMX bike, roller skates, and portable stereo, as well as a variety of
expensive clothes, came courtesy of Harry Hapgood. I knew that he had
designs on my mother, I had witnessed some of them, but these designs now
included something far more serious - marriage.

Mom was glad that we got on well. She did not seem perturbed when Coach
Hunter disappeared from the scene and mentioned something about 'that man
monopolising you as if he owned you'.  More and more I was given into
Harry's company, and the more we got on together, the more mom
relaxed. When she announced she was visiting an old school friend for a
weekend, Harry chimed in that he'd be glad to have me round his place. They
carried it off beautifully and I wondered how long the rehearsals had
taken. Harry's house, set in five acres of woodland, had its own indoor
heated swimming pool. I wasn't about to argue.

Friday evening was quiet with the first nip of autumn in the air. I spent a
couple of hours in the pool while Harry recovered from a heavy week. By
eight we were off for dinner, driving to a little Mexican restaurant I'd
never heard of. The tacos were neat, and I was allowed a full glass of
Mexican beer. Our conversation was guarded at first, but fuelled by the
beer, we were soon laughing and joking like old mates.

I was a little alarmed by the amount of beer Harry consumed but apart from
a light flush he seemed none the worse for it. I had a sticky toffee
pudding for dessert - Harry had tequila and was tickled when our waiter
referred to me as 'your son'.

I was only glad he hadn't called me 'your boy'. I had had enough of being
anyone's boy but mom's.  Back at Harry's we watched a movie, pleasant but
innocuous enough to be instantly forgettable. I slept in one of the guest
room's, in a huge double bed. It was a deep and dreamless sleep.

Harry took Saturday off. We motored along the coast till we reached
Brighton and the Marina. Harry had a motor boat there. I'm no judge of
boats, this being the first I'd set foot on, and though there were more
spectacular vessels in the marina, this one belonged to us. We spent the
afternoon tearing up the Channel in a spray of noise and water until both
of us were soaked, and I at least was exhausted.

Harry had brought a picnic hamper - salad, roast chicken, champagne. I had
two glasses, Harry two bottles. On the way home we stopped at another of
Harry's 'little spots', French this time, where dinner cost more than my
mother earned in a week (Harry let me sign the chit) and my benefactor
downed a bottle of champagne. I had my first pint of lager. We touched 90
several times on the way home.

Back home I was too excited for bed. I stood under a hot shower feeling
distinctly woozy. My skin tingled. So did my groin. I pulled, squeezed and
massaged my prick and balls wishing I was old enough to shoot a load (Coach
was an efficient instructor) and relieve my restless tension. My mind was
chasing sensual shadows in my head. I wrapped one of Harry's monogrammed
hand towels around my middle and went to look for adventure, uncertain of
what I had in mind.

In the lounge, more spacious than our entire bungalow, Harry was sprawled
on the couch, the first five-seater couch I'd seen. He was ready for bed,
or so it seemed, in silk pyjamas cut away at the knee. In his hand he held
a cut glass tumbler of a liquid I took to be whisky. He turned, saw me,
smiled and patted the space next to him. I sat down beside him, modestly
adjusting the towel over my crotch. He handed me the glass.

I took a sip determined to play the mature sophisticate. My throat burned,
my eyes streamed, my cough bent me double. Harry laughed, not unkindly, and
caught me as I threatened to fall off the couch. He thumped my back, the
thump turning to mild stroking, as I regained some dignity. I slumped into
him, raising the towel to wipe my eyes, forgetful of my still tumescent
prick.

"My fault," slurred Harry. "This stuff takes getting used to." He swallowed
the whisky in one gulp and put the glass aside. "I keep forgetting you're
only twelve. Sometimes you seem a couple of years older, especially with
something like that." He glanced down at my lap. My cock, not erect, but
swollen lay across my bare thigh. I blushed and pulled the towel over most
of my groin.

"You know, you're getting to be a handsome young man, Ben. And I'm glad
we're getting on so well. You know your mother and me... well... we like
each other, we really like each other. She's a good-looking woman." His
eyes ran across my face. "I didn't realise how much you looked like
her. Same eyes, same mouth, same shiny hair. Streaks of gold."

He ran his hand down the back of my hair and left it on my shoulders, warm
from the shower.

"Same skin, like smooth satin."

There was a pause while he drank me in. I looked into his face with the
same blank expression that Coach liked so much, that he had photographed so
often. Harry's voice seemed to be getting farther and farther away.

"It must be hard, bringing up a boy on your own. For a woman, I mean."
Another pause, as if the wheels in Harry's mind were turning slowly. "Can I
ask you a question, Ben? Personal, I mean." I nodded. "Do you think a lot
about sex at your age? I know I did." I nodded again, lowering my
eyelashes. "Do you know much about sex, real sex, I mean, not the birds and
bees stuff they give you in school?" I raised my eyes, looked into his and
lied, "Not much." My penis stirred below the towel.

"Do you jerk off much? Wank, I mean. Masturbate?"

"Jeez, Uncle Harry."  I had no idea where the 'uncle' came from, but it
seemed to encourage a closer intimacy. Harry's hand ran up and down my
spine, his fingers pausing at the start of my exposed crack.

"That's okay. You can be honest with me."

"I guess so, but that's normal for my age, isn't it?"

"Of course it is, son." This was getting all too familial. "Every boy does
it, lots of times. It's part of growing up. So, do you jerk off every day?"

"Well, no, not every day."

"But a lot?"

He took my silence as affirmative.

"I know how frustrating it is, Ben. On the one hand, a boy your age is
equipped with a dick that stiffens at the slightest provocation," he ran
his free hand up to my knee, "that would like nothing better than to be
rammed deep inside a tight willing hole." His hand slipped under the towel
to stroke my thigh. "On the other hand, how can you know what to do with a
tight willing hole without special tutoring, man to man, or man to boy?"
His thumb brushed my balls. "Ben, would you do me a special favour?" I
smiled hesitantly back, bunching the towel over my growing hard-on.

"What, Uncle Harry?"

"Shift the towel out of the way, so that I can look at you." His eyes were
glazed. Only from the drink?  "There's no need to be shy. I just want to
see if you're developing normally. I'm willing to teach you about sex. I
think it's part of my duty as your..."  He searched for the
word. "...guardian.  Don't be shy. You know you can trust me." It seemed I
could trust everybody in the world who wanted to take my clothes off.

I shrugged. Harry slid the towel away. It dropped to the carpet. My cock
stood at a 45 degree angle and rising. Strands of fine hair criss-crossed
my pubic area. I was startled. When had that happened?

Harry's fingers closed round my cock. He slid off the couch. Kneeling in
front of me, he spread my legs apart and inspected me more closely. He
pinched the tip of my cock lightly. I stiffened fully in a series of tiny
jerks till I was as hard as iron, pulsing in his face, the head peeping out
cautiously from my slippery foreskin. His fingers wrapped around the base
of my cock. He stared intently at the heart-shaped knob and jacked the
shaft slowly and tenderly. I watched his hand, his fingers, my cock, as if
they were completely separate from me. My piss-hole opened up. A long
pearly drop slid down the shaft on to his fingers.

"Your cock's leaking, Ben. You must have an awful lot of cum stored up in
your balls. That's not good for you. I can make you feel so much
better. Wouldn't you like to feel better, Ben?"  I looked down at the
man. He was rich. He had a motor boat, three cars, this super house, and he
wanted to jack off an twelve-year-old kid.

I leaned back against the couch and opened my legs wider, giving him access
to everything he wanted. He began to jerk me a little faster, a little
harder, my foreskin sliding over the head of my cock, then retracting
almost till it hurt.

"Is this how you do it, Ben? Do you like it like this? Tell me, tell me how
you like it. Ben. You're in control. Show me how you like it."

He reached for my hand, removed his fingers from my cock, and wrapped my
own around the shaft. "Go on, Ben, show me. Show me how you do it." I put
four fingers half way down the shaft, my thumb on the other side, and began
to work my cock, varying the speed and pressure, my free hand caressing my
stomach, squeezing my balls." I brought my free fingers up to my nose and
sniffed, then returned them to my balls again. My head was thrown back, my
eyes closed.

I felt Harry's lips on the head of my cock. He was kissing me there,
licking the crown and probing at the slit with the tip of his tongue. My
eyes were closed. Behind them I saw Sean Kite. I was being true to Sean,
true to him in my fashion. Lewd sucking sounds came from below. I slid my
hand to the base of my shaft, followed by Harry's hot, wet, sucking mouth,
his saliva running down on to my hand.

I forced my hips forward and began to ride his mouth. He grunted below. I
glanced down. His head was huge in my lap, his cheeks puckering as he
increased and decreased the pressure around my hard, swollen dick. I
clutched the back of his head and pulled him on to me.

I could feel his lips round the base of the shaft.

"Suck it, suck it, you mother-fucker," I muttered, finding it difficult to
speak as the pleasure built in my cock and balls spreading out across my
tummy and down between the crack in my ass.

I was fascinated to see my penis disappear into Harry's mouth, then
reappear glistening red and raw with so much saliva running down the
shaft. Maybe I was only twelve, but I knew how to fuck a face. I had had
expert tuition. The pressure was building to an intolerable level. I knew
that my legs would shudder, my hips shake, my belly flutter and my cock
jerk and pulsate. Then it would be over, leaving me as limp as a rag doll
and feeling... what?

"I'm cumming. O fuck, I'm cummmmmiiiinnngggg!"

Hot squirts of rich, salty jism shot from my cock. I could feel myself jerk
and pulsate, feel my cock swell beyond anything I'd known before. The
orgasm was all over me, in my cock, in my balls, in my tummy, up my ass,
behind my eyes. I held onto his head, pulling me into him until my balls
slid into his mouth. Then I could take no more.

I had to push him away. I was so vulnerable, so sensitive, so tender that I
thought I would faint. The moment passed but I felt the tenderness all
through my body. I slipped full length on the couch, one leg hanging down,
my arms thrown back. I could see Sean's face. All I wanted was to have him
with me, to pull him against me, to kiss him with my eyes closed and to
fall asleep in his arms.

I found it hard to think. I was experiencing such pleasure, such a glow of
relaxation. I looked down my body. I liked what I saw, my prick, still
swollen, pink and brown, lying on my thigh, the foreskin stretched back
over the purpling head, oozing my first cum, my sperm, my semen. I looked
down at Harry. He lay sprawled on the carpet, face up, an elbow shielding
his eyes. It was hard to say whether he was asleep, drunk or ashamed.

With a groan Harry rolled onto his back. I dodged out of his way. His
drunken eyelids flickered open, he was cross-eyed, glazed, unfocused. "For
Chrissake..."  His cock, huge and hard, stuck out from his body as if
someone had attached it as an alien afterthought. He was such a good guy;
he didn't deserve me. I knew what he deserved. I wrapped my hand around his
prick as far as I could and, without ceremony, pumped him fiercely,
frantically. He held out less than a minute.

He pulsed beneath my fingers. His back and bottom arched. His eyes flew
open.

Semen flew up. Gobs, streams, fountains.  Rose, descended, splattered over
his groin, belly and chest. I fought to hold him rigid. I lost the
fight. His cock was so big, my hand so little. At last the eruption was
over, Vesuvius stilled.

What had I done? This man was good to me. This man might become my
daddy. This man might fucking kill me.  "Think, think." I got up, nipped
nakedly to the bathroom and returned with a wet face cloth. I already had a
hand towel. I wiped Harry down. It was not easy, cum was everywhere.

I nipped into the utilities room. I threw the offensive items down the
laundry chute. Out of sight, out of mind.

I returned to the lounge. I edged his pyjama tops down, his bottoms up. It
was no easy task, inertia had set in. Then to my bedroom. On with my
pyjamas. To Harry's bedroom. Draw back the duvet.

Now for Superboy's biggest challenge. To the lounge. Revive
Harry. Slap. Slap. "Harry! Harry!" His eyes flickered open. "What the
fu...? Sorry, son."  Push him up into sitting position. Nip round. He falls
back. Start again. "Upsadaisy." Nip round. Grab his hands. Pull. Pull. Yes,
he's getting up. Sort of.

Harry stumbled onto me. Half crouching, half carrying, I heaved him towards
his bedroom. He tottered and fell, trapping me beneath him on the bed. I
wriggled out from beneath him. I smelled him, whisky and semen, his and
mine. I had done enough. I could do no more. I pulled the duvet over us,
cuddled into his back and wrapped one arm around his waist.

"Good night, Uncle Harry."

Uncle Harry snored in reply.

"Morning, luverboy, face down or sunny side up?" I knew that voice, it was
not my mother's. I peeped out from under a duvet. It was Happy Harry. A
cheerful grin on his face. Why was I in back in a guest room? Hadn't I...?
I must have frowned. He misinterpreted my dark look.

"Sorry, Ben. Your Marge's luverboy, not mine." The grin returned. "Well,
what's it to be - eggs up or down? It's a beautiful morning. Breakfast on
the terrace in ten minutes. Time for a shower if you put your skates
on. But not in the shower." He laughed like a drain.

"Coffee, please. Black. Two sugars. Toast, a bit burnt, please. I'll be
there in ten."

"You got it." Harry's head disappeared, his grin hanging in the air like
the Cheshire cat's.

I lay back, hands under my head. How had I got out of Harry's bed and into
this one? Didn't Harry remember anything about the lounge? Or was he
pretending to forget? And why not? It was easier than keeping a secret
between us, especially if he really was going to marry my mom. I flushed to
think that Harry had carried me from his bed to mine.

Maybe in that moment he realised I was only a kid, an innocent little
virgin with whom he had had his wicked drunken way. Could he remember my
spunk on his lips, the taste of my cum on the back of his throat?

My cock stirred. I slapped it down. If Harry's game was to forget, I would
go along with that. I liked the guy. I liked the way he treated mom. I
liked what his wealth could bring into our lives. I stretched full length
in the bed, yawned and pulled on my prick. "Little man, you've come a long
way," I thought.

I showered the sex smell away, stinging my armpits and balls with Harry's
splash-on deodorant. I pulled on fresh underwear, socks, clean jeans and
Nike top. For what I had already received, thank you, Harry.

On the terrace the breakfast table, wrought iron painted white, was set, my
coffee steaming, my toast burned to a crisp, just the way I liked it. Harry
was dressed for the golf course, at least I imagined that's what wealthy
golfers wore for an early round on a sunny morning. Harry seemed completely
at ease, which helped me relax, as the butter slid from my hot toast. While
he tucked into eggs, sunny side up, and turkey rashers, I sipped and
nibbled.

"Ben, let's get serious."

Startled, I wondered what he meant.

"You know I'm going to marry your mom, don't you?"

"I sort of guessed that, sir."

"You don't mind, do you?"

"It's mom you're marrying, not me." My grin undercut the coolness of my
words. "And I don't mind. You make mom laugh, not every guy has done that."

"There's more, Ben."

I sat in silence, trying to give nothing away.

"Your mom's not been visiting a friend." The hair stood on the back of my
neck. "She's been visiting my old school. It's a boarding school. Near
Brighton. Only about an hour away. She's been giving it the once over,
twice if I know your mother."  I cupped my coffee in both hands. "We'd like
you to have the same advantages that I had. There's going to be a bit of
money in your life now, Ben. Why not make the most of it?"

"Do I have to go?" I looked him straight in the eyes, expressionless, as if
I was doing something to Coach, something dirty that I could only get
through by not feeling a thing.

"Of course not. Just say the word and you can stay here with us. I like
having you around."

"Then I'll go."

Harry looked hurt.

"I didn't mean it that way. I haven't made many real friends - 'Forgive me,
Sean.' - around here, and I'm game to try anything - once." Did Harry's
eyes flicker or was it my imagination?


"Nothing's decided yet, but if your mom likes the place, why not give it a
go, at least until half term? Then if it doesn't work out, nothing much is
lost. But I think you'll love it. When I think of the good times I had
there, I'm almost convinced that being a kid is the best part of anybody's
life. That's when you get the kind of memories that last you the rest of
your life."  I didn't appreciate irony then. I do now.

I once saw an engraving of Dotheboys Hall in a simplified edition of
Nicholas Nickleby we were forced to read in junior school. Imagine that
hall, a modified Alcatraz set in the South Downs, and you have Cannonbury
School, founded as the Victorian era dawned to provide spirited young men
who would fight to make each Atlas of the World just that much pinker. If
the sun rarely set on the British Empire, 'twas because it rose so
blushingly on the lads and chaps of Cannonbury School where men were men
and the women were mostly men, too. Into this world of men without women,
boys without girls, semen freshly churning in my balls, I now plunged,
showered with the blessings of Happy Harry Hapgood and the tears of
Margaret Kingsley.

Arriving at the school, newcomers were ushered to the junior boarding house
and told to wait. We waited, then waited some more. Matron arrived, full of
hustle, bustle and comic dignity. She ushered us to the junior dormitory
and told us to wait. We waited, then waited a little more. Our dormitory
prefect arrived and announced himself as Moody, no first name, just Moody.

Modernity was sweeping the public school system, Spartan rigour giving way
to the latest mod cons. For us juniors, this consisted of a long corridor,
lined with double rooms on each side, at the end of which lay Moody's
palatial lair. He assigned us to a double room in pairs, all except me, who
being No. 31 of 31 new boys, had a room to myself, at least until this tear
in the order of things was amended. We unloaded our suitcases and trunks,
then instructed by Moody, humped them up a ladder through a narrow trapdoor
in the ceiling into a loft above. We were then fed and watered by Matron's
almighty hand.

Evening arrived with the suddenness of an Eastern twilight, bringing the
final ordeal of a long day. Having shown us around, pointing out the
bathrooms and showers and announcing myriad petty rules in a firm but not
unfriendly voice, Moody told us we must all get undressed and stand by the
doors of our rooms. (Matron had long retired to a brown study of her gin
bottle.)

Having never been processed by the public school system, I stood by my door
in pyjamas and was startled by the sight of thirty boys, between eleven and
thirteen years old, lined up along the corridor stark naked. Moody strolled
along the line inspecting each boy.

Reaching me, he asked in his upper-class drawl why I hadn't taken off my
pyjamas and to get them off at once or else be identified as 'a bloody
oik'.

I declined, stating that I couldn't see that being naked in front of him
had anything to do with settling in. Moody gave me one more chance. I
declined it, stepped back into my room and closed the door.

I was too weary and ignorant to be anxious about the consequences of my
defiance, but the next morning, as I scrubbed six toilet bowls on my hands
and knees, I began to reflect on the ways in which dominance was
established in the hierarchy into which I had fallen. If I were to defy
Moody again, it would be over something more significant than his apparent
desire to see the naked bodies of thirty boys lined up in submission before
him.

Moody was not unkind to me. In fact, to the ignorant he treated me as just
another of his boys. Life, however, had sharpened my sexual antennae to the
point where I could sniff out lust at twenty two yards, accepting of course
that my mixed metaphor was wholly unacceptable in Mr Rose's English
class. English was not my trouble.

Mr Rose quickly became besotted with me, platonic no doubt, enchanted by my
ability to churn out purple prose like excrement out of a concrete mixer
and to mix my metaphors with the best of them. He regularly kept me behind
to compliment me on my descriptive essay and to have a furtive squeeze of
my bottom. I wondered how far I would let his febrile fingers wander.

Not English, but algebra was my Nemesis.

"Kingsley."

"Moody?"

"Saturday morning, extra maths, my study, ten sharp. Bring Algebra 1."

Proficient seniors tutored deficient juniors on Saturday mornings. Since
this meant time out from regular classes, nobody seemed to object, and if
the pairings were at times a little artificial, nobody remarked on the
coincidence that the most senior prefects often tutored the prettiest
juniors.

Moody knew his stuff. I learned more in an hour from him than I had learned
from Doctor Bee in the past four weeks. We sat together on a battered couch
in Moody's study, rain mewling and spitting against the dormer window. Our
heads were close together.

He smelled of lavender water. We were through Algebra 1 in half the
allotted time. He closed the book and threw it onto a chair across the
room. He turned to me, raised his hand and pushed my hair from my eyes.

"Brains as well as beauty." What I'd known was confirmed. He let his hand
drift down across my school blazer to fall lightly in the warm crease
between my thigh and crotch. "Well, what do we do now?" he asked me,
holding my gaze and gently brushing my skin through the thin flannel of my
school trousers.

My leg trembled. I was shaking inside. "We mustn't," I squeaked, my voice
leaping an octave.

"I know," he says, his fingers brushing a little higher. "But I want to, I
really want to. I've wanted to since your first night in the dorm."

I tried appealing to his good sense. "Somebody could come in."

"I locked the door."

"We'll be expelled if we're caught."

"I'm willing to take the risk," he smiles, "only because it's you. Have you
any idea how good-looking you are?"

I blush but I'm flattered. Moody is the best-looking senior in the
school. He could have any of the juniors he wants but he wants me. I knew
I'd have sex with someone: why not Timothy Moody? I had made it my business
to discover his first name.) I let myself really see him for the first
time.

A long oval face, pale skin, strong nose above thin lips, coal black hair,
swept straight back, eyes blue-black enough to see myself in. The slim
muscularity of an athlete, big hands, long fingers, trimmed nails, big
feet. I'd watched his muscled arse rise and fall as he strolled the
dormitory corridor. I'd wondered what he would be like naked. My desires
were not so far from his own.

His fingers reach my groin. That is the moment of decision. I hesitate and
am lost. He closes his long fingers around my erection. "Thank you,
Kingsley," he whispers, his breath sweet on my face. His cheek is against
mine, we are both on fire. He pushes me back until my shoulders are against
an arm of the couch.

He swings his body over mine. I can feel his hard cock press against my
own. He puts his hands on either side of my head and gazes down at
me. "Thank you," he whispers again, his groin circling against my own. I
feel him drag up my school sweater, pull my shirt out of the waistband and
run his hands the length of my torso.

He slides down my body, pushing my shirt aside and begins kissing the swell
of my tummy. Our cocks are hot and hard, our breaths coming in shorter
gasps. My sweater and shirt are up around my throat.

His hands are at my waist, feeling for the hook which he slips open, then
unfastens the buttons one by one. He slides my trousers and underpants from
under my buttocks and down my legs. My hard-on springs into the cool
air. His fingers close round the shaft.

I look down the length of my body. He is crouched over my groin, pulling my
penis away from my body. He has rolled back the foreskin. The head looks
red and swollen. I watch as he puts his lips over the head, then slide my
whole length into his mouth.

One hand manipulates my balls, the other smoothes the hair on my pubis, his
head rise and falls over my crotch. He gets to me very quickly. I feel my
asshole tighten, my balls rise in their sac. I don't want to come in his
mouth, not yet. I pull away.

Moody stands up, unbuckles his belt, unbuttons himself and pushes down his
trousers. They fall to the carpet. I lie there, utterly open, utterly
exposed, shirt and sweater up around my neck, trousers and underpants
around my ankles, my hair wet with his saliva, my erect penis oozing
pre-cum, my balls tight in my scrotum.

Moody's underpants bulge, the head of his cock pushing its way above the
elastic waistband. He is either circumsized or very excited. He is close
enough so that I can run my hands up his legs, grip his underpants and jerk
them down to his knees. His cock springs free. He is circumcized. I can see
the line of the cut two inches down the shaft. His penis looks like a small
torpedo emerging from a dense mass of blue-black hair.

He grips the base of his penis and points it towards my mouth. Not yet. I
grip the shaft and pull him down on top of me. He supports himself on
outstretched arms, circling my groin with his, our hard-ons brushing
against themselves awkwardly.

He leans down and kisses me across the lips, almost chastely. I slide a
hand between our bodies, take him and pump him vigorously. It is strange to
feel my hand slide the length of his prick with no foreskin sliding beneath
it. I feel his hand on me.

Our breathing is shorter, shallower, faster now. He moves his body up on
mine, heading for my face, my mouth again. I turn my head away and pump him
fiercely. His eyes are closed, his hair brushes my face. Without warning, I
feel hot little feet race across my stomach and chest.

His whole body is shaking as he comes again and again, splattering my body
with an improbable amount of cum. He lies full length against, his head on
one side of my own. He has moved his body high enough so that I can slip my
hard-on between his legs. I work my prick below his balls, into the dark
musky space in his crack, only inches from his hole.

I move my hips, feeling his cum slide between our bellies. It is hard work
but my excitement gets me there. My cock pulsates, then squirts jets of cum
into his crack. I wonder if any of it has reached his puckered hairy little
hole. It's going to be messy. Teach Timothy Moody to fuck around with this
boy.

The smell of sex and semen is thick in the air. I whisper in his
ear. "Moody, we can't stay here like this. School will be out soon. We've
got to get showered. Let me up. We've got to get showered and changed."  He
murmurs something in my ear.

"What? What are you saying?"

"I love you, Ben Kingsley," he whispers. "No matter what happens, no matter
what anybody says, remember that. Remember that I love you."

I heave him up. "Don't be so fucking silly," I giggle. "We've only just
met. Now get off me before we both get caught."

Two minutes later we are in the shower room. I wonder if the most
significant moments in my life are to take place under a shower. We keep
our backs to each other. We daren't risk erections in here. We daren't risk
temptation. It isn't safe, but I have to whisper. "Moody, Moody."

"Yes," he whispers without turning.

"Can I call you Tim? When there's nobody around I mean."

"No," comes the reply. "Especially when there's nobody around."

There is an explosion in the dorm, then a flurry of naked bodies as two
dozen juniors pour into the shower room, shouting, laughing, flicking each
other with towels. The voices subside as they realise Moody is here. It is
uncommon though not unknown for seniors to shower amongst juniors. There is
a little apologetic coughing. I look around. Moody has stepped from the
showers. He is casually towelling himself dry, his cock, long and thick
swinging between his legs. The coughs are throatier now.

"Kingsley." He is addressing me. His voice imperious. "You've been quite
long enough under that shower. Get that tight arse of yours dry and report
for lunch duty."

"Yes, Moody," I reply without looking round. The coolness in my voice
matches the imperial tone in his own. The normal order has been restored.

In the normal order in English public schools seniors do not mingle much
with juniors, except to use, abuse, beat, humiliate, exploit, dominate,
command and train to instant and unquestioning obedience. Only romance, the
common name for lust, subverted the established order, and to breathe the
name of love was to invite ridicule on a monumental scale. Precisely what
Moody had meant by 'I love you, Ben Kingsley' I was not to discover until
all possibility of love had gone.

There are some names that still send the proverbial shiver down my spine
and a tingle up my asshole. Sean Kite was such a name. And Louis. Never
Timothy Moody. But the name of Daniel Whiddett still makes my heart skip a
beat and the tissues of my cock swell with blood.

Daniel Whiddett was No. 32, the final addition that completed our flock of
juniors. And God, or whoever allocated the rooms in Junior House, was
philanthropic enough to send him to me.

Daniel's grey-blue eyes sparkled above his open grin. His thick blond hair
hung in waves down to butterfly shoulders that already showed what a
gorgeous build he would have in a couple of years time.  His innocent
friendly manner did not intend seduction, but that did nothing to stop my
dick rising every time we undressed for bed. All in all though, it was
those beautiful eyes set in absurdly regular features that worked their way
into my heart.

Daniel was almost fourteen, which was better and worse. Better because time
had had longer to work its miracle of beauty upon him, and worse because
his age meant I shared no classes with him.

Even Maths would have been bearable if I could have sat behind Daniel and
watched his hair circle below his ears, his bum shift on the hard seat and
his legs stretched to reveal the bulge in his crotch. He was almost
apologetic for taking space in my room.

"Sorry, Kingsley, you were probably used to having the place to yourself
and then they shove an old man like me in here. No room in senior dorm, so
I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

How wrong can one beautiful boy be?

Our bedrooms were the small and without a study. There were twin beds, a
small table between them, a double-sided desk, two chairs and a fitted
wardrobe to share. The beds doubled as couches since there was no room for
an armchair. Since I took possession first, I had the bed nearest the
radiator, which gave me a clear view of the room from any angle. Though it
was only the beginning of October, the radiator blasted out enough heat to
turn the room into a sauna. Like all boarders, we revelled in the freedom
from clothes this over-heating gave us.

Frequently while I was trying to read or have a sly wank, Daniel would come
back from jogging, strip off his sweaty clothes, and flop naked onto his
bed.  He seemed to be entirely unaware of his own beauty and the effect it
had on me. Worse still, Dan was always cheerful while I went through the
agonies of unrequited love and, if the truth be told, unrequited lust.

His blond body hair was wisp-like, forming a perceptible sheen over his
chest and legs.  On his chest the moisture from his jogging darkened a
little trail between his developing pectoral muscles, trickling down to the
still rounded tummy of boyhood.

Two sturdy little nipples topped these plains like pinkish peaks.  Just at
his navel, the light dusting of blond hair began to thicken until the
soft-looking, tightly-curled hair in his crotch made my tongue twitch.  His
exquisitely-formed cock lay draped over his leg, uniform in its light
colour from the base to the crown that peeped out from a loose foreskin.

And, what a crown it was, a rounded helmet just a shade darker than the
pretty pink of his nipples. His scrotum swung loose and low, holding
testicles large enough to make mine seem like marbles. I salivated thinking
what it would be like to roll his balls around in my mouth. I was dying for
the opportunity to try.

When he turned to reach for his pyjamas, the smooth curves of his plump
backside almost made me faint with desire. I, too, had to run away; my face
was like an open book whose lines of lust would have been apparent even to
the illiterate.

From the first day on, waking or sleeping, I saw nothing but
Dan. Fortunately, Tim Moody was heavily engaged in senior rugby and there
were few opportunities for us to be alone together. When we were, I begged
off citing the danger of discovery if we were indiscreet.

Tim seemed to accept this though on two occasions he made me 'stand out' in
the corridor after dark, one of the house's more pointless punishments. He
stood behind me, breathing on my neck, and slipped his hand down the front
of my pyjamas. He masturbated me to orgasm while he rubbed his exposed
penis against the back of my pyjamas, leaving me to clean up the mess,
which I thought was unromantic to say the least.

My lust for Daniel grew like Blake's poison tree, our liking for each other
watering it freely. I had to have him.  If he spurned me, he would move out
and shout my secret from the rooftops. I was beyond caring what the
consequences might be.

One fateful evening, as he slid his towel around his tight little ass and
headed for the shower, I made my plans which called for the exploitation of
nocturnal tumescence and emission. In simple terms, he would get a stiffie
and I would know what to do with it. Even in the junior house we knew about
night-time and morning hard-ons.

Many of us spilled our seed regularly while many more were helped to
ejaculation through the goodwill and helping hands of others. Mouths were
used too, and bum holes, but these were regarded as too intimate for
general discussion. As one wit had it, bum's the word when it came to
buggery.

Dan had an early shower and an early night. As a 'rugger bugger' he was
regularly exhausted. By the time I returned from a shower, he was breathing
slowly, a sheet covering only part of one leg. I thanked God for
over-heated dormitories. Dan's cock almost glowed it was so beautiful; his
balls lay between his legs, saving his creamy load for me. I lay on my bed,
the angle-poise lamp turned to the wall. Little light was needed for what I
had in mind. I wanted Dan to sleep well and get hard by himself soon.

I didn't have long to wait.  His cock began to fill and slowly left its
draped position climbing up his thigh sweet inch by sweet inch.  I didn't
want to move just yet. I wanted to make sure his sleeping body was
accustomed to an erection first.  Fifteen minutes passed. I slipped off the
bed and knelt beside him, breathing in his smell, which was still
little-boy milky stuff mixed with the rawer essences of puberty.

Carefully I lifted his smooth cockhead to my lips and, ever so gently,
began to kiss the crown, my tongue slipping inside the loose foreskin that
covered it. His dick reacted to the warmth of my lips and began to swell.

He was human after all. I slowly worked my tongue over the pinky-brown head
coating it with warm saliva.  Passing the crown into my mouth, I held it
until it swelled ever so slightly then tongued farther down the thick shaft
that pulsated under my fingers. I listened to my heart pound in my throat
as I slowly sucked the boy's penis farther and farther into my mouth.

The taste was straight from heaven. My head swam and my body tingled. My
mouth was crammed with hot pulsating flesh. My own erection was alive and
well, standing out straight with a flow of pre-cum glistening on the head.
I dare not play with it for fear of exploding all over Daniel as he slept.

Reacting to my silent ministrations, Dan's sleeping hips began to respond
to my wet sucking.  As I slowly moved up and down his shaft, his hips moved
in time with me as if he were fucking my face at the same speed.  His balls
were partially between his legs so I moved my hand to cup his full ball-bag
and keep it from being caught in the action.  Whether it was the
realization of the warmth around his rock-solid cock or the hand on his
nuts, his sleeping mind was alerted to the fact that something was
definitely up, involving the six stiff inches of his beautiful penis.

His body jerked as he woke up, nearly robbing my mouth of his throbbing
shaft.  I could see shock, disgust, surprise, pleasure, and confusion flit
across his face in seconds.  Fortunately, pleasure won out.  Dan lay back
on the mattress, slipped his hands behind his head, smiled and pushed his
groin into my face. He was at least going to let me finish! Then he'd
probably beat me to a pulp or blow the whistle on me.

I decided I'd probably never get another chance so I gave him a blow-job to
remember using every trick Coach had taught me and a few more I improvised
for myself.  I tongued the head and shaft, concentrating on the
super-sensitive underside.  I showered the little spot where the crown
forms a vee with sloppy kisses and a rasping tongue.  I stuffed what I
could of his slippery shaft down my throat ignoring the gagging reflex.

My hands played with his balls and his tits.  My lips kissed the hairy
pubis just above his cock until the hairs were sloppily wet and hopelessly
tangled. I ran my tongue along he inside of his butter-smooth thighs paying
special attention to the hairless crevice between his tight boy buns
keeping it moist and slick.

About the time his hips started really bucking, I placed a finger against
his hot little ass hole. Daniel opened his legs wider in what seemed an
obvious invitation. I pressed on. The slit gave way and greasily accepted
my middle finger to the first knuckle. I finger-fucked him in time to the
rhythm of my sucking.

When I heard him moan in pleasure and felt his cock swell in my mouth even
larger, I pulled back to watch the fireworks.  His load was immense: it
shot up in an arch into the air and landed on his chest, chin and face. He
closed his eyes as he continued to spurt. I quickly rubbed the ejaculate
over him feeling the taught muscles of his chest and neck ripple with every
jolt.  His hips kept humping upwards, his legs tensing with each spasm.
The finger his ass had taken in was being squeezed and pulled with each
shot.

I felt his thighs close around me and pull me closer to him. Daniel
Whiddett was in ecstasy. What came after that I had yet to face. Finally he
pushed my head away from his crotch. Reluctantly I felt his softening penis
slip from my lips. Reluctantly I withdrew my finger from his hole, having a
sneaky sniff before he put my nose out of order.

To my delight, surprise and relief, Dan collapsed back onto his pillow,
looked up at me and grinned. "I've been waiting for something like that,
Ben. I've seen you watching me, and I was just wondering how you'd go about
it."

"And...?"

"I didn't know a guy could feel like that!" he mused. "I use my hand, of
course, and I've fooled around with girls, but I never dreamed of anything
like that." He paused and looked away. "Could you do that again some time?
But only if you really want to. Wake me first. I don't want to miss any of
it." He paused again, then looked at me. "And the other things too..."

"What other things?"

"You know, like where you put your finger and that. You know. You can do
things to me if you want. But only in this room. It's got to be a secret,
our secret."  Back to secrets again, but this time I didn't mind, I
welcomed them.

"Hi, baby," I whispered as I climbed on top of him, shoving my swollen dick
against his sweaty flat stomach. Dan raised his back a little so that I
could wrap my arms around him and gaze into those beautiful grey eyes. Ever
so gently I humped my dick amongst his soaking pubic hair.

"Do you know you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen?" That was Dan
to me!  I was on cloud eleven, in seventh heaven, in utter bliss. I
couldn't hold out any longer. I raised my hips above his belly and shot my
load across it, the spasms leaving me speechless, helpless and
breathless. We lay there glued together, giggling and whispering sweet
nuthins' to each other.

It was a long night and, given the imperatives of youth, perhaps the climax
was inevitable. I wanted this boy to fuck me.

I lay face-up on Dan's bed with my ass raised high on two pillows and
guided his sweet young hard-on between my cheeks. He wasn't too sure about
fucking in the beginning, but lust overcame him and he gamely decided to
have a go, apologising for his lack of experience. I whispered to him that
this was virgin territory for me too, and he promised to do his best.

As instructed, he dug his fingers into my jar of Vaseline, then slowly
lubricated my hole, one finger followed by two. A third proved too painful,
just yet.

Dan seemed to enjoy sawing my asshole so much that I eventually had to
hurry him along. We were both a little scared by what we'd gotten into and
the humour helped a lot. I caressed a palmful of the greasy stuff the
length of his stiff prick.

After a few fumbles, he pressed insistently against the lips of my hole. My
sphincter suddenly gave way and his slick cock slid in an inch or so. The
pain was excruciating but quickly gave way to a dull throb of pleasure. I
began to understand why Coach had been so keen to have even my little prick
up his bung hole. Dan was an angel and froze for a few minutes to let me
adjust. His patience and consideration kneeling there with his cock
partially inside me was everything I hoped from my first fuck.

My asshole loosened further and began to slide down his greasy pole as
cock, he pressed his full five inches into me.  When he was in to his
balls, I wrapped my legs around his narrow waist and looked up into his
eyes. He was smiling, sweating profusely, beads of perspiration rolling
down his arms.

"I want to see your face when I come," he whispered. "I want to be looking
right into your eyes. I'd like to drown in those eyes." Dan was a romantic,
possibly the first rugger bugger in the entire history of the English
public school to have romance in his soul.

That was what I needed to hear. The pain died away to a throbbing pleasure
as my rectum stretched to accommodate Dan's hard, young penis. I stared
into his grey-blue eyes as I took him all the way in.

Raised on his forearms, he plunged into me, pulled out, then plunged in
again. On and on he went, our earlier orgasms delaying the
inevitable. Three or four times when either of us was about to come, he
leaned over me and kissed me on the lips, a little startled when I opened
my mouth to accept a probing tongue.

We began to fuck each other's mouths with our tongues, realising that an
orgasm was not something that happened only down there, but all over our
heated, ultra-sensitive bodies.

"I want you to fuck me too," he whispered. My cock rubbed against his
belly. "I want to feel you inside me. Tell me what it's like. What's it
like to have me inside you?" He pushed hard, penetrating me to the base of
his cock, his pubic hairs tickling my asshole.

I couldn't believe that I was split so wide. So open, So vulnerable. So
willing.

Poofter. Queer. Gay. Homo.

I said these words to myself as Daniel drove us onwards. They didn't have
meaning anymore, or if they did, the meaning had changed. I hadn't chosen
to be queer, but if that's what I was and this is what it meant, I didn't
give a flying fuck.

"Daniel," I whispered.

"What?" he gasped as my hands around his cheeks pulled me deeper into
him. "Do you think what we're doing means we're a couple of queers?"

"I should fucking well hope so," he laughed. "I'm not doing this just for
fun."

The laughter set both of us off, our bodies shaking uncontrollably as he
shot his second load of the night, this one deep into my guts. I swear I
felt his hot cum splatter against the walls of my rectum. I answered him,
spurt for spurt, with a load that him right under the chin. He collapsed on
to me with a squelching sound like wet farts.

We lay there like landed fish, bodies twitching, breathing in short gasps
through our open mouths. We lay there contented for at least half an hour,
we may have dozed off a little.

I was awake. Dan was a dead-weight on me. My asshole felt wet and slimy,
but nice. There was a cold trickle in my crack. I realised what it was:
Daniel's cum. I was oozing pure Daniel. I blew in his face until he
stirred, his eyes opening dreamily.

"Want another go," he murmured. "Your turn to do me."

"Shut the fuck up," I whispered affectionately. "We can't go to sleep like
this. Feel the state of your sheets. Even Matron won't take this for a wet
dream."  Dan rolled off me and sat on the edge of the bed, idly stroking my
flaccid prick. I pushed his hand away. It wouldn't stay flaccid for long.

"Let's dump the sheet down the laundry chute," I said. "Then they can't
identify it. Then we'll sneak into the shower room downstairs. We can't
shower up here. Don't want to wake Moody up."

"You're a genius," grinned Daniel. "Let's go. Bags I get to wash out your
bumhole. After all, it's my..."

"Cum," I whispered.

"Okay, I'm coming," he replied, entirely innocent of the atrocious pun, and
entirely free from guilt.

As we padded downstairs, I realised I had taken Daniel Whiddett not only
into my asshole, but into my heart as well.

A few nights later I lay stretched full length along Dan's body, my wilting
prick still deep in his rectum, both our bodies still fluttering and
trembling in involuntary spasms.

Earlier Dan had sat across my face, propped on his knees, while I tickled,
probed and penetrated his puckered hole with my tongue, his musky boy smell
choking me with delight. He had helped me pulled his bumcheeks so wide
apart that I was able to kiss and chew his magic slit with ease. Why did we
find it so natural when we'd been brought up to believe that private parts
were disgusting? We found nothing disgusting about each other.

Even when I'd peed on Dan in the showers, he had simply turned around, bent
over, pulled his buttocks apart and told me to 'go for it'. On my bed that
night Dan had pushed even higher until he could drop his balls, like twin
duck eggs, into my gaping mouth. I'd sucked on them as he reached behind to
grab my stiff not-so-little poker and stroke his hole with it.

Now, face down on the bed, he told me not to pull out, just to lie there
and let him feel my weight on him, my softening, sloppy dick in his
asshole, the smells of sweat, semen, and ranker smells, rising around us.

"What's between you and Timothy Moody?" Dan murmured, clenching his hole to
keep me inside. "He's got the hots for you, hasn't he?"

"Who told you that?"

Dan turned his head to look up at me. "It's obvious if you know what to
look for. And I suppose I've got a vested interest." He squeezed my prick
again. I felt myself begin to harden.

"I suppose so. But that was a while ago. I've lost interest. And I was
hoping that he had, too." Apart from jerking me off a couple of times
during 'stand outs', Tim had left me alone. I was grateful for that.

"Glad to hear it," continued Dan. "That guy's dangerous."

"What do you mean 'dangerous'?"

Dan laughed. I felt his ass cheeks jiggle below me. I humped him gently.

"And I thought I was naive - deeper, please." Dan adjusted himself and
pushed back on to my growing hard-on. "Sometimes, for somebody so
experienced, you can be pretty naive. Don't you know that Moody has had at
least half of the juniors in this dorm? It's usually a different one every
night, sometimes two at a time I've heard. Wake up and sniff the assholes,
Kingsley."

I was stunned. I lay flat along Dan and put my mouth to his ear. I didn't
want to ask, but I had to.  I cleared my throat. "Has he, has Moody had a
go at you?"

"Yes, of course he has," Dan said matter-of-factly. "I'm his type. Handsome
enough to be pretty, cool enough not to scream blue murder. Bit like you in
fact. And remember I was hanging around waiting for you to make your move."

"But I thought..."

"Yes, I know what you thought. But I didn't know if I could trust you. I
didn't know I was going to fall in love with you. At the start you were
just a bit of cock.  Yes, there, that's it, right there. You're forgetting
that I've been around boarding schools a lot longer than you. Jesus, that's
good. Now it's you that I want, only you, and only this. A little faster
please." Dan was humping the bed as I humped his ass.

"Could you tell me about it?" I whispered. "But don't if it's a secret."

"I don't have secrets from you," he said, "well, not anymore. Just keep
doing that and I'll tell you. Let me get my head comfortable." Dan twisted
his head on the pillow so that his face hung over the edge of the bed.

"It must have been the third night I was here. You thought I was in the
shower. I was, but on the way back Moody summoned me to his room. He told
me to drop my dressing gown and lie down on the couch. I thought of
refusing but decided it would be a waste of time. Better to get it over,
and to be honest I was a bit flattered by his attentions. I was no
innocent. In prep school I'd fooled around like everybody else, and the
chaplain had sucked me off a couple of times. Tell you about that another
time. I lay there naked. Moody stroked me all over, telling me how lovely
my body was, paying special attention to my penis which was as stiff as a
brick. He took my hand and pushed it down the front of his pyjamas
bottoms. I could feel his erection. It felt enormous. He encouraged me to
play with it, then he told me to pull down his pyjamas. It was awkward but
I managed. His prick was enormous. He rubbed it all over my chest, neck and
face, pressing it against my lips. I kept them tightly closed. I thought
I'd choke on that horse cock of his. All the time he kept jacking me
gently. I was getting hotter and hotter, couldn't keep my hips still. Then
I started shooting a load. He closed his mouth over my prick, caught most
of it, too. Swallowed it. Just like that.

"I think I dozed off for a while. I was awakened by Moody turning me over
onto my stomach. I was too dozy to figure out the obvious. He was gently
stroking my buttocks, probing with a finger. I'm human, it felt good. Then
I felt him rubbing something around my anus - it turned out to be butter -
and he put his middle finger in. He's got long fingers. He was
finger-fucking me and after a while that felt good, too. But suddenly he
was kneeling on the end of the couch. He raised my legs onto his shoulders,
leaned forwards and pinned my shoulders to the couch. I felt something like
a blunt instrument nudging at my hole, probing, poking, seeking
entrance. That's when I decided enough was enough. I started struggling and
he tried to hold me down. He managed it at first and I think he got the
head of his cock in my arse. It was bloody painful. But I'm not an eleven
year old junior. I'm nearly fourteen and fourteen-year-olds have
rights. Nothing wrong with a bit of buggery between boys but rape's
something else. I fought like fury, and eventually we both crashed off the
couch to the floor. His cock must have got the worst of it because he was
cursing like a trooper. But he was laughing too, and I started laughing,
which sort of defused the whole thing. We got up, dressed and shook
hands. Moody, or Tim as I call him when nobody's around, is after all a
gentleman, and he was only obeying a call of nature. But he can be
dangerous, so watch yourself. Now concentrate on what you're doing and kiss
the back of my neck while you're at it. I love to feel your lips on me, and
not just round my prick."

If this were a fairy story, a traditional fairy story I mean, everyone
would have lived happily ever after. Moody would have had all the other
junior boys, and Dan and I would have had each other. I was as close to
happiness as I'd been that day on the beach when Louis and I had lain in
each other's arms, glued to each other by cum and uncomplicated
affection. But life isn't tidy, there always loose ends to tie up. Timothy
Moody was one of my loose ends.

The last Saturday before half-term, and all manner of things were
well. Daniel and I were lovers, we both knew that, but we were discreet,
and outside the warm darkness of our room, we led the quiet, orderly life
that routine instils.

Mom and Harry had eloped with my blessing to a quick, quiet wedding on the
Continent. They had visited twice, Harry's Rolls purring through the
grounds as to the manor born. Wealth has never impressed me but I was
content to see how speedily my mother had adapted to its trappings.

Only a wink behind the headmaster's back revealed she knew it was only a
game. I winked back and patted the fifty pound note Harry had slipped in my
blazer. "See you at half-term, luverboy," she whispered in my ear, giving
it a wet lick that set my face on fire.

Tim should have been playing rugby. I should have been in town, meeting Dan
in the ABC Cinema. But I'd mistimed the bus and been left high and dry in
school. I had plenty of money for a taxi but needed permission from a
senior to call one. When I saw Tim Moody, the solution seemed obvious.

"Come in for a moment, Kingsley. Of course I'll give you a note, but we
need to talk first." He stepped into his study, I followed. As Daniel said,
I could be pretty naive for someone so experienced.

"Close the door, Ben." He was facing the small window that looked onto the
quadrangle. It was a gloomy afternoon. I closed the door. In the half-light
I saw his hard cock sticking out from his open trousers. It was big as I
remembered it but now it seemed more, urgent, demanding. And, damn it, it
was beautiful.

"Come here, Kingsley. I think you owe me."

I stepped towards him till I was close. I remembered the pleasure he had
given me. "One more time and it's over," I thought. He pressed down on my
shoulders. I slipped to my knees. Looking up at his face, I undid his belt,
the little hook, the buttons, one by one, slowly, then grasping his
trousers and underpants edged them down to his knees.

His whole cock sprang out at me, huge, hard, hot, thick, the hair on his
belly and balls denser than I'd remembered. I sucked the head between my
lips. He gave me no time but pushed his whole length in until I gagged and
choked. My face was crushed against those black hairs, the smell of sweat,
urine and coal tar soap filling my nostrils.

He pulled back and then drove home again, out to the tip and in to those
black hairs, holding me by the hair, by the ears, manipulating my head
until whatever love and affection was there became simple, brutal rape. I
held on, knowing that this could not last forever, knowing that it would
sunder any bond between us. I could feel his balls rise in his scrotum, his
penis begin to pulsate.

Suddenly he pulled back. My mouth was filled with emptiness. "It's over," I
thought, but now I was on the carpet, Tim sitting on my legs, scrabbling at
the waist of my trousers. With a single jerk he pulled my trousers and
underpants down to my knees. I heard a button ping across the room.

I tried to fight back but his elbow was across my mouth and weight of his
body cramped my legs.

"Stop it, you little shit," he hissed. "You let Whiddett have you. I've
heard you two at it. It's my turn now."

Thinking he was going to speak with me, I relaxed. He whipped me over like
a piece of fried fish and I felt him spread the cheeks of my arse. "Not
like this, please, not like this. Not even Coach..."

His prick rubbed against my arse hole. I tightened to keep him out. His arm
under my head jerked me up. It was difficult to breathe. I had to
concentrate on breathing. I relaxed, my hole loosened. His cock pushed into
me in an explosion of agony. Daniel had opened me up but that was boy cock;
this was man-cock, huge, hot, hard and dry.

He was fucking me hard, driving all the way to those black airs at the
base. I could have given up, maybe I should have given up, but I
wouldn't. I fought him all the way but he was strong, far too strong. But
the sucking had brought him close to orgasm, and now, excited as he was, he
couldn't hold out.

I felt a final twist across my throat as he dragged me up, felt his torso
rise above me, felt him drive home and hold it, and felt his semen splatter
up my shit-tube. Dan and I called it 'our love canal', but for Tim Moody it
was a shit-tube, nothing more.

He pulled free and rolled away from me on the carpet. I lay there fighting
for breath. I tottered to me feet. I could feel shit and semen trickle down
my leg. In the shower I would see the blood. I wanted to cry, I wanted to
sob like a baby but I didn't. I held the tears back.

I pulled my torn underpants and ripped trousers around me and walked out of
that room, along the corridor to my room. I was shaking and shivering.

I stripped, wrapped a bath towel - one of Dan's around me - and walked
head-up to the shower room. I stood under the shower letting the
almost-scalding water run down me, noticing the blood, semen and faecal
matter swirl down the drain. I stood there half an hour.

Back in my room, I dressed in weekend casuals. I bagged my school uniform,
torn trousers and ripped underpants, broke a school rule by going to the
incinerator and dropped the plastic bag in.

I was at my desk writing when Moody stepped into the room. His face was as
white as chalk. He kept his eyes on the floor for a long time. Finally he
spoke - most of the arrogant assurance was missing.

"Don't know why I did that, Kingsley. Jealousy, I suppose. Want to make it
up to you. Anything. Just tell me. This would ruin both our lives. Whiddett
doesn't have to know. Nobody need ever know. Give me a chance. For
Chrissake, give me a chance." He was pleading, begging. It didn't become
him. I didn't enjoy watching it.  I held up the letter I was writing. I
began reading.

Dear Mom and Harry,

Remember our agreement. I'm holding you to it. I'm coming home at half term
and I won't be coming back here. I've given it a fair trial but I'd rather
be with you. Could you contact my old school and let them know I'll be
coming back? I hope Harry doesn't think I'm letting him down.

I put the letter on my desk.

"The rest doesn't concern you. I'm leaving, that's all you need to know."

Moody looked relieved. For a moment I thought he was going to shake my
hand. I drew back. "There is one thing I want you to do."

"Anything."

"I'm not asking. I'm telling."

"Anything."

"I want Whiddett transferred to a senior House. I want it done tomorrow. I
don't care how you do it, but I want it done.  You can go now."

He started to speak. I turned away, picked up my pen and resumed
writing. He turned and left.

That night as we lay in each other's arms Dan whispered, "Do you want to
tell me about it?"

"No. Just hold me, hold me tight." Our hard cocks touched.

Dan transferred to a senior House next day. I never saw him again. I left
on Friday afternoon. I never saw Tom Moody again. I think of them both, and
I smile.

I wonder if my smile is enigmatic. I know that by the age of fifteen I was
an enigma. Don't take my word for it. Ben remains something of an
enigma. That's what my Form Tutor wrote across my report and since he'd
known me for two years I took his word for it.

Life with Mom and Harry was good. It was strange to be living a life of
plenty where mom did not have to count the pennies on a Saturday morning to
see if there was enough pocket money for me. Strange to have all my clothes
bought new without odds and ends from the charity shops. Strange to have
wine on the table on days other than Christmas Day. And strangest of all to
have a man about the house who was likely to stay.

I liked Harry and he seemed to like me. What had happened between us cast
no shadow, and I was relieved that me made no overtures to be my 'daddy' or
even to be a pseudo-uncle.

Harry was Harry and that was that. He admitted to some disappointment that
I hadn't stayed the course at Cannonbury School but that shadow, too,
disappeared in the general sunniness of our lives.

Mom loved Harry and Harry loved mom. That was good enough for me. If I
couldn't find happiness of my own, her happiness would serve us
both. Sometimes her 'penny for your thoughts' caught me at a fragile moment
but her probing was gentle and she came to accept the enigma behind my
smile as my own private property.

I missed sex. But I could live without it. I looked but I did not touch. I
allowed myself to be looked at but not touched. I was weary of
complications. I wanted life to be simple. I wanted to be a teenager who
did his paper round, went to school, learned a little, laughed a lot, and
came home to people who loved him for himself and not for what hung between
his legs.

You can become what you want to be simply by being what you want to
become. It requires concentration, effort, stamina, persistence, but it can
be done.

Once I cycled to the old town, locked up my bike and bought a ticket for
the matinee at the Odeon Cinema. I sat in the rear corner seat. Nothing had
changed. The seat next to mine still sagged, the rip in the velvet never
repaired.

The ghosts of Eric and the boy I'd been were there. Nothing had changed
except me. I got up, worked my way along the row and looked back. Eric and
the boy were still there. I turned, left the cinema, walked out into bright
sunlight, drew the clean, sharp air into my lungs, and left them there
forever.

Once I cycled to Coach's house. That was much harder. I sat on my bike near
the red phone box and watched the house. Floral curtains had replaced the
heavy drapes and they were open wide. Wallflowers danced to a sprightly
breeze. The lawn, green again after the ravages of a long dry summer, was
neatly trimmed. The front door opened.

A young woman stepped out. She scanned the area, saw me, smiled and gave a
little wave. Then she called out, "Ben! Ben! Come on, your tea's ready."
For a moment I thought she was calling me. Around the corner, on yellow
tricycle, bell ringing furiously, pedalled a small boy, four or five years
old. Reaching the door, he climbed off.

His mother picked the trike up with one hand, took Ben's hand with the
other, and led him into the house. As she was closing the door, she paused,
looked at me again and smiled. I smiled back. The door closed.

I rode my bike at top speed along the drive, the breeze billowing my shirt
and hair. That was the last time I saw the house. That was the memory I
wanted to keep.

So life went on with its days and nights, hills and valleys, ups and downs,
and I was lonely in the midst of my happiness. But there are worse things
than being lonely.

Back to school. My fifteenth summer over. We had spent a month in Sitges, a
few miles south of Barcelona. Lazy, hazy days of sun, sea, and sand. I was
bronzed and beautiful. I saw it in the eyes of the Spanish girls and boys I
got to know, and in the eyes of men who followed me on the beach. Look but
don't touch. Be looked at but not touched.

I was taller, stronger, filling out across the chest and shoulders. My
prick seemed to be semi-hard most of the time, the bulge in my swimming
costume more obvious than I would have liked, a line of hair running from
the thick delta of my pubes to my navel.

I wore my hair short, slicked straight back, and according to mom looked
like a young Greek god emerging from the sunlit sea. I had no idea how many
Greek gods mom had known in her time but I was flattered enough by the
comparison to blush.

Back to school. Back to English language and literature that I was learning
to appreciate and enjoy to the point of obsession. Books were a
compensation for loneliness and the more I read the more I wanted to write.

Harry had bought me a PC and installed it in my study. I sat for hours in
front of the screen watching the cursor flash until my headache and mom
ordered me downstairs. But a personal computer certainly took the drudgery
out of rewriting first, second and third drafts, and my grades in subjects
such as History and English soared. If I couldn't live a real life, then at
least I could detach, observe and describe.

Back to school and the first day of organised chaos which culminated in
trials for the school swimming squad. Only swimming rivalled my addiction
to reading and writing. When I swam I was really alone.

The trials were held in Year groups. I was a senior. We swam last.

How could I not have seen him? He saw me. Was I so focused on the trials
that I had tunnel vision? Did I see him but my mind rebelled in disbelief?
How could I not see the only boy who beat me over 200 metres? Did it hurt
too much to see him? And if I hadn't seen him, why did I linger so long in
the showers until everyone else had gone?

The hot water drummed its tattoo on my head and shoulders. I shampooed and
soaped until I daren't open my eyes. I was facing the wall. In the showers
with all those hot young male bodies around me I showered facing the
wall. I felt hands on my shoulders, felt strong thumbs dig deep into the
knot of muscles in my upper back, felt what could only be someone's sex
brush my buttocks, heard a voice whisper in my ear, "God I've missed you,
Ben Kingsley. You'll never know how much I've missed you."

The hands slid around my chest, pulled me closer, ran across my belly, and
closed round my stiffening prick and balls. Hot water sent the soap
streaming down my body. The voice whispered on.

"You're a big boy now, Ben Kingsley. A really big boy."

Hot tears mingled with the hot water running down my face.

"I loved you when you were a kid. I didn't think I could love anyone more
than that. But I do."

I was shaking now, bending at the knees, trembling in the strong arms that
surrounded me.

"Hey, Ben Kingsley, big boys don't cry."

"This one does, Sean Kite, this one fucking does."

"Well, let me make it better."

Sean turned me to face him. There he was. Wide-set blue eyes. Long,
straight nose. Thin lips. Arched cheekbones. Blue-black hair as short as my
own. Before I could get enough self-control to speak, he slid down my body
and engulfed the shaft of my hard prick in his mouth and throat, his free
hand pulling at my ballsac in a frenzy of desire that mirrored my own. I
put my hands around his head as it bobbed on my cock.

It had been so long since I'd had an orgasm that the sensations in my balls
and cock spread throughout my body like a bushfire. My hips began to thrust
of their own volition. Deeper and deeper Sean took me until I felt his lips
hard against my pubic hair. "Sean, Sean," I gasped above the sound of the
pummelling water. "Not so deep. You'll hurt yourself."

He responded by easing my cock from his throat until he held only the head
between his lips, then sinking down to swallow the shaft again. I felt his
middle-finger probe at my asshole. For a moment I tightened, then relaxed
and left him slide it in to the hilt.

Losing control, I began to ride his finger, squatting to take it all,
rising to let it slide to the fingertips before forcing myself down on to
it again. My legs began to shake violently. I threw my head back, the water
splashing on my face, and waited for the magic moments of bliss.

Sean released my cock, slid his finger from my hole, stood up and slid past
me until he next to the tiled wall. He braced himself against the wall with
his arms, his buttocks jutting towards me, my cock thick and red catching
in his crack. "I want you in me, Ben. Nobody but you." He spoke
forcefully. "Use the shampoo. Go easy. It's my first time."

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been so sure of anything," he said. "I've been waiting for
this, waiting for you, nobody but you, luverboy."

I squeezed half a bottle of shampoo on to my palm. I soaked my raging
hard-on with the gooey mess, then ran my hand into his crack with the rest,
soaping his asshole, pressing until the sphincter muscle relaxed and let
two fingers slide in. It was hot and tight in there.

I was a big boy now. I wasn't sure if he could take me. I replaced my
fingers with the head of my cock, my foreskin pulled back as far as it
would go. I pressed the head against his hole. "Relax," I whispered in his
ear. "Make like you're taking a shit." It took time but even the feeling of
my cock against the furnace of his hole was bliss.

The muscle gave way. I slid in a few millimetres. I ran one hand round his
middle and began to jack Sean's cock. He was as hard as me, bigger too. I
wondered what it would be like taking him inside me. I knew I was going to
find out soon. Jacking him off helped. I heard him sigh and his hole seemed
to surrender.

I slid my full length into him, glad that he still had tight little
buttocks that didn't block my way too much. I began to make love to him,
slowly, rhythmically, drawing out to the tip, then sliding in until my hair
brushed his bum. I matched the speed and rhythm of my cock to the speed and
rhythm of my hand.

We muttered to each other as we fucked. I can't remember any of what was
said. It didn't matter. They were words of love, that's all the mattered,
and the hot water that rained on both of us washed the loneliness away.

The fucking was faster now, harder, fiercer, my hand as ruthless as my
cock. I could feel my cock swell inside him, his cock swell in my hand. I
was bent over him, biting at the back of his neck, my chest glued to his
back, my groin thudding into his buttocks.

We moaned, groaned, hissed and cursed each other. Till suddenly I was out
of control. I pushed into him and held myself there, felt my cock thicken
and swell, my balls painfully tight in my scrotum, the cum race the length
of my shaft and shoot in hot spurts deep inside Sean's guts. Four, five,
six. I was cumming forever into the body of the boy I loved.

My legs shook. I held him round the waist for support as he rode my cock
with his hole, jerking me off with that hot tight bumhole that I'd kissed
over two years ago. The last spasms shook me. I held on, then pulled
out. Sean gasped. I turned him round and dropped on my knees before him.

I pulled him deep into my mouth, easing him down my throat, until his hairs
tickled my lips. It only took moments. Then it was his turn to spurt into
me, hot liquid blasts of cum hitting the back of my throat with the
violence that only teenage boys in heat can manage.

Spurt after spurt of sweet salty Sean ran down my gullet, and I was glad
that he had become part of me as I had become part of him.

Sean pulled me to my feet. We faced each other. Big boys don't cry. Fuck
that. We were crying and laughing through our tears. We who had been lost
were found.

We had two years together at school before Sean went on to university. I
followed him there when I graduated from high school. We came out
together. It wasn't easy but we did it. Nobody would believe me until I
danced a slow with Sean at the Christmas disco. Mom cried because she
wanted grandchildren; Harry had her pregnant by Christmas.

I'm going to finish now. I promised Sean I wouldn't stay up too late. He
wants to make love, but he'll be sound asleep by now. Sean studies civil
engineering; I'm reading Moral Philosophy. We were lucky to find this
place. We've got two more years here, then...

So I sit here and watch the cursor blink and wonder if my story will be of
interest to anyone. I realise it's not just my story.

There are many kids who have been through what I went through. Their
stories will never be told. But they need to be told. For if they are not
told, how will we know that we are not alone.

For it is only by knowing that we are not alone that we manage to survive.

I'm one of the lucky ones. I survived.


EPILOGUE

Among my bits and pieces I found this poem.
I did not write it. I don't know who did.
But in a strange way I have always felt it wrote me.
Does it have any meaning?
Only the meaning you give it.


ROMANCE

When I was but thirteen or so
I went into a golden land
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too,
They passed like fleeting dreams
I stood where Popocatapetl
In the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master's voice
And boys far off at play
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dream
To and from the school
Shining Popocatapetl
The dusty streets did rule.

I walked home with a gold dark boy
And never a word I'd say
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had stolen my heart away.

I gazed entranced upon his face
Fairer than any flower
O shining Popocatapetl
It was thy magic hour.

We lay upon a dusty floor,
His body joined with mine
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
He filled me with his wine.

The houses, people, traffic seemed
Thin dreams and far away
This golden boy upon the floor
Had sucked my soul away!