Boys Like Us

The following story is fiction, you might even say fantasy, and has been written to amuse, intrigue, entertain, divert and delight. It contains scenes of graphic inter-generational sex, including some instances of mild scat. If these are not to your taste, or if they are outlawed in your city, state, providence, country, or jurisdiction, read no further. Neither this writer nor Nifty ever seeks to encourage anyone of any age to act outside the law.

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

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BOYS LIKE US

I don't know why I fell in love with bumholes but I do know I fell in love with my own when I very young. I have a vivid memory of lying on my back on my bed, my legs swung over my head, and holding them by the ankles to keep them there. I'd dragged the bed as close to the wardrobe mirror as I could but I still couldn't get the image close enough so that I could give my hole the intense inspection I wanted to give it. At least I could hold my legs back with one hand while the middle finger of my other fucked my hole. I say 'fucked' but I'm not sure I had any real understanding of what 'fucking' was. I knew my mum and dad 'had sex' but even my understanding of that was vague. I knew what it sounded like, my mum was noisy during 'sex' and for quite a while I thought my dad was abusing her. He was, but not in the way I thought of 'abuse', and given, how cheerful she seemed the 'morning after', I guessed there must be something positive about the experience.

I wasn't a particularly bright kid but I wasn't stupid. After trying to 'finger-fuck' myself a few times without anything to make my hole slippery, apart from sweat and saliva, I realised I needed some sort of cream. To my relief, there was plenty of Nivea around the house and a couple of globs of that smoothed the passage. Nivea smelled nice, too. The funny thing was that Nivea smelled even better when mingled with the residue of slimey shit up my hole. One finger was easy. I'd get it in and twirl it around while playing with my penis. My cock got so hard it hurt, but the throbbing was a good hurt and I wanted more of it. I guess I was making a connection between something up my arse and the amazing feelings my hard-on gave me. Although I was young, words like 'stiffie' and 'hard-on' were in common circulation around my school.

Naturally, one finger was not enough. One became two, and I lay on the bed, legs over my head, easing two fingers up my hole, then twirling and stretching it for ages. At first I was worried I might do myself some damage but as my hole seemed to recover quickly, I thought, "What the shit..." and kept on experimenting. Again, stretching my hole was a source of pain but it was a pleasurable pain, I became addicted to it. I'd hurry home from school, knowing mum and dad were at work, and my younger brother Noah was with my Nan (grandmother) for a couple of hours. I had my own key, I was trusted, given responsibility, and with the key tied round my neck by a piece of string, I'd hare home to have a couple of undisturbed hours playing with my bumhole and my 'private parts'. I wasn't doing harm to anyone, and as far as I knew I wasn't doing any harm to myself. My bum was my business.

Of course, even two fingers weren't enough, and in a short time I was working hard to get three over-lapped fingers deep in my arse. I'm not going to lie: it hurt, it hurt bad, but I was a determined 'wee bugger', as my granddad used to call me, and the pleasure drove me on. I'd also got into the habit of taking my fingers out of my hole and shoving them under my nose; to tell the truth, I'd often shove a slimey finger up each nostril. It's not a word I knew then but I know now the smell acted as an aphrodisiac that made me stand any hurt in order to get more of the feeling that left me breathless, sweaty and gasping on my bed. I must have been quite a sight: a skinny, pale-skinned, long-haired boy lying on his back, legs over his head, driving three fingers ruthlessly in and out of his anus.

Did I say 'three' fingers?

Yes, I got to three fingers, I even tried four and got a real scare. I wrapped four fingers of my right hand over each other, tucked my thumb underneath them, and worked them into my hole. I made it, but I'd hardly started fucking myself when I realised my whole hand - it was very small - was going to go right up my arse. I'd often inspected my gaping hole after a session - it was huge in relation to my tiny arse - but I never dreamed my whole hand could slip inside. I whipped my fingers, thumb and my palm out - ouch! - and lay there with sweat pouring from me. I had the awful vision of my mum coming into my bedroom to find me lying there naked with my right hand jammed up my hole. That would take some explaining.

And still I wanted more, and it was Mum who came to the rescue, although she knew nothing about it.

Before I tell you what happened, maybe I should tell you what I looked like - then, not now - though I'm considered a handsome man if I say so myself. As a boy, I was average height, slim not skinny, with a nice chest. I mean I didn't have muscly pecs or anything but it was a nice chest. I was a wee bit self-conscious about my nipples because they seemed larger and more brownish than the boys around me. I had a flat tummy, not totally flat cos it did curve out a bit, and I liked my belly button, an innie for the record. Below that, in the area where my pubic hair eventually came - I didn't have single wisp at the time - was flat and smooth. My dick dangled below. It was a bit longer than most boys in my school year (I saw them in the showers) and I wasn't circumcised. I can't remember seeing any boy circumcised. It just wasn't done, and when I found out about circumcision I wondered how a boy could have a proper wank (masturbation) without a foreskin to rub against the head of his cock. My bum sat a bit high, it was a bit roundy, and there was a nice gap between the cheeks. It seems weird to be writing this but I'm just doing my best to describe what I looked like.

I had thick, auburn hair that hung down to my collar. I had big eyes, thick eyelashes, and a straight nose. I also had noticeable cheekbones. I was at the age when I could pass for a girl, but then lots of boys wore their hair long, and lots of them at my age could pass for girls at first glance. Funny how I used to laugh at photographs of my dad when he was my age; he had really long hair, but then dad was what they called a 'hippie' who used words like 'cool' and 'groovy'. She used to talk about him even after he walked out on us, and, though she still had boyfriends, she told me dad was her first and only love. All a bit soppy, I guess, but I could understand this cos I missed him, too.

I've just noticed how many times I use the word 'but'. Sorreee! But at least you can think of me as your 'Butt Boy'. (joke)

Mum used to brush my hair with her long-handled hair brush, and one day I realised the hairbrush was exactly what I was looking for. Not the hair brush but the handle. You see, when I was finger-fucking myself (that's what it was, so that's what I'll call it) I got frustrated cos I couldn't get it deep enough. When my fingers were in as deep as I could get them, there was always a bit of space left up there, and I wanted to fill it. I worked out that when you were having a shit, especially if it was a long, hard turd, it took ages to come down, and sometimes it was so long you had to nip it off and let it plonk into the bowl before you released the next bit. Sort of shitting in instalments. That emptiness up there caused a sort of ache in my belly, and I figured if I could get something all the way up it would ease the aching, though the aching was sort of enjoyable, too. Funny how there's sometimes not much difference between pain and pleasure.

I'd already tried different thing up there, things like carrots and candles, but I was scared to push them too far in case they broke off and I couldn't get them out. You won't believe this but there was a boy (Ben) in our school who shoved a marble up his jacksie and couldn't get it out - 'jacksie' is the word we used for our arsehole. Don't ask me why he shoved a marble up his arsehole, I've no idea. He couldn't get it out, panicked and had to go to his Form Tutor. Know what they did? The headteacher popped him in his car, whisked him along to the clinic, where they extracted it. I don't know what they did with the marble. Come to think of it, if Ben had asked me, I would have been happy to suck the the marble out for him. Actually, I wouldn't have done that at time but I probably would now.

What am I writing about? Oh, yeh, carrots and candles. So they were no good, but my mum's hairbrush was a different story. It had a long, round handle that tapered from thin to thick. It was made of cheap plastic (Mum got it from the £Shop.) which was good because the plastic was soft, bendy and wouldn't scratch the inside of your hole (anus/rectum). At first I thought of using mum's brush but then I thought of the smell of the shit. I wasn't certain the smell would disappear no matter how much I washed (or licked) the handle, so I decided to buy one of my own. Amazing what a boy will spend his pocket money on.

I bought one in the £Shop on the way home from school. I got a bit of a shock when the Bangladeshi guy in the shop handed me the brush and said: "That should suit you." For a moment I thought he was talking about my arsehole (perv) - then I realised he was talking about my hair. I blushed, mumbled "thanks", stumbled out, hid my treasure under my school blazer, and fast-walked home trying not to draw too much attention to myself.

I admit I was shaking as I stripped off my school uniform in front of the wardrobe mirror. Standing there with only my tight white underpants on, I could see my erection straining against the fabric. I pushed them down and felt my stiffy bounce against my groin. Naked, I nipped downstairs and grabbed a used sheet from the laundry basket. Upstairs, I spread the sheet out on my bed, sat down and ran a big glob of Nivea up and down the handle. It seemed longer than my mum's, and thicker. Was I really going to shove the whole handle up my arse? I was shaking as I stretched myself out on my back, hoisted my legs over my shoulders and ran the end of the handle up and down where I gussed my hole to be. I found it and worked the tip of the handle against the pucker, applying pressure until it sort of popped through and the handle slid halfway in. Gently, I worked half the handle in and out of my anus. Soon that wasn't enough, and with each forward stroke I pushed harder and deeper. I began to fuck myself with the handle, and managed by getting my feet right over my head till they rested on the wall behind the bed, to toss myself off at the same time. With a bit of practice I managed to get the timing of my ass and cock strokes pretty well synchronised.

Was it good?

It was fucking great.

Just a little bit deeper. Resting every now and then to let me hole get used to being stretched so wide. I wished I could see it gaping. I wished I could lick and kiss and suck my own hole. I knew it was dirty, it felt dirty, but I didn't care, it was what I wanted. Weird thing was I could feel not only my hole aching, but my tummy and even my nipples as well. Everything was aching, but it was an ache I never wanted to end. Harder I pushed. Deeper the handle went... until I could feel where the handle joined the head of the brush. That meant there was about six or seven inches of plastic pleasure up my arse; I couldn't imagine where it was all going.

Faster and harder, though deeper was no longer possible. The feeling centred round my cock grew until it was intense. I'd backed off at this point before, but now I wasn't capable of backing off. I didn't care. I didn't give a fuck. My mother could have walked in, Noah could have walked in, but there was no way I could stop now. I was fucking my arsehole fast and hard, I was jerking off fast and hard. I could feel my body soaked with sweat, I could feel sweat trickling onto my forehead, I just wished someone, anyone, was holding me down and fucking me as hard as I was fucking myself. My body began to buck, my hips rose from the bed, my belly fluttered out of control. My cock was firing bursts of piss up my belly. I knew it wasn't piss, I knew it was 'cum', the stuff the older boys made jokes about in school. I felt it spatter on my belly - three, four, five. I wanted to keep going but my cock protested, far too sensitive. A few seconds ago I couldn't have stopped jacking off even if I'd wanted to, now I couldn't face one more stroke. I let myself collapse back on the bed. I was muttering 'fuck...fuck...fuck'. I was breathing so hard I felt like passing out - maybe I did, for a few seconds at least. But it was worth it, no matter what it took, it was worth it.

I lay there for a few minutes, blissed out, then remembered the brush handle was still deep in my hole, anus, rectum - I know the correct words now. Gently I eased it out and held the handle in front of my eyes.Know what? I was jealous of that fucking plastic handle, fucking horny little pervert that I was. The handle was slimy but whatever it was that slimed it was mostly still inside me. I sniffed the handle - Nivea and shit, but a lot more shit than before. I wasn't going to tell you about the next bit, but what the fuck, I promised to put down everything, so I will.

I ran my tongue along the handle. I loved the smells that rose into my nose. I slid a couple of inches of handle into my mouth and sucked on them. What the fuck? I slid as much of the handle as I could into my mouth and sucked on it as much as I could. Did it sicken me? I thought it might but it didn't. I liked it! Only the Nivea put me off a bit, that stuff's yucky to taste. But the shitty taste wasn't really offensive, maybe because it was my own shit. I wondered for a moment what Noah's shit would taste like. Then I gave myself a slap in the face with the hairbrush. My little brother's hole, his shit... you're a fucking pervert, I told myself.

Time for a shower, so into the shower went me and my new hairbrush. By the time Mum came in, I was as clean and shiny as a new pin, the sheet was back in the laundry basket, and I'd set the table for dinner. Mum even said, "You're smelling pretty nice," though she knew, and I knew that she knew, it was the smell of her body lotion, strictly forbidden for me and Noah to pinch. But I guess my cheerfulness convinced her to forgive me this time. And the burning sensation up my arse kept me cheerful all evening till I went to bed and fell asleep dreaming about... you guessed it - Noah's bumhole!

Please don't think I was nothing but a sex-crazed little pervert in love with his own shit! I wasn't. Like I said, I wasn't the best at school subjects like English, Maths, History and that sort of thing but I was very good at stuff like woodwork and metalwork. I was very good with my hands; I used to do odd jobs for our neighbours, especially gardening jobs. Also it turned out that I was 'dyslexic', though that's a thing they'd never even heard of when I was at school. "He just can't spell," my teachers told my mum, and "he is weak at reading," which meant I was crap. For me the most embarrassing thing on Earth was having to read outloud in class but, to be honest, the other boys didn't make fun of me, and some of them whispered how to say some of the words that I really got stuck on.

Elwyn was an angel.

I didn't say that. It was women who said that. Ladies - ladies he didn't even know - who patted him on the head and said: "What a little angel." And Elwyn would look up at them with that angelic smile of his and they were gonners.

Elwyn was Swedish, you see. Well, he was half-Swedish, so he spoke Swedish and English perfectly. He was 11, like me. But I sometimes looked like I'd been pulled through a hedge backwards; Elwyn looked like he'd stepped out of a Mothercare catalogue.

He had straight blond hair, blond sort of mixed up with gold, over his ears and just touching his collar. He had blue eyes, slightly curved little nose, and lips like a bow. Perfect teeth of course. But the amazing thing about him was his skin, yes, his skin, because his skin was creamy pink and it glowed. Nobody else in our class, in our school, with skin that glowed. It made you want to lick it, like the way you'd like a vanilla ice-cream cone. And when Elwyn joined our class, the teacher sat him next to me. Bless her.

Elwyn was only at our school for a month. Story is his dad was doing something about an engineering project at the harbour, so his family were having a month's vacation (holiday) in our town. Elwyn's mum thought it was a wonderful chance for Elwyn to practise his English - it was perfect anyway - so she stuck him in our school during the month. That's the kind of things mums do, isn't it? And Elwyn got parked next to me, which proves that there is a God. Elwyn yammered and yattered away to me in perfect English, and his written English was better than mine - well, most people's was. And, believe it or not, Elwyn's mum made friends with my mum, who agreed to have Elwyn stay with us for his last weekend in our town. After all, Elwyn was 'a perfect angel', so what mum wouldn't.

Thing is we didn't have a spare bedroom, and there was only one bed in my bedroom. Okay, it was a double bed but she might have asked me first before saying: "Oh, no problem, Dylan will be glad to share with Elwyn. They'll probably chat all night. You know what boys are like."

Glad to share?

I was thrilled but terrified. Sharing my bed with the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen, with an angel. Everytime I looked at him I wanted to lick his face. How could I spent all night in bed with him without wanting to lick his.....

Friday evening we had an early dinner (can't remember what it was), then mum took us out to see a movie I'd been dying to see all week (can't remember what it was). We got back late. Mum pointed upstairs. "Bed you two, and don't forget to brush your teeth." For a moment I thought she meant we should brush each other's teeth, which goes to show how spaced out I was.

It was early July. It was hot. We opened the bedroom window. A single sheet on the bed was enough. Elwyn stripped down to the tiniest briefs I'd ever seen and jumped into bed - more onto than into. He lay down and pulled the sheet up to his waist. I followed. Stripped to my boxers and slid into bed alongside him, careful not to touch him - my dick was stiff enough to snap in two. Elwyn turned his head, kissed me on the cheek, and said: "God natt," which even I could work out meant something like "Good night." Then he turned away, cuddled his face into the pillow, and that was that.

I lay there, furious and frustrated. He should be chatting with me. We should be lying there, heads on the pillow, face to face, chatting, whispering, talking about the movie, about school, about fucking Sweden, about anything, so that I could look at that face, those eyes, that skin. Maybe he was a fucking angel after all; maybe Elwyn was a fucking saint. At least the bedlamp was on, and I could see how that golden hair lay next to his skin, how his shoulder blades were like butterfly wings, how his back tapered down to.....

Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and I edged down the sheet so I could see those tiny briefs - and most of his butt - two creamy globes with exactly the same curve as his cheeks. I promised myself I wouldn't, and I kept my promise for all of ten minutes, then with two fingers I edged his briefs lower, a millimetre or less at a time, holding my breath as his cheeks emerged and his briefs were tucked along the top of his legs. I inched myself down the bed until my face was level with his buttocks. If Elwyn woke up, I could claim I'd been dreaming and didn't even remember he was in bed with me.

One, two, three four tiny licks - one, two, three, four little kisses. That couldn't do any harm could it. But my fingers had a mind of their own. I had to see, I had to know. Slowly, gently, inevitably, with the thumb of each hand I prised open his bumcheeks until I could see it - a tiny pinky slit in centre of a creamy valley. If an angel had an asshole, this is what it must look like.

Enough... enough... but of course it wasn't. In went my face, out went my tongue, until the tip touched, then licked the tiny pucker. Elwyn grunted. I froze. Elwyn shifted his position just a fraction, but God or whatever was on my side, and the shift only made his anus more accessible to my snakey tongue. If I'd had the nerve and the stupidity, I would have slipped my hand round Elwyn's front, found his penis and played with it. Do angels get hard-ons? This was my chance to find out. But I wasn't that stupid. If he woke up, I could pretend I was moving in my sleep, almost believable, but tossing him off in my sleep - even a Swede wouldn't swallow that.

My own dick was hurting now. Reulctantly I moved my face away from that beautiful bottom, and edged back up the bed. I felt my cock; the head was slimy. I got some of the 'pre-cum' on the back of my middle finger, edge back down, slid the finger between his cheeks, and smoothed the pre-cum onto Elwyn's hole. Then I gently edged his briefs back over his buttocks.

Out of bed. Pad to the bathroom. Lock the door. Push down my boxers. Sit on the toilet. Toss myself off. Slowly at first. Make it last. Images of Elwyn playing in my head. Finish fast and furious. Cum spattering over my belly. Scooping if off. Licking it up. Boxers back up. Padding back to bed. Sliding in beside Elwyn. Making spoons like I used to do with Dad. One arm round his waist. My nose in the hair down the back of his neck. Sleeping with my arm round an angel.

"God morgon. Visste du sova gott?"

That was Elwyn. It was morning. I hazarded, "Yes. What about you?"

The angelic smile.

"Yes. ..... Is it breakfast time? I'm hungry. Can we have a full English." (That's exactly what I'd wanted to give him last night - a full English up his cute butt.)

After breakfast, Mum dropped us off at the ten pin bowling, where we had a brilliant time. I won... but you probably don't want to hear about our day, and I don't want to write about it. I want to get to bedtime and maybe you do, too. Not because I thought I'd have the chance to 'molest' Elwyn again. I'd got away with it the night before, and I didn't want to push my luck. Making spoons again, while I sniffed his neck and hair would be enough. That's not quite how things worked out.

Elvyn stripped first again and dived onto the bed. It was hotter, if anything, than the night before, and he didn't bother to pull the sheet up. I slid onto the bed beside him, expecting him to give me a peck on the cheek, then turn the other way. Instead he lay with his head on the pillow facing me so closely that I could feel his sweet breath in my face.

"I know what you did last night," he whispered.

It felt like I'd been shot in the heart and punched in the gut - simultaneously.

"I'm sorry," I squeaked before I'd the chance to think of an alibi.

The angelic smile.

"Oh, no," came another whisper. "I really liked it. You can do it again if you want to... but..."

We lay there, two heads on one pillow, cheek to cheek.

"But what?" I managed to whisper.

Elwyn put his sweet lips to my ear and told me.

"Okay," I said, and started to slide down the bed.

"Wait a minute," he said. He took my face between his small hands, pulled me closer, and kissed me on the lips. I couldn't think what to do. He pushed my face back a little and said, "You've got to open your mouth,like this," and I felt his open mouth against my lips. In reflex I opened my lips and felt his tongue enter my mouth until his lips were pressed against mine. He wiggled his tongue, moved back, and whispered, "Your turn now." I did as instructed and soon our tongues were taking it in turns to enter our mouths; I could taste the flavour of the mints he'd been sucking in his saliva. I wondered if he could taste anything in mine.

He pushed my head away and whispered, "How do you want me - on my tummy or on my back?"

"On your back, please."

I slid down his body, slipped down his briefs, he raised his legs, and I slipped the briefs all the way off. He spread his legs wide. Hungrily I licked those round creamy globes, prised them open, and once again saw his tiny pucker - his 'fucker pucker'.

'Pucker' is not the correct word because the tiny slit, the entrance to his anus and his rectum was hardly serrated. I began to lick from the bottom his balls, along the thin line into the valley of his cheeks, and onto his hole. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards went my tongue. At the same I sniffed those smells that sent my head spinning. No smell of shit. His sphincter muscles were too tightly shut for that, just pure boy smells until with my thumbs and forefingers I began to prise them apart apart, oh so carefully.

Somewhere far away I heard Elwyn giggle something that sound like "harder harder", but it could have been something in Swedish. Then something that sounded like "open open". I dragged the lips of his hole apart just enough to get the tip of my tongue in, not far because he was so tight, but enough to release smells that were definitely not minty. Elwyin giggled again: "Det are skit." Elwyn had taught me enough Swedish for me to know that 'skit' was 'shit'. What Elwyn didn't know was that I didn't care. In fact.....

I grabbed his hips to turn him onto his back. His prick was like an asparagus stick, creamy white of course, about 3 inches in length, and, like mine, not circumcised. I licked its length.

That giggle again.

"No, not like that, like this."

And, before I could make out what was happening, Elwyn had wriggled until we were in what I now know is the 69 position, my face between his legs, his face between mine, and the head of my stiffy was in his sweet little Swedish mouth. I'd never been sucked off before but I immediately cottoned on to the magic of it. I slid Elwyn's stiff penis into my mouth and copied his actions. I couldn't believe this was his first time. His tongue swirled round the head of my cock, his little fingers worked the skin of my shaft up and down, and..... a finger of his other hand fiddled its way between my buttocks, found my hole and pushed its way in. No standing on ceremony for Elwyn; he was wanking me and finger-fucking me at the same. All we needed was ABBA (mum's favourites) playing loud.

Well, what's sauce for the goose is good enough for the gander, and pretty soon I was giving as good as I was getting, or at least I hoped I was. We managed to keep this up for about two minutes - we were only 11 years old for fuck's sake - when our bodies began to jerk rhythmically. My cum shot out of the head of my cock into his mouth as his cum shot into mine. Elwyn made a lot more than me, probably because I'd cum so hard the night before, and because during the ten pin bowling I'd sneaked off into the toilets to have a quick wank. You try watching Elwyn's bum every time he bent over to deliver his bowling ball!

A couple of minutes later we were lying face to face and Elwyn was telling me: "It's better second or third time. You don't make so much cum but you can last longer." Do they learn all this in Swedish sex education classes?

We spent the next half hour with Elwyn telling me how he'd learned so much about sex. He'd been having sex for three months with his junior school teacher before he moved on to secondary school! The teacher had refused to fuck him because as he told Elwyn: "I don't want to lose my job," though just before the school year ended he'd been trying to get Elwyn to fuck him.

"I'll try to fuck you if you like, Dylan," he said.

"Better not," I said, "but....."

I didn't have to finish the sentence. Elwyn rolled over onto his tummy and presented his beautiful arse again. This time there was no hurry and I managed to get about half my tongue inside him before his inner sphincter said: "That's enough, thank you very much," and closed the innermost sanctum for the night. We sucked each other off two more times before we fell asleep, and one more time before we sat down to breakfast with sore pricks.

I'm not sure any 11-year-old boy can be broken-hearted, but on Sunday afternoon as Elwyn and his mother got into the car chauffering them to London, and the flight home to Stockholm, it was hard to hold back the tears. My Swedish angel left me with such wonderful memories, and with the nagging thought that a grown-man might actually want sex with a boy - even a boy my age.

Two weeks, maybe three. That's how long I lasted. Even my hairbrush and memories of Elwyn weren't enough, and I couldn't forget what Elwyn had told me about sex with a man, a grown-man. But how the fuck was I going to get a man when I couldn't even get a boy at school? I'm sure there were boys like me at my school but it was incredibly dangerous to admit or even hint you'd like sex with another boy. You wouldn't get punched in the face or your head shoved down a toilet pan but you'd be teased and tormented for the rest of your life at school - unless, of course, you were one of the top-dog sports boys in the school. I was good at sports but I was only in Year 7 - the bottom of the heap. That's a metaphor but could easiily become literally true if the school got to know I wanted sex with a boy, a man, and what they fuck they'd do if they discovered I was in love with arseholes didn't bear thinking about. But I was a horny 11-year-old and I had to something.

Another hot day in July. We'd a match (soccer) in the morning and I wandered into town to catch a bus home. Don't ask me about my intentions, I'm not sure I had any. Five minutes later I found myself sitting on the steps outside the public toilets - Men : Ladies. Guess which one I was sitting in front of. Men and boys trotted in and out of the bogs (toilets). I sat there in the sun. I hadn't even made up a story in case someone I knew came long. A couple of guys glanced at me but the place was busy, it was a hot day, and no one seemed interest in an 11-year-old sitting on the toilet step dressed in his football kit.

Then I saw him, and realised this was the third time I'd glanced at him standing on the corner. This time the man caught me gaze and held it for a few seconds; that was more than enough. He was tallish, casually well-dressed, about the age of my dad, early thirties. He nodded at me, I nodded back. He strolled over smiling as if he was my dad or someone like that. I got up, the top of my head reached his chin.

"Where?" he said.

"Macdonald's," I said, hurriedly adding, "The loos there are clean," in case he thought all I wanted was a Big Mac.

He frowned, "No good. Follow me."

Like an obedient puppy I followed him - straight to the fucking bus station!

Of course I knew the bogs well there. Dirty, smelly, busy. We walked in. We each stood at a urinal. The moment the place was empty, he ushered me into the far cubicle. What a stink- piss and shit! He put his hands on my shoulders, gave me a little downwards push and I sat on the toilet. He lifted my hand and placed it on his crotch, his zip. I unzipped him and struggled to get his dick out, no easy job, it was as big and stiff as poker. When it was before my very eyes, I wanted to inspect it closely; I'd never seen a grown-man's penis before. Fucking huge, big mushroom head (I couldn't figure out if he was circumcised or not), thick shaft, veins running down into a big bush of black hair. I started to play with it the way I play with mine - get him worked up - but he didn't need any of that.

"Open up," he hissed.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could but I couldn't get more than the head in before I started gagging. This man was no Elwyn. He pushed my head back and hissed again: "Wide open." I obliged until my jaws cracked. Then he started tossing himself off right into my gaping mouth. His fingers and thumb were around the shaft; he worked the skin up and down - he was circumcised - another first for me. "Play with my balls," he hissed. I opened his trouser belt, the fastening, and edged down his briefs (Calvin Klein), until I could set his balls free. Fucking huge. They hung in his sac like a pair of tennis balls. I thought of Elwyn's walnuts. I played with them as best I could, though it was difficult with my head shuddering backwards and forwards. I tried to slide my middle fingers into the sweaty valley between his buttocks but he clenched them tight (fucking spoilsport). If I couldn't see his arsehole close up, at least I wanted to feel around it.

It was amazing how quiet he was as he masturbated. I couldn't do that. And it took me totally by surprise when volleys of cum hit the back of my throat. This wasn't the milky white spurts Elwyn and I could manage. This was big dollops of yogurty stuff that hit the back of my throat, then began to fill my mouth. I couldn't swallow it all. I gave a loud splutter and gobbed it right down my chin. I've got to be fair on the guy; out of nowhere he whipped a big white handkerchief and wiped it straight over my chin, holding the hankie there till I coughed out the rest. Then he wiped his dick, his pubic hair and the lower part of his belly.

As he stepped back, I stood up, pushed down my football shorts and Y-fronts, turned, bent over the toilet pan, reached round with a spare hand and whipped my football shirt up over my back. I wasn't expecting him to fuck me after shooting a load like that but I'd appreciate a bit of fingering and rimming (I learned the word later.)

Smack!

He slapped my arse, and it hurt, it really hurt. I was too startled to do anything.

"Dirty little fucker."

His ungenerous remark was followed by the slamming of the cubicle door, and there I was, bent over the stinking toilet pan, bare arse in the air, with a red handprint across it, my face halfway down the pan, and my cock so hard against my belly, it hurt worse than the slap.

My first man had not been a great success, at least not for me, but it had shown that men would have sex with boys, and, for that alone, it was a positive experience. I locked the cubicle door, sat down, and enjoyed a leisurely wank in time with a leisurely shit.

All I had to do was find the right man - and it turned out he wasn't very far away.

You can never tell what someone's really like, can you?

If there was anyone in our school who was definitely a ladies' man it was Mr. Cameron - we all called him Mr. C. He was not only in the P.E. department, and taught some English as well, but he had a wife and two kids, one about 8 and the other about 6. We boys thought his wife was a model, like those women you see in magazines like 'Vogue', my mum's favourite, not the old bags you could wank over in mags like 'Busty Babes'. Mrs. C. was tall, elegant and beautiful. Can you imagine the amount of spunk the boys in our school produced over her?

Mr. Cameron ran the Year 7 football team. I told you I wasn't so hot on academic subjects but I was good at sports, and at football, without wanting to boast, I was brill. 'A natural," said Mr. C. I used to catch him keeping his eye on me; I guessed he was figuring how to make the best use of me - he was, but not in the way I was thinking. Although I was slight for my age, it was hard to get me off the ball, partly because I used my arse to bounce tacklers off me. I had great ball control, quick reflexes, and only wanted one thing: to stick the ball in the back of the net. Even then, I was gob-smacked when, a few weeks after the season started, Mr. C. turned to us in the changing room and announced: "Right, boys, we've got St. Swithin's on Saturday, and..." He pointed to me. "... Dylan, you're captain." He turned and walked off. I just stood there blushing. Nobody'd ever asked me to captain anything in my life. My mates came rushing round clapping me on the back. It was all pretty embarrassing, but as usual I said nothing.

We beat St. Swithins 4 - 3. Mr. C. made me captain for the season. Life could hardly better - except I wanted more sex. It was then Mr. C. stepped in to help me - with my reading, not the sex, well, not right away. He was my English teacher and, after a chat with mum at Parents' Evening, he offered to give me a lesson at his house every Thursday after training. Mrs. C. and the kids were round their gran's and we'd have a bit of peace and quiet, he explained. Mum was delighted; she didn't mind a bit of peace and quiet either, and she could have an undisturbed shagging session with Dan, her newest boyfriend. Dan was a nice guy, I liked him, I was glad he liked me - and my mum.

Mr. Cameron was a brilliant football manager. He was just as good at teaching reading and spelling, which takes some doing with someone who hated both. He turned everything into games, competitions and quizzes, and most of the time I learned without realising I was being taught. We measured my progress every week and I was making amazing progress.

It started about the fourth lesson. As usual, we were sitting close together on the couch in the living room. I had the book in my lap. I was reading out loud. I always forgot the full stop and read on into the next sentence. It didn't matter how often Mr. C. told me, two minutes later I'd forgotten and was reading along as if full stops hadn't been invented.

"This'll help," he said.

The book was on my lap. Slipping his hand under my t-shirt, he put his hand at the bottom of my bare belly. Every time I came towards the end of the sentence, he pressed my belly a little. It worked! I remembered to stop, most of the time. That continued for about fifteen minutes. I read and he applied pressure to tell me when to pause. No big deal. Except, of course, that it gave me a hard-on. I sat there expressionless (I can do it for hours.) while Sir pressed my stomach a couple of inches away from my erection. It was embarrassing at first, but Sir didn't seem to notice anything, so I assumed it was an accident and went on reading.

Next week the same thing happened. This time there was a variation that showed what was happening was no accident. Despite the pressure on my stomach, despite my hard-on, I still forgot to stop at the end of the occasional sentence. "We have to get them all right," laughed Mr. C. He slid his hand under my school jumper, then under my school shirt, just above the waist band of my trousers. Every time we reached the end of a sentence, he pressed his cool hand into my warm stomach, then ran his little finger along my skin just where it emerged from my trouser waist band. It could still have been an 'accident' but when he ran his finger tip the length of my throbbing erection we both knew it wasn't. Could this really be happening? Did Mr. C. want me that way? Could I be so lucky?

I think he was giving me the chance to stop him. He guessed I wouldn't tell. No boy in a boys' school gives up a captaincy that easily. Next Thursday we went to his house as usual. This time he didn't bother with the preliminaries. He told me to lie on the carpet and read to him. Lying flat out would help with my breathing, he said. It was so comfortable lying there, one hand holding the book, the other pillowing my head. I wasn't surprised when he lay down, full length, alongside me. Lying flat out that way meant I was totally exposed, almost helpless. He began the familiar pressure and stroking on my bare stomach. My prick hardened. There was no way I could hide it. He stroked lower and lower until his thumb brushed my erection below the thin grey flannel of my school trousers. I think if I'd protested in any way, even drawing up legs, he would have stopped, and that would have been that. I didn't.

I felt him unclip the top of my trousers and edge down the zip. He edged aside the flaps of my flies, exposing my white underpants. His fingers stroked the bare skin above the elastic, then slipped underneath. He held my stiff penis between his thumb and forefinger squeezing gently as I read on, missing more full stops than I'd ever done before. This only lasted a couple of minutes. Then he closed me up, zipped me up, closed my clip, and tucked my shirt in. I almost groaned with disappointment. How could he do that? Let me lie there with my hard-on pressing through my trousers, demanding, begging for attention. Maybe just a few kissies, a quick splurt, then back to fucking reading.

The lesson went on as if nothing had happened. It was crazy to lie there on the carpet in the living room and do what he did. The living room had a huge window. Anyone visiting or passing by couldn't have missed us. An eleven-year-old boy lying on a carpet, reading, beside a man with his hand in the boy's unzipped trousers. It was crazy. The lesson ended and, as usual, Mr. C. walked me home. As we walked we chatted about the coming Saturday match. Sir did most of the talking; as usual, I listened. I loved to listen, especially to someone who was really enthusiastic about something I loved. We never mentioned the sex, we never did.

Thursday's lesson started with some fun card games to improve my spelling. Then Mr. C. said, "Let's do some reading." I followed him into a small bedroom. On a desk there was a vase of fresh flowers; the scent was lovely. There was a single bed. Sir indicated the bed. "Get on and read this." I lay down on the bed, face up, reading some pages he'd prepared. They told a very funny story about some of my friends and me. There was some light sex in the story. It made me smile and want to read on. I had to fill in the blanks. Coach sat down on the edge of the bed. "Read it to yourself first, and then out loud."

I felt him push up my jumper and my shirt. I wasn't surprised. He undid the clip of my trousers and unzipped me. "Lift," he said. Still reading, I raised my bottom and let him slide my trousers and my underpants down to my ankles. I felt him stroke my stomach, my pubic area, (I had half a dozen wisps of brown hair), then take my cock between his fingers. I already had an erection. It was about five inches, not bad for an 11-year-old, but my balls were still hairless. He began stroking me, jerking me gently, his other hand tracing patterns over my stomach, my chest and my nipples. Then his lips replaced his fingers. He traced patterns with his lips and tongue all over my bchest and belly. He lifted up one arm at a time and licked my armpits. He tried to suck my nipples but that was like trying to suck raisins, I guess. I willed his lips lower and lower. He licked my belly all over, then my hip bones on either side. I felt like a kitten getting licked to death by its mum. It made my cock so hard it hurt. It was great.

"Should I read out loud now?" I asked.

He raised his head. "Yes, go on," he said.

As I stumbled through the story, I felt him swallow my hard-on to the root. His mouth was hot and wet. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster, his head bobbed up and down on my cock. It was weird. When I really got stuck over a word, he'd raise his head, pronounce the word, and then go back down on me. Once I stopped and asked him what a word meant: the word was 'erect'. Sir raised his head. "It means sticking up or standing up. That's where the word 'erection' comes from." I hadn't understood the word 'erection' before then.

"Should I read it again?" I asked. He obviously wasn't finished.

"Yes, please, Dylan. Take your time."

I started reading again, more confidently second time round.

He grasped my hips.

"Over."

I turned over so that I was lying face down. His fingers ran over my buttocks. Then his lips. He pried the cheeks of my bottom open. I felt his tongue run along the inside of my cheeks several times, then the hot tip touched my hole. I was nearly sick with excitement. This was the dirtiest thing I could think of anyone doing, yet it was the most exciting. I felt the hot tip of his tongue run up and down the little serrated edge. He gave a push and the tip slipped in - thank God for my hairbrush. I lay there, willing my ring to open so that he could drive more of his tongue inside me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be fucked, but I did want to be opened up.

Then I farted - three little farty spurts.

Fucking hell! What would he think of me? Would he call me a "dirty little fucker" like the guy in the bus station bogs? He would he stop. Would he give me a telling off, lines, a detention? Would he take my captaincy away?

I didn't have to wait for the answer. He fastened his lips over my hole as best he could and tried to suck the shit of me. I don't mean that literally, but that's what it felt like. If there'd been a log up there, I'm sure he'd have drawn it down a couple of inches. I wanted to cheer as if we'd just scored a goal! I wasn't the only one that loved bums, arseholes, anuses, rectums, and whatever else was up there. Mr. C. was my perfect man.

"Over," he said.

I flipped myself over without breaking a sentence. I felt the air brush my body, especially my straining cock. Then his lips were over it again, working their magic up and down the shaft. His finger was working its way past my sphincters, one, then two. And he was finger-fucking me ruthlessly. I couldn't take much more, I couldn't take any more, my hips bucked, spurts of cum fired from the head of my dick into his mouth. He swallowed. H held me in his mouth till my hips stopped shaking and my arse sank comfortably into the duvet. He licked my belly and my private parts again.

"Up"

I swung my legs off the bed and stood in front of him. He pulled up underpants, then my trousers, tucked in my shirt, zipped me up... all the while explaining how he wanted me to play deep centre-forward on Saturday. "We'll bang in a few more goals that way, Captain," he said. I nodded. He walked me home. Came in for tea and tiffin - my mum's specialty - and reported on my progress. Apparently I was making good progress but there was still a long way to go, he said. (I hoped so.)

This went on for a few weeks but we didn't make the progress I expected. I wanted to inspect his body as much as he inspected mine. He took off my clothes but never took off his own. I lay on the bed naked while he licked, kissed, carressed, fondled and sucked, back and front, almost as if he was in love with my body. A couple of times he murmured, "God, you're beautiful," but never said anything directly sexual to me. I loved how he managed to open me up and get his longest finger deep inside me. One finger, then two, though I willed him to go for at least three. Sometimes he touched something deep inside me that made my whole body jump, that sent shock waves through me, and I wanted desperately to have his hard cock inside me. I presumed it was hard; I never had the chance to find out. Sometimes, when I was lying on my stomach, he'd slip his hand beneath me to knead and squeeze my belly. At the same time two fingers fucked me. When he did this, I could feel the shit in my bowels move - least I thought it did - and I thought he was trying to work it out of me. It was so frustrating when he turned his attention to my dick just as I thought he was getting somewhere, shit-wise.

Sir would always finish off by sucking my brains out, cleaning me up, dressing me, then going on with the lesson as if nothing had happened. There were times I wanted to scream with frustration, rip down his pants, underpants, and jam my little fist straight up his arse. How could he be so inconsiderate? Hewas the adult after all.

It ended as abruptly as it began - not the lessons, the sex. One Thursday after training Mr. C. said: "We're going to your house. My wife's got visitors. Your mum's expecting us. It's tea and tiffin. Yummy. Now, about Saturday's match..."

This wasn't a one-off. I never went back to his house again, at least not for sex, though I went a few times a couple of years later to babysit their kids because I was 'trustworthy and dependable'. I know you're laughing but I never once laid a finger on them; not the way you're thinking at least - even though I got the chance to bath them and tuck them in bed. (I almost typed 'fuck them in bed'. LOL)

That was seven years ago.

A few weeks ago, my team staggered into our local pub. They were already pissed; I was stoned (alcohol isn't good for you). Mr. C. was there. We were all in the Sixth Form but they turn a blind eye to what we do outside school as long as we deliver great A-level results. Mr. C. had moved onto the local boys' grammar school.

We gave each other a big smile. He stepped up and we shook hands.

"Hi, Dylan, how's going?"

"Fine, sir," I said. "Going to Sports College in September. I'd like to be a P.E. teacher - like you."

"You'll make it, Dylan. You can do anything you put your mind to. You'll be a great P.E. teacher, too."

He paused. "But I'll tell you one thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"You'll never have as good a captain as I once had in my Year 7 football team."

"And there'll never be as good an English teacher as I once had."

We laughed. We hugged each other. We said goodbye. We went back to our futures.

But first let's return to my past.

Eight inches.

Eric's cock was eight inches.

I know because he let me measure it. I know because I used to kiss it from root to head. I know because I almost choked on it.

I was twelve, going on 13. Eric was 16, going on 17. I was in Year 8. Eric had just entered the Sixth Form; he had become one of our gods. He was a god anyway because when he strode naked around the changing room after showers the hose-pipe swinging between his legs was god-like to us. We all wanted what Eric had, especially those boys for whom puberty arrived late. Not me, I was one of the lucky ones. At eleven, I had a more than respectable five inches; going on thirteen it was touching seven inches. Boys in Years 9 and 10 glanced enviously my way. I didn't feel sorry for the boys who had little dicks, but I felt a bit sorry for the younger ones who got hard-ons. Believe me, they got teased. But much as I wanted sex with half the boys in the showers, I was never afflicted with 'sudden erection syndrome', though my dick would thicken a bit.

Eric was in the Sixth Form. He was Captain of Cricket, Captain of Rugby, pre-destined Headboy, and a 'fine representative' of the school. Mind you, I was Captain of Lower School Football, so I wasn't exactly a nobody, and I had my near-seven inches to flaunt. So things were fine except sex was confined mainly to me and my handbrush, my memories and my creative imagination.

It was mid-September, an Indian summer, warm and balmy and sunny. At lunchtimes, a lot of boys used to go down onto the lower playing fields for a game of football. The lower playing fields were at the bottom of this huge crater in the ground (a gift from Adolf H. that had been grassed over by the years.). That day, for some reason, I had elected to play in goal. Everyone had his blazer and tie off (strictly forbidden, but few masters came near the 'crater'). We had a really good game. Everyone was hot and sticky. The first bell went and most boys grabbed their stuff and scrambled up the sides of the crater. A few of us die-hards went on playing. The second bell went. Seconds later, there was only Eric and me left, with Eric taking a few last pot shots at me in goal.

I hardly knew Eric. Apart from the age difference, we hadn't been at the same junior school. He'd been to a school in the West End of the city while I came from 'the wrong side of the tracks'. Eric's family had big money. But Eric was fun, and I appreciated how much he'd befriended this 'fish out of water'. And he was extremely good-looking. Being good-looking is important in all-boys' schools, probably even more so than girls' schools since prestige and status are all-important amongst boys. Well-built, regular features, open face, freckles, well-cared for teeth. And a big prick. A very big prick. An outstandingly big prick. And, trust me, this counts for a lot in boys' schools.

Ten inches. That's what they said Eric had - ten inches. It wasn't ten inches - it was eight and a half. Eric would stand there starkers, towelling himself down, with his hose pipe bouncing between his legs, with half the room taking sneaky peeks.

Back to that September day.

We grabbed our blazers, ties and shirts (yes, Eric and I'd gone that far in breaking the rules) and started to scramble up the grassy slope. Eric was behind me. He slipped (he said), grabbed for something, got me, and together we tumbled back down in the hill. We ended up in a heap of arms, legs and clothing. Then it happened. Eric shifted till he was sitting astride me. He put his knees on my arm muscles, such as they were, pinning me to the grass. He was looking down into my face. He reached behind his arse and stroked my genitals! I was stunned. My face, already red from our exertions, was on fire. I tried to heave him away, but he bore down on me, not enough to hurt, just enough to pin me there and kept stroking me, his fingers fumbling till they found my hardening cock.

He looked down at me and whispered: "You're the kid with the big prick."

"And you're the prick with the big prick," I whispered back.

Eric laughed.

I laughed.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

"Don't stop," I whispered.

His fingers and thumb closed round my hard-on and began working the skin along the shaft.

"Do I have to hold you down?"

I shook my head. from side to side.

Eric slid from my body. I sat up.

"We can't stay here," he said.

"I know," I said.

"The sheds," he said.

I nodded.

We scrambled up, grabbed our clothes and headed across the fields, away from the school. The 'sheds' was our name for the boys' latrines on the far side of the playing fields. They were rarely used. Smoking went on there. Card games (for money) went on there. Did sex go on there? I didn't know, but I was about to find out.

We got to the sheds and slipped inside. Eric took our blazers and ties and hung them on a hook on the back of the shed door. "I'll go first," he said. I nodded, not sure what he intended. To be honest, the thought of his 'whopper' up my jacksie was as scary as it was thrilling. Eric sat down on one of the toilets and pulled me towards him. He opened my belt, unbuttoned my flies, then dragged down my flannels and Y-fronts to my ankles. I was exquisitely embarrassed. My cock was hard and already slick with pre-cum. Eric fondled me for a bit, then without a by-your-leave opened his mouth and sucked me in until his lips were pressed into my pubic hair (I'd grown more.)

I stood there and watched my penis slide in and out of Eric's mouth, fascinated by the way it bulged his cheeks, and amazed he could get so much of me inside him. Where was it all going - down his throat? I put my hands on his head and instinctively, I suppose, began pushing and pulling to find the rhythms I liked best. One of Eric's hands worked the base of my cock while the other played with my balls.

Wonderful!

Hislower hand slipped into my crack and headed for my bumhole. I'd been working on it before school, and with the help of summer sweat his big middle finger slipped in easily. I thought of asking for two or even three fingers but thought that might be pushing my luck. Eric brought me to the brink of orgasm three My prick was going frantic, my heart was racing. Then when I thought I couldn't stand ny more, he let me cum - and he let me cum in his mouth! I couldn't believe it. Eric's gulps filled the smelly shed; at that moment the most romantic place on the planet. He waited until I'd softened in his mouth, slipped me out, slipped his finger out, took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my cock and his lips. Then, without batting an eyelid, he sucked his middle finger clean. The finger that had been up my ass.

Sheer class!

It was my turn, and to be honest I panicked a bit. "You don't have to use your mouth if you don't want to," said Eric reassuringly. "Your hand will do fine." Eight inches? No. It was challenge enough to get four inches of Eric's cock into my mouth. I swallowed. He held me, kissed me, open-mouthed and took back some of his cum. I glowed with pride.

"What do we do now?" I squeaked as we did up our buttons, pulled on our blazers, and Eric knotted my tie for me.

"Don't worry, I'll get you into class. Remember I'm in the Sixth." There was a pause. "Have you got a bike?" I nodded. "What you doing on Saturday?" I shrugged. "Wanna come for a ride?" I nodded. "Right, that's that. We'll fix it up after school."

As we strolled back to classes, he said, "Hey, what's your name?"

"Dylan. It's Dylan," I said. "What's yours?"

"Cheeky fucker," he laughed - and slapped me hard over the arse.

My cheeks glowed. My arse glowed. I couldn't wait for Saturday.

Saturday morning around 11 o'clock and we're cycling down the towpath towards Blean Woods. The towpath is lumpy bumpy so it's easy to keep up with Eric on his racing bike. Out on the main road I was happy to peddle behind him on my trusty rusty Raleigh enjoying the gorgeous view - his arse - the rounded buttocks rising and falling, cheeks pressing against each other in harmony. How I wished my face was the bike seat as his bum rose then fell to press hard against it. I imagined how the pressure pushed his anus slightly open as he dropped onto the seat, then gently closed as he rose again. We were in no hurry, the sky was blue, the temperature already in the low 20s. It was going to be a hot one again - baby.

I wonder what it would feel like if/when he fucked me. I was under no illusions. His prick was not only eight inches (and a half) long but it was thick as well. It was going to hurt. At least I'd taken the precaution of working my hole with my beloved hairbrush after breakfast. And I'd stuck an extra glob of Nivea up there - just in case. I tried to take a shit but my rectum was in no mood to give up its booty just yet.

We peddled along the path at Blean Woods.

"Follow me," Eric called. "I know a place. Nobody ever goes there."

I followed, wondering how Eric knew nobody ever went there, and wondering if he'd taken a boy there before me.

The clearing near the pond was lovely. Grassy, circled by silver birch trees. The water in the pond was cool and clear, fed by a small stream. We laid out a tartan blanket, and on it cheese sandwiches, digestive biscuits (milk chocolate), and four bottles of pop. We stripped to our undies and waded into the pool. "Stand still," whispered Eric. I did and looked down. Little silver fish darted between my legs. "See if you can grab one," said Eric. I bent over and concentrated on seeing the fish. Couldn't see any. I felt a push from behind, over I went. Splash! Head first into the water. I came up spluttering and spouting water. Cleared my eyes. Saw Eric laughing fit to burst a gut. Dived at him. Knocked him over. And we were both sprawled in the pond.

Out we got laughing and stretched overselves on the blanket, me flat on my back, Eric propped on one elbow, looking down at me.

"Do you like arses?" he asked.

What the fuck was I meant to say?

"Well?"

I kept my eyes closed. Nodded.

"Can I have a look at yours?"

I kept my eyes closed, rolled over, leant my head on my elbows, and kept my eyes closed.

Slowly, inch by inch, Eric slid my underpants, up, over my buttocks and down to my ankles. I raised my heels and he slid them off.

"Wow, you're lovely," he said.

I felt reassured.

Eric didn't stand on ceremony. He prised open the cheeks, lowered his face, stuck out his tongue, and went straight for my arsehole. I could feel him licking all around it, directly on it, then probing it with the tip of his tongue. At the same time a thumb on each side of the hole was gently forcing me open. It didn't hurt at all. It just felt good. Bless my hairbrush. He got about half his tongue in and started to twist it around. I wondered how far into my rectum he'd got. Could he actually touch the walls of my rectum? I didn't have much idea about my inner anatomy but I hoped he could. What if the tip of his tongue touched the end of a turd? Would he know that's what it was? Would he be sickened, disgusted? I didn't want to be called a dirty little fucker again. Yes, it was my rectum, but it was his tongue. He seemed to spend ages down there - up there - I didn't care - he could stay there forever. I could actually feel his wide open mouth pressing against the inside of each buttock, or was that just my imagination?

"Can I try and put the head of my cock inside you? I won't try to get the whole thing in. I promise I won't cum."

I raised my head from my elbows and gave what nod I could manage.

Imagine Eric, naked, straddling me, one knee on either side of my hips, foreskin pulled back, the slit on the head of his cock touching the little slit of my anus, his thumbs spreading the little pucker wider as he pressed insistently against the opening. Nothing at first as my sphincter fought the good fight with all its might. The gentle pressure was relentless, then for a moment relieved, as Eric lowered his face to gob once, twice, three times into my hole, then back came the head, back came the pressure. I felt the muscles relax, then give, and the head sank in.

"Fuck it!"

"Sorry, am I hurting you?" came Eric's voice.

"No, no," I mumbled in a bare-faced lie. "Push harder, push all you want."

The head was all the way in. I felt my anus grip the beginning of the shaft. We both relaxed for a couple of minutes, breathing heavily. Eric pushed again. Resistance again. Was that the second sphincter? If it was, it wasn't in the mood to struggle, it gave up, and Eric sank all the way in. I could feel his thick pubic hair against my arse. I felt the inner walls of my rectum bulging. If you looked at my belly, would you see the bulge of the shaft half way up it?

"Fuck me, Eric," I whispered. "Fuck me, fuck me hard."

And he did.

Slowly at first, gently at first, then picking up pace till he was rabbiting me. The shaft slid all the way out leaving only the head to connect us, then he pummelled deep again, rising and falling on those strong arms of his, pressing my skinny body deep into the blanket, the grass the earth. Harder, faster, deeper - harder, faster, deeper. The handle of my hairbrush was never like this. Moans, groans, dirty words, licks in my ear, licks along my neck, my own cock stretched hard beneath me.

Then Eric came down flat on me and stayed there. The inner part of his hips, his crotch, his groin, rubbed against my much smaller buttocks, and he was shooting his cum into me, spurt by spurt. His body shook and trembled against mine. I sucked my arm, gave myself a hickey.

Stillness, silence, all except for our breathless panting - the heat had stilled the birds - leaving only the audible breathing of two naked boys, the smaller under the larger, stretched out in the dappled light of the grassy clearing.

Eric withdrew, rolled off me, and lay on his back, shielding his eyes. I rolled onto my front, propped myself on an elbow, and looked him over. He was, like me, awash in sweat. His cock had lost his hardness but was still huge though soft. I moved over him, lowered my face, and started to lick his cock. The head slipped into my mouth. I sucked it like a gobstopper. He was too sensitive for that, so I returned to the shaft and licked it up and down. What were the tastes? Nivea, cum, saliva and shit. Now there's a combination. I didn't care. Actually I wanted it. I was the mother cat this time, and this time I was cleaning my baby.

Two minutes, five minutes. Eric rolled to face me. He grinning, took me in his arms, kissed me open-mouthed and stuck his tongue deep in mine. We snogged like that for a couple of minutes. He withdrew his tongue, looked deep in my eyes, and said: "Hey, don't keep all the good stuff for yourself." I laughed. "Hungry," he said. "A bit," nodded. "Right. Let's have a cheesy before... " Before what? He left the sentence unfinished. We got up, draped our wet undies on a branch, settled down on the blanket, unwrapped a cheese sandwich each, opened a bottle of Coca Cola, munched, shared the Coke, spat some of it into each other's mouth, and fell in love - or at least I did.

We lay there chatting about everything under the sun - school, football, movies - everything under the sun except what we'd just done. I wanted to ask if I was Eric's first. I wanted to tell him I was proud to have lost my virginity to him. I wanted to ask what happened to the sperm up the ass. I wanted to ask if he was as fascinated by arseholes as I was. I wanted to ask... but Eric didn't lead the conversation that way and it wasn't my place to ask.

"Your turn," said Eric, taking the last mouthful from the bottle and rolling onto his front. There it was - my first man's bum - though this man was only 16 going on 17. He opened his legs wide in invitation; I crawled between them and stretched his cheeks wide. There it was - his arsehole - larger than mine, browner than mine, and with hair - real hair around it! Not lots of it, but enough to start me drooling. My thumbs edged him open, he grunted, I lowered my face and sniffed deeply. Shit! There was no doubt about it, though it must be deep inside; the scent was faint and in no way offensive. Hard to describe. What are you going to compare shit with except shit?

I drew my face back and had a good look. The lips of his anus were much larger than mine, puffier, and looked bruised. The lips actually stood up slightly from the surface. I licked the lips. Kissed them. Pulled them wider and tried to peer in. There was definitely a redness but nothing too definite. I was about to try my tongue when I heard Eric's voice.

"Get the bottle, it's still got some Coke. Work it in."

"Did I hear him right?"

Was Eric asking me to work the neck of the Coke bottle into his arsehole?

"You heard me, Dylan. Get the bottle. Work the neck in. Go easy. Don't do anything till I tell you."

Who was I to question a Sixth Former?

I reached for the bottle, touched the neck end to his hole, and applied gentle pressure.

"Twist it round. Keep pushing - not too hard."

It took about five minutes, then with a sloppy pop it was in. It slid in easily until it reached the bulge of the main bottle. What now?

"Keep twisting. Push slowly. Not too hard. See how much you can get in."

I followed orders and was amazed to find two thirds of the bottle slid right in. I saw how the mouth of his anus stretched to accommodate the bottle and gripped it tightly at the same time. I guessed he wanted me to fuck him with it, so I startedbCoke-fucking him.

"Fuck, Dylan, not os hard. If the bottle breaks, I could get really injured. In and out, slowly at first."

I did what I was told and got a nice steady rhythm going. I loved the way his anus streteched round the bottle like an elastic band. I wondered if the Coke fizzed up, out and into him. After a couple of minutes, Eric whispered, "Slide it out and finish the Coke."

Out came the bottle, down went my face, my lips fastened over his hole, and I sucked and sucked. It's true what they say: 'Things go better with Coca Cola'.

Eric rolled over on his front.

"You're doing really well - so far," he told me. He raised his legs and swung them backwards over his shoulders. Told you he was athletic. His bum looked magnificent.

"Shove three fingers in," I heard him say.

I could get three fingers into my hole, so why not Eric's?

I crossed the first three fingers of my right hand over each other to form a wedge. Then starting with my middle finger pushed against his pucker. The Coke bottle had done its job; the wedge of fingers slid right up to the knuckles. I started fucking Eric's hole, slowly then faster. "Add your other finger," he instructed, though this time there was tension in his voice. I added my 'pinkie' to wedge and repeated the process: in they went. The smell of shit was stronger now; if Eric noticed it, he didn't say. More fucking. "Take them out. Add your thumb.But go really slowly this time."

I added my thumb and was stunned when most of my hand slipped inside.

Eric was groaning now.

"Work your hand in up to the wrist," he moaned. "Twist it round and round. Make me feel it."

It was hot in there. Hot and moist. No, not moist - mushy. That could only mean thing: I was in deep shit - Eric's shit. My erect cock throbbed in response. I was so turned on I could hardly breathe. "See if you can open and close your hand a bit," he said. "No, no, too much. Stop. Just keep turning your hand from side to side." If I'd been able to open my hand, I bet I'd've ended up with a fistful of Eric's shit.

"Out now - slowly - very slowly."

I pulled and slid out my hand, my fingers, and saw they were covered in shit. Eric lowered his legs, sat up, looked at me, at my hand. He was drenched in sweat, so was I.

"Do you want that?" he asked looking at my shit-covered hand. He made a long licking motion with his tongue. I shook my head. "Then best go and wash it off."

I wandered down, barefoot, naked to the pond, knelt, washed my hand in the water, raised it, looked at it, licked it, stuck it back in the water and cleaned it vigorously. I went back thinking, "That's it," but it wasn't because Eric was lying on his back, his cock sticking up in the air.

"Sit on it," he said.

I sat on it, felt the head push past my sphincter muscles, pulled myself as wide open as I could, and let myself slide down his cock until I was sitting with his entire eight imnches inside me. I looked down at my stomach wondering if I'd see the outline of his erection bulging in my belly. No luck. Eric started tossing me off. I tried raising and lowering myself but that really hurt, so I sat there letting Eric wank me. It was great. We were able to watch each other's eyes. All too quickly my legs began to shudder, my tummy did little leaps, my eyes rolled back in my head, my skinny body arched, and I orgasmed harder than I'd done in all my 12, nearly 13 years. Two, three, four spurts shot out - three of them hitting Eric's chin and the fourth going where... I've no idea.

Eric lay still until his cock softened enough for me to slide off it. It was covered in shit. I blushed but Eric laughed, slid a finger along his cock, then popped the shitty finger in his mouth! He sucked it clean, took it out, showed it to me, and went "Yummy, yummy." Then a serious look came over his face.

"Hey, Dylan, there's nothing wrong if we both want to do it." He paused. "Anything you want to do before we clean up?"

"Well," I hesitated. "You need a shit. Is it okay if I watch you?"

Eric laughed again.

"That's exactly what I wanted to ask you."

A huge grin crossed my face.

"You go first," he said. "Come over and squat over my face. Just let it go when you feel like it, but make it slow 'cos I want to watch close-up."

"Do you want me to shit on you?" I asked.

"No," he laughed. "I'll roll away at the last second. I'll do the same for you unless....."

"No, no, that's okay," I interrupted.

"Cool," Eric said. "'Cos we want to save something for next time."

My heart leapt. Hurrah! There was going to be a next time.

I won't take you through the whole shitting thing because maybe that's not something your into. But when Eric squatted over me, I didn't dare blink because I wanted to watch every second of it. I watched his anus swell, puff up, and then open to show the tip of a dark brown turd. I watched as it bullied its way through the slit. The tiny mouth stretched until it gaped. Gaped almost as wide as the Coca Cola bottle - thick end. To be honest, I opened my mouth wide, but then at the last second rolled away and let it pile up on the grass. I lay propped on one elbow till Eric finished, then we jumped up and hand in hand - romantic or what? - ran straight into the pond. We washed and splashed each other for about fifteen minutes, got out of the water, and lay down on the grass to let the hot sun dry us off.

Amazingly enough, the whole thing had lasted only a coupleof hours, so we dressed, packed up, got on our bikes, and cycled to Eric's house where he introduced me to his mother and father. Eric explained I was Captain of Lower School Football and we needed to discuss teams and matches for the rest of the season. Eric's mum and dad were great, really nice. They insisted I stay for lunch, then they made us rest for an hour before they allowed us into the swimming pool. Yes! They had their own swimming pool.

Around four in the afternoon, Eric's dad piled me, Eric and my bike into their People Mobile and drove me home. Eric charmed my mum, we shook hands, and he said he'd see me at school on Monday morning.

That night I went to bed sun-burned, knackered (exhausted) but intensely happy.

And the thought of using my brush handle didn't even cross my mind.

Eric introduced me to a world of sex I didn't know existed but I like to think we had a special relationship, and not only because of our fascination with arseholes. Of course, we couldn't have much contact in school: Eric was in the Sixth Form, I was in Year 8. Sixteen-year-olds did not hang out with twelve-year-olds, though my position as a school sports captain helped smooth the way. But our bike rides continued every now and again, as did my visits to his home where his parents welcomed and seemed to like me. Eric was amazingly believable as he spun stories why, for example, he needed to tutor me in Maths in his bedroom/study during a long, wet Sunday afternoon. Even I started believing him!

But I don't want to start recounting some of our encounters of the dirty kind in Eric's bedroom, or in en suite bathroom when the shit hit the fan almost literally. Nope, I want to tell you how I discovered that my little brother - sweet, cute, innocent Noah - started to take an interest in sex. It's quite a story.

Blame it on 'The Exorcist' - I mean the book, not the movie.

It happened during the Christmas holidays after the 'Summer of Eric'. We were on a skiing holiday in Switzerland. Mum's newest boyfriend had money, a lot of it, and he took the three of us to a place called Crans-Montana, somewhere in the Swiss Alps. We'd never been out of England before, so you can imagine how thrilled Noah and me were. We got popped into a boys' boarding chalet - the boyfriend arranged that - and we had skiing lessons every morning and afternoon.

We had a skiing instructor called Jack D., everybody called him JD. He came from California every winter. He was incredibly popular amongst the 12 boys in the 'Ski House' - and he desrved to be. Not only good-looking but kind, considerate, generous, fun, patient, etc. etc. Jack took an interest in me and Noah! I think he did that 'cos we didn't see much of mum and her BF - nobody did. They seemed to spend most of the time in their 'exclusive' chalet. I guessed they were fucking most of the day; they both looked knackered at dinner time. Don't get me wrong. I loved mum like crazy, and I accepted she had a life of her own. Must admit I sometimes wondered if the BF took her up the arse - but I never jacked off thinking about that, honest I didn't.

Me, I took to skiing like Eric to my asshole; Noah spent most of the time on his cute backside; but it was me who crashed out. On my sixth session - disaster. I swear a tree ambushed me. The bastard stepped into my path as I flew down the piste far too fast. I got hurt, not too bad, but bad enough. My tibia (shinbone) had a hairline fracture. I really didn't understand the medical gibberish I heard but I did understand a few days in bed was mandatory with as little movement as possible. At least the fabulous view from the window was.... borrring. And everyone, including Noah, was gone by nine o'clock. That was the bad news. Where was the good news?

It was JD!

I got JD who told me, in what I took for a Californian drawl, that he was 'to do' for me during lunchtime. He did a lot more than that. He gave up his free-time from the slopes to come in and keep me company - chatting, teaching me backgammon, cards, and generally just being there. Then I discovered the bonus - JD had to give me body washes! And even more than that he had to help me on my bedpan, then dispose of my body waste (piss and shit). These guys really earned their Swiss francs. He told me not to be embarrassed; I said okay, and could hardly wait to feel his hand, fingers and sponge on my body. I had a laugh to myself what Eric might do with a panful of my hot, steaming shit. Just remember what he did with the gobstopper.

Body washes I looked forward to, after I got over my initial shyness. What adolescent boy doesn't worry about his body compared to that of the real thing?

JD would strip off my pyjamas, top and bottoms, and cover me with a single sheet. Then with a cloth and warm soapy water, he'd wash me all over. Of course, I got erections. I was nearly thirteen! But JD ignored them and after a while so did I.

I usually pretended to read a book. I was still too shy to watch his hand as it circled over my neck, my shoulders, my chest, my stomach, my legs, my knees, my feet. Then he'd wash my pubic hair. It really was beginning to grow. If I'd been able to keep my cock down before he did my pubes, I certainly couldn't when he reached them with his wet, warm cloth and hand. Up would spring my five inches of creamy, pink flesh with the head peeking out of the foreskin. I'd bury my nose deeper in my book and pretend I didn't notice my prick bouncing against my belly, and JD's fingers.

Blame it on 'The Exorcist'.

I'd reached the part where the young girl starts fucking herself with a crucifix. I'm not a Christian, but that really turned me on. My prick was as stiff as a poker, and for the first time I let out a couple of moans. I couldn't stop re-reading the passage, and, of course, I started imagining fucking Eric up the ass with the crucifix. It was at that moment I realised I was going to Hell. I felt warm fingers close around my prick. For a moment I thought JD was only going to wash it. I felt his fingers gently jerking the shaft. A moment of panic, but only a moment. I lay back, closed the book and my eyes, and opened my legs.

JD accepted the invitation.

He nursed, caressed and stroked my hard-on with one hand while the other fondled my balls. Bliss! I wondered if he'd masturbate me to orgasm, and if he did, what would he do with my cum. He had plenty of soapy water and a hand towel, so that didn't worry me much. What I liked was the care and attention he gave my prick. I'd started wanking when I was eleven, but the routine had got pretty boring. A quick jerk-off didn't really satisfy anymore. Now, here was a good-looking guy taking a loving interest in my prick. It felt like I was having a doctor's minute examination of my male organ of reproduction. No vein was left untraced, no hair unkissed.

I jumped, as much as a cripple can jump, when his mouth closed over me. JD meant more than quick toss. This was serious business. In my mind I began to do things that made the bitch in 'The Exorcist' look like a novice. JD was bobbing up and down on my cock, his mouth like a wet furnace. He was squeezing my balls, gently but to great effect.

"My asshole, my asshole," I whispered in my pathetic version of his Californian drawl.

JD obliged. Finger-fucking me in time with his bobbing on my cock, his fingers working the shaft. It wouldn't be long before my head was spinning through 360 degrees!

Did he want me to cum in his mouth? He gave no signal, so I warned him, "I'm cumming, JD." He sucked me harder, faster in short strokes while he finger-fucked me faster and deeper. My cock spat cum into his mouth as my ass jumped off the bed. I hadn't tossed myself off since the crash, and my body was making up for it now. My belly rumbled; I farted. I'd have happily accepted another broken leg at that moment as I squirted myself into JD's mouth.

The door burst open.

It was Noah.

He was still wearing his ski goggles.

"What the fu....!" he began. "What you doing to my brother?"

"Get the fuck out of here, Noah!" I yelled at him.

The little fucker turned, half fell out the door, slammed it behind him.

For a moment I prayed he hadn't seen what was going on because of the goggles.

Fat fucking chance.

I looked up at JD. I expected to see him in panic. He was laughing.

"What the fuck are you laughing at?" I yelled. My shyness had gone.

JD put on his serious face, the one he used when he was telling you not to take risks on the piste, the look I'd ignored.

"Sorry, Dylan," he said. "But you'll sort it out with Noah. He's your little brother. In case you hadn't noticed it, he worships the ground you walk on - or at least the ground you'll be able to walk on in a couple of weeks."

I couldn't help laughing, too.

Then I put on my serious face.

"JD. There's something I have to tell you."

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"I need to take a shit. It feels like a big one. Could you lift me up, please?"

"'Course I can," he said, stepping towards me.

"And, JD," I added.

"I'm still as horny as fuck."

Eric had taught me a lot in six months.

When Noah came in around 3 in the afternoon, I was ready for him to ask a thousand questions. He didn't ask one. What he wanted to tell me was how great the slopes had been, and he had landed on his backside only a couple of times. "And JD said I was a natural," he glowed. A few minutes later, he disappeared into the Games Room where the boarding boys congregated after every skiing session. I reached for 'The Exorcist', flicked open to page 125, and got on with the bitch's battle with Satan wondering into which orifice she'd plunge the crucifix next. I also sighed with relief. The sigh came too soon. The bombshell came just before dinner.

About half past five the door opened again. Noah strode in and threw himself on his bed. He lay on his back, turned his face to me, and beamed, triumphantly, "I had sex with JD, too."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"This afternoon. I didn't go to the Games Room. I found JD. I told him I'd sprained my wrist. That was a fib. JD knew it. He didn't even look at my wrist. He just asked, 'Well, how can I help?'....."

I interrupted Noah.

"Okay, okay. Tell me what happened."

"Well, I told him I didn't want use the showers downstairs, cos I was a bit shy. Could I use the bath in the clinic, so nobody could see me? And could he wash my back cos it wasn't easy with a sprained wrist. He just said, 'Meet me there in five minutes."

"So?"

"So I went there and started running the bath. Isn't it huge? You could swim in it, I bet. Anyway, I got all of my clothes off, I mean all of them, so when he got there I was standing there starkers. He couldn't tell me to put anything on, could he? Cos there was nothing there to out on. And anyway I'm only 10."

I laid 'The Exorcist' down and turned my full attention to this... this... spawn of Satan."

"Well, we stood there chatting about how well I'd done on the piste. The bath filled, I climbed in, and nearly disappeared under a mountain of soap bubbles. JD squatted at the side of the bath, took a soap bar, and started rubbing it all over my body. I'd already stuck the big sponge down the toilet. It was the best feeeling ever. I could feel his fingers on my neck, my chest, my tummy; he even did my pits.

"'Stand up and I'll wash off the soap.'"

"I stood up. Dylan, my dick was sticking straight out from my body. Not up towards my tummy, straight out. It looked really big. I know it's only four inches but, wow, it looked much bigger sticking straight out. Then he took the shower head and sprayed all the soap off me."

Noah paused for a second, gave me a look as if he was making up his mind, then whispered:

"JD said 'Let's make sure your clean', and he went on one knee, pulled me towards him, and took my penis right in his mouth. Honest, Dylan, I swear to God, JD gave me a blow-job."

I was like a startled rabbit in the headlights.

Where the fuck did my little brother learn words like that? Next he'll be telling me JD 'rimmed' him.

"Yeh," said Noah. "JD gave me a blow job. I bet it was as good as yours yesterday."

"Listen, you little fucker," I said. "You better not talk about this anybody. You could get JD into serious trouble. You have to keep your trap shut."

"Gimmee a break," said Noah. "I'm not stupid. You can't give blow jobs to little kids. They've got be in secondary school first. Anyway, JD sucked me off..." Where the fuck was he learning this language? What the fuck's going on in junior schools nowadays? "...because he knows I was jealous of you. He just wanted to make us equal, that's all. You know what Mum always says: 'If one of you get something, the other one's got to get it, too.'"

I couldn't help laughing.

Noah relaxed and gave me his biggest smile.

"Hey, Dylan, would you like a blow job? I bet I could suck you off as good as JD."

'The Exorcist' hit him right in the chest.

What the fuck are the younger generation coming to?

As soon as I typed that, I started laughing. I was one of the 'younger generation' and, like I said, Mr. C. and Eric took me through doors I didn't know existed. Eric, in particular, introduced me to boys I'd never have guessed shared our interests, at least some extent. I'm not going write an account of all of them, not even of most of them, but there are a couple I'd like to record to remind myself of the journey I was on.

It was near the end of Year 8, I'd just hit my 13th birthday, and it happened after the final cricket match of the year. Not that I played cricket; I hated it. But Eric was the Sixth Form's star bowler, batsman and captain, and he talked me into becoming the side's official scorer. That meant I could sit back on a deck chair and record the score as it ticked along. Of course it also gave me the chance to watch Eric in action. You should have seen his arse as he ran into bowl, buttocks churning away as I was twisting a Coke bottle up his rectum. Sorry, I digress. (We learned the expression in English and I'm a natural digressor.)

After the final match - We won by 31 runs. Eric took 5 wickets and hit a half century. - most guys hurried away to get ready for Saturday night. I accepted I couldn't go with Eric - He was 17, I was 13. - not possible. At least he said we'd go for a ride on Sunday, but there's a favour he wanted me to for him, and added mysteriously it was more of a favour for me. No idea what it could be, but if Eric was asking, I was doing. A couple of the side were staying to have a shower at the Sports Pavilion. Could I stay and get the key from them when they were finished?

I was about to enter the shower room when I heard a couple of voices. The shower room is a bit of a boom room, easy to hear conversations if the showers weren't on, and they weren't.

"They fucked that kid - Ross what's-his-name? - out at Blean Pond after school yesterday."

I froze at the name 'Blean Pond'.

"They didn't."

"They bloody well did."

"What the fuck happened?"

"Two of them in Year 11 asked him to go for a bike ride, and the silly little fucker went with them."

"Shit. He's only in Year 7. Cute though. Would you fuck him?"

"Naw not me. Too much like a girl. Those eyes. Looks like a bushbaby. That hair. Those lips."

"Methinks you protest too much."

"Don't use that Shakespeare on me, just cos you're going to Uni. Well, I guess I wouldn't mind those lips round my cock. Your dick up his sweet arse, mine down his cute throat. Anyway, he was stupid. If you're 11-years-old, you don't go with those sex-crazed 15-year-olds in Year 11. I reckon he knew what he was doing."

"You're a fucking homo."

"You're a queer."

"You're a poof."

"You're a shirt-lifter."

I recognised the voices of the opening batsman of the school's senior cricket team. I banged the door to let them know someone was there, then stepped into the shower room.

"What the....?"

"It's okay," interrupted the other. "It's Dylan. He's cool."

The homo and the poof were Paul and Lendon, a couple of Eric's best mates, though I'd no idea they batted for the same side as him - correction us. The shirt-lifter - me - had arrived. They were standing under a shower head, naked, waiting for.....

"Come on, Dylan," said Lendon. "Eric said you might be up for some. If you are, get out of your kit. If you're not, get the fuck out of here." He said it with a friendly laugh, Paul joined in. I didn't have much choice, so I started laughing and stripping off.

"Jesus, you've got a big one," said Lendon.

"Must be the Son of Eric," said Paul.

We started laughing again. I threw my clothes onto a bench and stepped into the shower area. Paul wrapped an arm round my waist. Lendon reached for a knob (a shower knob) and twisted on the water. A cascade of cold, cool, lukewarm, warm, fairly hot water hit us.

"What were we talking about? Remind me," said Paul.

"Fucking kids," said Lendon.

"Oh, so were," said Paul. "Let's soap this down first." Lendon passed him bar of Wright's coal tar soap. Paul started soaping my back. Lendon dropped to his knees, took my cock, which was already stiffening, looked up, said, "Waste not, want not," and slid it into his mouth. Paul didn't stay long on my back. He dropped to his knees, opened my buttocks and began licking the valley between the cheeks. He paused for a moment and called up to me, "This is the Sixth Form's way of saying thanks for keeping the scores all season." He returned to my arse, this time drawing the soap back and forwards against my pucker, then easing a finger up my hole as far as he could, calling, "Wiggle, wiggle!"

Honest, I thought I was going to be sick laughing, but it was all I could so staying erect (on my feet) while Lendon sucked me off and Paul finger-fucked me. It took me a couple of minutes to work out they were both finger-fucking me. I thought Paul had jammed two fingers up my jacksie until I realised only one of them belonged to Paul.

I felt the familiar and irresistible pressure grow in me. I expected it to be over in a couple of minutes and was, to say the least, when both boys stood up. They read the expression on my face. Paul laughed. "Hey, that's only starters, you know, and we are here for a shower - first."

"You know half of the Sixth Form are in love with you, don't you, Dylan?" Again he surprised me by using my Christian name. "Yeh, half of us are in love with you, and the other half just want to fuck your brains out." I had to laugh along with them. "But you don't have to worry, everyone knows Mr. C.'s got the hots for you, and nobody's going to risk offending him."

Lendon took up the thread of the conversation. "Don't forget Eric. Anyone messes around with Dylan is gonna get royally fucked by Eric - and not just up the arse. Eric doesn't take just any kid to Blean Pond."

"He took you," laughed Paul. I looked at Paul and my heart skipped a beat.

It was true; he was the best-looking boy in the school. There was nothing girlish about Paul, but his golden hair, symmetrical features, high cheekbones, big hazel eyes, and ready smile turned heads all around the school, including those of half a dozen teachers. Yet there was nothing boastful or arrogant about Paul; he simply laughed and got on with life. Rumour had it he was a born again Christian who read a bit out of the Bible every night. If Elwyn had an elder angelic brother it was Paul.

I dropped to my knees, wrapped an arm around each both, and pulled them towards then. Then taking their cocks in my fingers, I kissed them, licked them, sucked them, made love to them until it was turn for their legs to tremble. And like them, I stopped when I thought they were on the very edge, and stood up, grinning, "That's only for starters."

We spent the next few minutes under the showers, getting rid of every last soapy bubble, stepped out of the shower area, and toweled ourselves off. All three of us had hard-ons, mine was the biggest; I'm only saying that for the record, not because I'm boasting.

I looked at them and smiled.

"Have you two ever fucked a kid at the same time?" I inquired.

They shook their heads.

"Well, now's your chance." I paused, then added, "And I don't mean one in the mouth and one in the arse. I mean both of you in my arse, at the same time. Just pretend you're Eric." Looking back, I think the last remark was a bit cruel. They looked at each other, nodded and looked at me, like a couple of ferrets weighing up a rabbit. Some ferrets; some rabbit.

That's what we did. And it wasn't easy, but we managed. Paul on his back. Me sitting down on his cock. Lendon shoving his cock up my hole from behind. My hairbrush handle and Eric had made it easier for me, but not easy. It hurt like hell for a while, but I was able to look down into Paul's big hazel eyes and that took most of the pain away. Actually, I think what they found most erotic was their cocks rubbing against each other rather than being up me. That's probably why they came at the same time, while, a minute later, I had to get their cocks out of my arse, and wriggle up Paul's body so he could suck me to a climax. Then they proceeded to kiss me and share the cum in a three-way snog.

They were less than happy their cocks were covered with shit, but that was not my fault. I'd scored their cricket match for nearly five hours without a toilet break. What did they expect? I'm only human after all. A quick five minutes in the shower for the three of us, and we were squeaky clean again - or was that my arse squeaking?

We walked to our homes. Lendon turning left after about half a mile. Paul was with me for another five minutes or so, then he turned left, I turned right. But as we said 'Bye bye', he took me, held me, and kissed me on the mouth, right there in the street.

School finished for the summer. I never saw Paul again. But I remember that face, that kiss - and the favour that Eric did for me.

Hey!

Before I tell you anymore, can I just say something?

I loved sex, I still do, but it wasn't the only thing in my life. I mean I didn't wake up every morning with a hard-on (usually I did) thinking whose arsehole can I kiss today, or will I get the chance to watch someone taking a shit, or would I really let someone shit on me, or in my mouth? I loved football, and the woodwork and metalwork lessons at school. Most of all I loved gardening.

Remember I told you I used to do gardening jobs for the neighbours?

Well, at the start of Year 9, when I was 13, Troy and I started our own gardening business. Troy lived three doors away from us, he was in my tutor group at school, and in some of my classes. He was a 'brainbox' - but not a nerd - and he was in the grammar stream. It turned out Troy loved gardening, too, and one day he said: "Why don't we start a gardening business? Charge the neighbours, and anybody else for the gardening jobs we do." It seemed such an obvious idea, that's probably why I didn't think of it. So we printed some 'business cards' in school and stuck them through letter boxes in the area. We were amazed at the number of calls we got. In the end, our mums said: "Get those phone numbers off those cards." They were fed up of guys phoning up asking if they wanted their bushes trimmed. (That's not true, I made it up.) But we had plenty of clients (Troy's word) anyways, so that was fine.

We only worked on Sundays and three days a week after school. We didn't work from November to February (end of) because that time was for my sex business (not true, made up). And I never fucked Troy during working hours - definitely not true! Troy didn't seem interested in sex with anyone; when I made jokes about wanking and such, he just frowned and looked at me as if I'd crawled out from under a rock. No sex jokes then because you shouldn't mix business and pleasure (probably true).

I'm just telling you this so you don't get the impression: this kid loves for nothing but sex. I did. But I lived for other things, too. And I'm not writing about every sex adventure I had. That would take too long, become boring for me as well as for you, and I've forgotten a lot of them. So it's mainly the important ones you're getting - well, important to me anyway.

It's amazing how naive parents can be?

I knew the first time I met Dan that he liked boys that way. Dan was my mum's latest BF. I can understand why she took up with him. He was good-looking, had a good job, a good car, and, as mum said, "Dan has a way with kids." So I wasn't surprised when he moved in. It was the looks he gave me and Noah, like the cat that's at the cream when it thinks no one is looking. Sometimes I caught him almost licking his whiskers, not that he had any. Dan was always well-groomed and freshly shaven, or maybe he didn't have to shave much at all. I used to stand in front of the mirror gazing at my face and wondering when I could start shaving. Hair down there, yes, wisps under my armpits, yes, but, apart from a bit of downy fluff on my upper lip, nothing.

Dan bided his time. It wasn't till he'd been with us six weeks that he offered to 'baby sit' us. Alarm bells should have rung in mum's brain, but, being a female type creature, she jumped at the chance for a 'night out with the girls'. It was obvious to me Dan fancied a night in with the boys. Not that I minded too much. I knew how to say 'no thank you' if that's what I wanted to say.

"Bye, Bye, Mum. Have good time."

"Bye, boys." Kiss, kiss. "Be good. Do what Dan tells you. Don't give him a hard time."

Tell that to Noah.

No sooner was mum out the door than Noah dived on Dan, and they started fun-wrestling on the carpet. It was strictly no contest, so I dived in, too. I was still slim/skinny but I was a wiry fucker, and Dan had a job pinning both of us down. His aim was to pin us down, our aim was to haul his sweat pants down. He was tickling us, we were rolling round the carpet laughing. I could feel his hands all over me. Noah got the front of his sweat pants and yanked them to Dan's knees. No underpants! Thick, dark pubic hair. A big floppy cock. Balls in a floppy sack.

"We won! We won!" yelled Noah.

Dan heaved us off, jerked up his pants, and laughed along with us.

"Okay, you won that round, but just wait till the next one. Now let's settle down and watch the movie. Where's that tape?"

I looked around for the tape. Noah disappeared upstairs. I shoved the tape in. Dan and I hauled over the couch so we could all sit in front of the TV and watch the movie together.

"Noah! Movie's starting!"

Noah came waddling down the stairs and into the living room, his boxers at his ankles, his t-shirt pulled down over his crotch. He giggled, jerked up his t-shirt, and revealed - a full-blown hard-on! A good four inches sticking straight up. A little nest of black pubes. He turned round, bent over, yanked his cheeks apart, and farted!

"I've won! I've won!" he yelled.

Dan and I fell about laughing.

"Are you going to watch the movie like that?" asked Dan. "Showing all your naughty bits?"

Noah jerked his boxers up and sat with us on the couch. Dan lowered the lights. I hit the 'On' button. The tele flashed into life. The titles rolled onto the screen, and away we were. Terminator II. A great movie, except I'd seen it about half a dozen times. This was Noah's first time; he was glued to the screen. I was a bit bored and my tibia was aching; it sometimes did that, though it never gave me any problem on the football field. Dan looked a bit bored, too, though now and again he made enthusiastic comments for Noah's sake.

Our coach was huge. I nipped upstairs, stripped, put on a shirt and boxers, grabbed my favourite duvet cover, nipped back downstairs, and whispered, "My shin," to Dan, then stretched myself out on the couch. Noah didn't do as much as glance my way, even when I budged along the couch to the left, plonked a cushion on his lap, my legs across Dan's lap, feet on the other end of the couch, and the duvet cover draped over me. You've got to believe me: I only wanted my shin massaged, nothing more, nothing less. I know you don't believe me, but it's true.

Dan started squeezing my calf muscle gently, at the same time stroking my shin. After a few minutes my muscle relaxed, the ache ebbed away. I sighed. "Do you want me to stop?" whispered Dan. "No, go on," I whispered back. "Shut up," whispered Noah. My cock was at half mast; that's only natural when any part of you gets stroked, isn't it? I tried to say something else...

"Shut up," said Noah, loud and clear, grabbing his cushion, diving onto the carpet, and stretching out to watch the movie in peace and quiet. Peace and quiet in Terminator II? I don't think so. Canons to the left, canons to the right, Dan could have fucked me there and then, and Noah wouldn't have paid the slightest attention.

To make myself even more comfortable, I pulled up my right leg, and felt Dan's hand slide up between my legs till he reached the bottom of my butt. I could have stopped him there but I was curious to see what happened next. Anyway, what could he do with Noah lying right in front of us? I said nothing. I eased my legs apart a little more, not quite sure why, but knowing instinctively this would appeal to Dan. The squeezing began again; this time the lower part of my buttocks got the treatment. My cock gave little jumps and stiffened to its full length.

The hand stroked my buttocks, slid higher under my T-shirt. The feeling of Dan's cool fingers on my naked flesh made me hold my breath. Then the fingers sneaked their way under the elastic of my boxers until the hand was flat against my naked arse. It was now or never. I could make a vague muffled protest and the hand would slide away. Or I could do nothing, and let what happened happen. I did nothing.

The fingers slid into my crack. My face was glowing , but no one could see it in the half light of the darkened room. I felt Dan's fingers exploring my crack, though he steered clear of my bum hole. His finger tips stroked the bottom of my scrotum, and I hunched up a little to give him easier access. He gently manipulated my balls, his fingers managed to reach the base of my shaft. My hard cock strained against my belly. His fingers edged my foreskin back, and he began working the skin up and down my shaft. My balls tightened in their sac, I could feel my heartbeat in my asshole, which, I guess, is impossible.

Under the duvet, Dan worked my boxers down to my knees. His fingers worked over my crotch, my genitals, and the flesh between my thighs. I lay there watching Edward Furlong on the back of Arnie's motorcycle. I wondered what it would be like to be fucked by a Terminator. I wondered what it would be like to fuck Edward Furlong. Hasta la vista, baby!

Dan shifted his position. His fingers raised the duvet, and I suddenly felt his hot breath on my stomach. I panicked. I reached down and gripped his hair, holding his head away from me. I wasn't scared at the prospect of his mouth around my cock; that seemed a natural progression. I was scared Noah might turn around and see our 'baby sitter' sucking me off! Generally, we brothers kept each other's secrets, but that would have been stretching loyalty a bit far. And, knowing Noah, he'd probably insist on joining in - when the movie was over. I know I might disappoint some of you, but I've never had sexual feelings for my brother - not the slightest - in fact even the idea makes me puke.

Dan returned to stroking my cock. The waves of pleasure built to an intensity that couldn't last. I held back the whimpers and moans in my throat. I began to shove hard against Dan's fingers and hand; in fact, I was fucking his hand, then my crotch, thighs and hips bucked, and little jets of hot liquid spurted from my cock. Where my cum was going, I didn't give a fuck. You don't at the point of no return, do you? That was Dan's job. He started it; he could clean up the mess.

When I got my breath back, I yanked up my boxers, slid from under the duvet and nipped upstairs to take a quick shower - the smell of cum lingers. I returned to the lounge wrapped in a huge fresh bath towel and settled down to watch the rest of the movie - to watch Edward Furlong if the truth be told. At the end of the movie, Dan ushered Noah upstairs amid the usual protests and saw him into bed. Then he came downstairs again.

I was a bit tired and had turned over on my side. I heard Dan come in and kneel by the side of the couch. He half-tried to turn me over, but I resisted, and he seemed to give up whatever he had in mind. He edged down the bath towel until it was bunched at my ankles. My bare ass presented itself to him. He began to rub and stroke. How did he know that's the one thing I can't resist? I felt him part the crack in my buttocks, I felt his tongue slide up the inside of my thighs. The tip poked at my bum hole. I couldn't believe it. Here was my mum's new BF, a man who had 'a way with kids' licking my asshole. Shit, my cock was hard again.

"Turn over, please, Dylan."

I turned over, put my head on the cushion, closed my eyes. The bath towel was gone.

He started kissing me. Light kisses, nothing serious. First my forehead, then my cheeks, then my lips, just brushing them. My chest, my nipples, my tummy button. I was a little embarrassed when his lips pulled at my pubic hair. His lips brushed the bottom of my shaft, so that it leaned against his cheek. A finger insinuated itself between my legs, found my crack, and stroked the lips of my ring. Every now and then, Dan would whisper nice things, sweet things, things intended to reassure me.

I relaxed and let his finger slip inside me. His mouth, hot and wet, took in my penis and began to slide up and down my erection. I reached out with my hand and discovered Dan was naked! I couldn't resist the urge to explore. His cock was big, very big, and he was hairy, very hairy. I stretched my fingers around his hard-on. I could feel it throbbing as if it had a beating heart of its own. I began to work the skin up and down the shaft. It was hard to concentrate because Dan was sucking my cock hard, while his finger did things inside of me I can't even begin to describe. I had to push his fingers away from my cock; it was too much. Dan pressed his cock against my lips; I opened wide; he started wanking into my mouth. I had a flashback to the guy in the bus station toilets - that seemed so long ago and far away.

He came. He pressed the head of his cock against the back of my throat. I gagged. He held my head in place. I could feel his cum hitting the wiggly thing at the back of my throat. I was gagging, choking... but he held me there until he'd emptied his balls into me.

Dan made three mistakes. That was the first. Holding me down, I mean. I would have held still if he'd asked me. He didn't ask me. That's not right, but it wasn't a fatal mistake. Neither was the second, though it was pretty close.

"I can't wait to fuck your pretty little arse," he told me as we were tidying up. "I bet you're a better fuck that your mum, and she doesn't even like it up the arse. I bet you do." I said nothing. I just salted what he said away. It probably would've been a fatal mistake but I didn't have to wait to find out.

It was midnight, exactly. I know it was. I saw the time glowing on my digital alarm clock. I hadn't been able to sleep. I'd been thinking things over. Dan was a nice guy, apparently. He liked boys; I wasn't too sure about that, but he was my mum's boyfriend, she trusted him. He took stupid risks, having sex with me with Noah only a couple of feet away. He'd held my face; maybe he'd just got over-excited. He was going to try and take me in the arse; so what? But he was taking mum in the arse, and she didn't like it - that was a big deal. Maybe none of them would've been fatal; his third mistake was.

Midnight. I got up to take a piss. I had to pass Noah's bedroom door. Our bedrooms were upstairs. Mum's was downstairs. I heard whispering. I froze. I stood outside the door, my ear almost against the door.

"Come on, Noah, it'll hurt at first, then you'll like it. You'll be my special boy."

That was Dan.

"Fuck off. Leave me alone."

That was Noah, and I could hear the tremble in his voice.

"Come on, baby. Turn over. Bite the pillow. It'll be our secret."

"Leave me alone. Please, please."

I could hear the tears in Noah's voice.

I didn't wait. I turned the handle. Kicked the door open. Snapped on the light. Saw...

Noah on his back, his pyjama bottoms at his knees. Dan standing over him, his pyjama bottoms at his ankles, his big, fat cock standing in the air.

"Dylan..." began Dan. "I can explain..."

"Noah. Get to my bedroom. Get to my bed. Get to sleep."

Noah scampered off his bed, pulled his jammies half up, tripped and stumbled out of the room.

"Now look here..." whispered Dan.

"No, you look here," I said out loud. "If you're here in the morning, I'm telling mum everything. I'll say you tried to rape me. Noah'll say that, too. Just get the fuck out of our house. Don't come back."

"Listen, Dylan, we can talk..."

I turned and slammed the door behind me as loud as I could.

I got into bed with Noah. I pulled him to me. I took his thumb out of his mouth.

"Dylan..." he said.

"Yeh, sweetie," I said. That's the first and last time I ever called my brother 'sweetie'.

"Dylan... I don't like men. I like girls."

"I know that, honey," I said. Another first and last.

"Go to sleep I said. In the morning he'll be gone."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

In the morning Dan was gone. Everything was gone. How he didn't wake mum up, I don't know, and frankly I don't care. He was gone, and he never came back. In fact, we never heard from him again.

Of course Mum was mystified. Noah and I just shrugged our shoulders. Mum was miserable for a few days, then I heard her say under her breath, "good riddance to bad rubbish." She started to sing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'. Weirdly enough, that's the song she always sang when she was in a really good mood.

Two weeks later she said: "Boys, I've got an announcement to make. I've made a new friend. He's a man. And this time I think he really is the man for me."

Noah and I looked at each other, then chimed almost in harmony:

"Aw, for God's sake, Mum."

"Boys!"

As the Beatles' song goes, "It's getting very near the end."

Like I said, my years at school were great. I found lots of sex, and lots of boys I liked, and who liked me. I was sad for a while when Mr. C. and Eric left. They were special friends to me. But I never loved them. I'm not sure boys in their early teens can love people outside their family. Until I met Robert, and, like most of the good things in life, that was luck.

Remember I said I was good at football. Maybe I was a bit more than that 'cos I'd been in my school sides and district sides all the way through, and now I'd been selected for the County side, made up of Under-17s. I was really lucky to get a place because I'd just turned 16 at the start of Sixth Form. Being in the County side meant going to Soccer Camp for a long weekend once a month. I was nervous when I got there, except when I was actually playing. Then the only thing mattered was sticking the ball in the back of the net, and that was never a problem for me. I hardly ever scored spectacular goals from far out, and I couldn't head the ball against a barn door if I was standing next to it. But over 10 yards nobody was going to catch me. I was a poacher, pure and simple as that, but poachers have to play inside the rules of the game like everyone else. I'd stand on the shoulder of the last man, alert for the through ball, turn like a rabbit being chased by a fox, cover a couple of yards like a whippet, and pass the ball into the far corner of the net. Nothing fancy, no frills, just stick it in. Defenders hated me.

"Just tell me where you want me to stick it."

That's the first thing that Robert L. said to me. Honest, it is.

When we arrived at camp, we were paired up and given a room to share. I got Robert; he got me. Robert arrived late, just in time for the first selection session. I was so nervous I didn't notice him until I heard his voice behind me - "Just tell me where you want to stick it." I was playing up front, Robert was in midfield. We had a couple of minutes before kick-off.

"You're Dylan right?"

I nodded.

"Your the little fucker who keeps scoring all those goals, aren't you?"

I nodded.

"Well, now you're scoring for us. I set up the chances. You take them. Deal?"

"Deal?"

Big smile. Warm handshake. Instant like.

I'd heard of Robert L., but I'd never played with him or against him. That's because he'd played in the next county until his family moved in August. He wasn't coming to our school. He was at one of the local grammar schools, so he had to be really bright.

The whistle went. The match was on. Only one thing mattered: sticking the fucking ball in the fucking net. I managed that four times. Three of the goals were set up Robert. I scored the fourth when I tried to head a cross. The ball hit me full in the face, knocked me on my arse, and flew in the back of the net. Our coach shook his head sadly. "Nice one, Dylan!" shouted Robert, who could hardly shout for laughing. I could have been annoyed, but I saw the funny side as well. At the end of the session, the Coach came up to me and said: "You're in for Sunday morning. Don't waste your time trying to head a ball. Jimmy Greaves couldn't do that either." My face was on fire. Coach had just compared me to Jimmy Greaves - England's greatest-ever goal scorer.

Robert strolled over to me - actually Robert had strolled through the whole match. I didn't ask if he'd made the match on Sunday; you didn't have to. He put his arm round my shoulder. "It's true what they say about you."

"What's that?"

"You can't play football for fuck, but you sure can stick it where it counts. Come on. We're sharing a room. Last one under the shower's a homo." My heart sank a little when he made that last remark. I shrugged my shoulders and trotted after him. I didn't care if I was last; I knew I was a homo; but I only pick up speed when I have to. I slowed my trot to a stroll and watched Robert's gorgeous arse race ahead of me.

By the time I got to our room - like all the others it had its own shower cubicle - Robert was stripped and waiting.

"Hurry up, homo," he said. "We're only allowed ten minutes hot water, so we have to share. Get the kit off."

Robert must have seen the look on my face as I stripped.

"Hey," he said. "Don't take it like that. You're not the one here who's a homo. I am. Homo. Poof. Queer. Nancy boy. But don't worry. I'm not going to pounce on you when you're asleep. I'm going to wake you up first."

I took a deep breath and said, "Robert, ..... "

"It's Rob to you. My friends call me 'Rob'."

"Rob," I said, "I'm a homo, too."

A huge grin spread across his face.

"Ace. Fucking Ace. ... Now let's get under the shower. ... Wait a minute."

"What?"

"Fuck it, Dylan, your dick's bigger than mine. What is it - 7, 8 inches?"

"Yeh, but your nuts are like tennis balls. I've only got ping pongers."

"True. Right, let's get under the shower. We'll compare later."

Ten minutes of really hot water. Then we towelled each other off. Wrapped our towels round us and sat on Robert's, sorry Rob's bed. Rob stood up, flicked on the radio - David Bowie - searched in his hold-all, pulled out a tin and extracted what looked like an over-grown cigarette. I raised my hand. "I don't smoke," I said. "Neither do I," he said, adding, "These are fags for fags." I didn't get the joke then; I get it now. He lit the ciggy, drew deeply on it and held the smoke in. "It's called a joint. Try it."

I took a deep draw. Something hit my chest and lungs. I tried to cough up what was left of my lungs. My eyes watered.

"Don't take such deep draws - amateur," Rob smiled, taking the joint from me. Another draw and he passed it back to me. This time I didn't draw so deeply, and, following instructions, held the smoke in my lungs. I coughed, not nearly so much. I started to feel light-headed, incredibly relaxed, like I was melting, and took another puff. "Hey," said Rob, "Share, share, fair, fair." I grinned like an idiot, passed the joint, but kept my hand out for my next turn. Two more draws and I lay back on the bed, my head full of fluffy clouds.

Under my damp towel, my cock was thick, semi-tumescent. I felt Rob's fingers. "Go on," I managed, adding, "Please." I raised my arse an inch and he tugged the towel away. His fingers raised me up, his mouth took me in. He sucked long and slow, his lips kissing their way up to the head, then swallowing me till those lips pressed against my thick pubic hair. Fingers ran the length of my body, tracing the shape of my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my nipples, my belly, my hips. I felt I was being sculpted. My erection was stiff and hard. The pressure rose but Rob moved away from my penis to concentrate on another part of my body. He pushed my legs apart and kissed and licked under my balls along that place they call... I don't know what they call it - the place between my scrotum and my arse hole. That bit where you seem to be joined together. Is there a name for it? Back would come his lips and mouth and throat to my cock to take me in again and start the whole process over.

He stopped.

I sat up. He still knelt on the floor. I sat there watching Rob's dirty blond hair (long), his powerful shoulders (freckled), and his spine (curving into his towelled ass) while my thighs trembled, my hard-on throbbed. I was puzzled. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Nothing's wrong," he said. I tried to form a question into my head. "I want you to fuck me," he said. "With this," he added, pulling my erection to his face to kiss it. "Would you? Will you?"

I stood up. Rob stood up. His towel fell to the floor. We stepped into each other's arms, chest to chest, belly to belly, hair to hair, stiff cocks pressing against each other. We kissed open-mouthed. Hysterically rather than romantically, as if we wanted to swallow, to devour each other. Rob lay face down on the narrow bed, his head on a pillow. I stood at the end of the bed, knelt - the bed was very low - pulled his legs wide part, then the cheeks of his arse, and slid my face into the valley. Blond hairs around his pucker, his starfish, the serrated entrance to the most intimate part of the male body. I slid the tip of my tongue along the tiny mouth, pulled back, spat on it, kissed it, sucked at it as much as I could. Used my thumbs to prise him open - reddish pink - I tried to suck it out with no idea what 'it' was. Retreated. Penetrated him with a finger - one, two, three, as he moaned and groaned above me. Five minutes, maybe ten. Pulled out my fingers. His hole gaped for a moment, then closed itself.

I stood up. Knelt on the bed between Rob's legs. I didn't have to ask. He reached back and, with fingers and thumbs, pulled himself open again, not gaping but enough. Enough for me to burrow the head of my cock in. I let myself fall forward thrust my cock into his bowels. I know it hurt; I heard him squeal. "Fuck, fuck..." That was Rob, not me. I fucked him hard and fast, almost desperately. I wanted to make him mine. My back arched, my head flew back, it was my turn to squeal. My cum shot deep inside him, again and again. The bed shook and shuddered below us. I fell the length of Rob's body; we were glued together by our own sweat. We lay there for a quarter of an hour, neither of us wanted to move.

When we finally moved, Rob looked at me sheepishly.

"We'd better dump this sheet," he said. "I've cum all over it." There was a huge stain to prove it. We both grinned. "Looks like the shower again," he added. It was my turn to look sheepish. "Rob, can I ask something?" He looked puzzled. "Well, I've got a thing about arseholes - and yours is beautiful." It was incredibly difficult to say it but I did it. "Is it okay if I suck my cum out of your asshole?"

For a moment I thought he was going to hit me.

"You, too?"

I nodded.

"Fucking hell, me too. Okay, here's the deal. You suck the cum out of me now. Tonight, before showers, I fuck you and suck my cum out of you."

"Deal," I grinned.

Rob got on the bed, lay flat on his back and hooked his legs over his shoulders. He eased the lips of his anus as far apart as he could, then grunted, "Go for it, babe."

I did.

And that night, before showers, he fucked me hard, then sucked his cum out of me. I don't know who was happier, me or Rob.

At bedtime we pushed the beds together and lay side by side, our heads sharing the pillows.

"I don't know either," said Rob. "I can't remember when I wasn't fascinated by arseholes. It's not easy to tell anyone this, but I love kissing them, licking them, sucking them..."

"...making love to them."

"That's it exactly," said Rob. "What about shit?" he added.

"What about shit?"

"You know - playing with it, shitting on someone, letting them shit on you. Some guys even eat it."

"No."

"Honest?"

"Yeh, honest. What about you?"

Rob seemed thoughtful for a moment.

"No. I used to think I might. I just wasn't sure. I mean I'd like to watch someone taking a shit, but I think that's because I want to see their hole in action. You?"

"Same here. I've seen guys taking a shit. It gets me incredibly hard and horny, but, when I look at the shit, I know that's not what's doing it. I love looking at an arsehole opening and closing, I love to see an anus gaping, buit the shit itself sickens me."

"Exactly the same here," said Rob. "It's such a relief to be able to talk about it - to someone who knows, someone who understands." He got up on one elbow, leaned down and kissed me. He lay back down.

"I've got a theory," I said.

"Tell," he said.

"Well, I used to have this fantasy about crawling up inside a guy's asshole, past his sphincters, up into his rectum, into his bowels, and then - you'll think I'm crazy - "

"I know you're fucking crazy. Go on."

"Well, when I was deep inside, all of me, I could become that person. I would still be me but I would be that person as well. But you'd have to love that person, I mean really love that person to want to do that."

"Fuck, Dylan, that's brilliant. Even if it isn't true - and I think it is - it's fucking brilliant."

"Now can we go to sleep?" I asked. "We've got early training tomorrow. Seven fucking a of the m."

"Yeh... but can I ask one more thing?"

"Go for it."

"Tomorrow morning, before we have a shower, can we watch each other shit, close up, very close up I mean?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I laughed. "Now let's hold each other till we fall asleep. Last one asleep is a homo."

We fell asleep in each other's arms, and we slept the dreamless sleep of two boys who have come home at last.

And that, as they say, is THE END.

Not quite.

Do you remember that night when I met Mr. Cameron in the pub? And I told him I was going to Sports College in September to train as a sports teacher? And he wished me well. And we hugged and said goodbye.

One thing I didn't tell him because it wouldn't have meant much to him was that I wasn't going alone. I didn't tell him I was going with Rob. And that we were still playing together - not for the county, but for the Youth Side of a Premiership team. Maybe he knew, Maybe he was waiting for me to say. But I didn't.

And where was Rob?

In the toilet - having a shit.

Well, that's what we do - boys like us.

LOL

Footnotes

Shere Hite commented in The Hite Report on Men and Male Sexuality (1981)

"What is startling is the increase in the number of boys who, as teenagers and older children, are having sexual experiences with other boys. Equally intriguing is the kind of sex boys are now having together. In the 1970's, the contact was mostly mutual masturbation, often without touching each other. Now, it seems much more common for boys to touch each other, masturbate the other boy, while 36 per cent of boys also perform fellatio together. Around 20 per cent have experienced anal penetration."

Nancy Friday commented in Men in Love, Men's Sexual Fantasies: The Triumph of Love Over Rage (1980)

"This is not to say that these men feel no guilt or anxiety today about their homosexual memories or fantasies; after all, they're now grown-up. and know what society thinks of such ideas. ... Some men spend their lives 'forgetting' early physical contact with their own sex. (Some men, of course, never had it.) The men (reporting to Friday) not only remember, but like to play around with fantasies (and memories) that release those boyhood energies again. ... They have the courage to face the dark mysteries and alternatives Eros offers us all. Why should our response be a kind of flight from freedom, an automatic labeling that slams the door on further thought."

We can all agree with Nancy Friday's conclusion: "Life is all about choices."