Kaleidoscope

KALEIDOSCOPE

There's a pile of photos lying on the couch. I'm putting them in an album. I'm sorting them out the way I've been sorting out my life. It's time to move on, so I'll organise the photos into some kind of order and then I'll put it away until I get the urge to recall the past - and some of those who have been special in my life. I think I'll give what I write a title and post it on Nifty, if they'll have it. It's got some scat in it, pretty graphic, because life is pretty graphic. Don't read it if it's not your kind of thing. Nobody gets hurt and nobody does anything he doesn't want to do - at least once. And I think I'll title it 'Kaleidoscope' because that's what it is. A kaleidoscope of images falling more or less at random but brought together by my experience of them.

Are the events true? Is fiction true? Is fantasy true? Or are they true in a different kind of way from what we generally accept as 'true'? For the record, not a single word of this tale is true. None of it happened. It's all a product of my perverted imgination. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Here is something that is true: Nifty deserves and needs our help. The world would be a much poorer place if it didn't have Nifty in it. So dip your hand in your pocket and send Nifty whatever you can. They run this site for free - but it isn't cost free. Far from it. So give what you can. Even the window's mite was valued way beyond it's nominal value. And so is Nifty.

To help you out, here are the main sections of the story as they are headed: My Coach - Eric - Theo - Karim & Stefan - Stephen - Eric and Dean - The Other Dean - Frankie - Paul and Lendon - and there's me, Robert, but I'm in every part of the story. See you when you get there.

My Coach

There's Mr. C. My Coach. He really was handsome. I bet he still is. Mr C. - my coach, the first man I had sex with, and the first man who sucked...

When I was eleven, I was seduced by my football manager. I was never much good at lessons but I was brilliant at most sports. Although I was small and slight for my age, I had terrific reflexes and reactions. I scored most of my goals inside the penalty area by getting to the ball faster than anybody else. I was also a silent child (a) because I was shy (b) because everyone else seemed so much brighter than me (c) because I've always preferred listening to speaking. Even when I'm happy, people keep on telling me to cheer up. But I had my own circle of friends and I had my football.

And I had my dyslexia. I didn't know I had dyslexia. I don't think anybody else did - not at that time. All I knew was that I couldn't spell and I could readn't very well. This was probably what made me so shy. I lacked confidence - except when I was playing football because then the only thing that mattered was playing the game.

So in my last year at junior school Mr C. arrived. We had the team trials, and I was amazed as everyone else when the manager, let's call him Coach, said at the end of the session: "Right then, first match Saturday. Be here at 9.30 for a 10 o'clock kick off. Robert, 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, from my school, came rushing round clapping me on the back. It was all pretty embarrassing, but as usual I said nothing.

The season got underway. Our team did well. No, we did brilliantly, winning every game, most by a margin of goals. Coach treated me like everyone else. Life was very good. Though to be honest, I was anxious about going to secondary school next September. I might be good at football but It was shit at reading, writing and spelling.

My mum liked Mr. C. and she knew he liked me, and when she found out he was also an English teacher she asked him if he would tutor me. "Okay, I'll tutor him," sighed Coach as if he was doing mum a great favour, which, of course, he was. "Wednesdays after school, 4 till half past five. Your place or mine?" I jumped at the chance. We agreed on his house because it was much closer to my school than ours. Best of all, Coach agreed not to tell any of the other boys I was having 'private lessons'. They would have taken the mick out of me something rotten.

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

It started about the fourth lesson. We were sitting close together on a couch in the living room. I had the book in my lap. I was reading out loud. I always forgot the full stops and read on into the next sentence. It didn't matter how often Coach told me, two minutes later I'd forgotten.

"This'll help, Robert," he said. He put his hand just below the bottom of the book. His hand was resting at the bottom of my stomach. Every time I came towards the end of the sentence, he pressed my stomach a little. It worked! I remembered to stop, most of the time. That continued for about fifteen minutes. I read and Coach applied gentle pressure to the bottom of my stomach. No big deal. Except, of course, that it gave me a hard-on. I sat there utterly expressionless (I can do it for hours.) while Coach pressed a couple of inches away from my stiffy.

It was embarrassing at first, but Coach didn't seem to notice anything, so I assumed it was an accident and went on reading. It was embarrassing but also very pleasant. Of course I'd heard the obligatory filth in school and in the football changing rooms, but it seemed to have nothing to do with me. I was small, slight, blond, green-eyed, tight-lipped, and practically not there, except when doing sports. Why would anyone be interested in me?

Next week the same thing happened, and, to tell you the truth, I was sort of hoping he'd do it again. 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 some of the sentence. "We have to get the all right," laughed Coach. 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's pressed his cool hand against my warm stomach, and I'd pause, then read on. Could he still be unaware of my reaction? Could it still be an accident? As he pressed, he ran his little finger along my skin just where it emerged from my trouser waist. My penis was hard and throbbing.

I suppose I shouldn't have gone back the following week. I could have found an excuse. I spent most of the week thinking them up. But when Wednesday rolled round, I found myself looking forward to the lessons. You have to remember the lessons really were brilliant. I knew I was making progress, and I wanted to make more. Okay, my Coach liked fingering by bare skin. So what? He was hardly your typical 'dirty old man'. I don't think he was young, and he was good-looking. He might have played professional football if he hadn't done his knee in. And he liked me and he wanted me. As far as I knew, nobody had ever 'wanted' me like that before.

Halfway through the lesson 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 vulnerable. 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 was curious and aroused.

I felt him unclip the top of my trousers and edge down the zip. This was further than I'd expected him to go. 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 managed. This only lasted a couple of minutes. Then he closed me up, zipped me up, closed my clip, and tucked my shirt in.

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 but it looked onto a shared garden and none of the old folk ever passed by. The lesson ended and, as usual, Coach walked me home because he had tea every Wednesday with friends who lived near us. As we walked we chatted about the coming Saturday match. Coach 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; neither then, nor in what followed afterwards did we once mention the sex. Perhaps that's what made it possible.

Next week's lesson started with some fun card games to improve my spelling. Then Coach said, "It's time we used the computer." I followed him into a small bedroom. It was clean and tidy with a pleasant smell in the air. On a desk beneath the window stood a computer. There were two chairs in front of the desk. There was a single bed. We did a quiz on the computer, all about football, it must have taken ages to prepare. It was great fun.

Coach indicated the bed. "Get on and read this."

I didn't think twice. I lay on my back on the bed. "Read this, please," Mr. C. said, "Putting some papers in my hand." My other hand went under my head. It was a 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 bum and let him slide my trousers and my underpants down to my ankles. I felt him stroke my stomach, my pubic area, (not even a single hair), then take my cock between his fingers. I already had an erection. I vaguely wondered if he was disappointed. I had a small cock, then. About two inches and quite slim. My balls were hairless, like those of a little boy. Physically, that's what I still was - a little boy. He played around, stroking me, jerking me gently, his other hand tracing patterns over my stomach, my chest and my nipples.

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

"Yes, go on," he said.

As I stumbled through the story, I felt his lips around my stiffy. 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'. Coach 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, Robert. No mistakes this time."

I started reading again, more confidently second time round.

He grasped my hips. "Turn 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. I lay there, willing my ring to open so that he could more of his tongue inside me, but it was far too small. I wasn't worried he'd try to fuck me. I'd just say no. And I was so small-built that he'd have real trouble getting a finger in my hole, never mind his prick. In any event, he didn't try.

Looking back, I think it's weird I just accepted what Mr. C. was doing. He was licking and kissing the hole where my shit came from. I knew it must be a tiny hole, but, after all, it's the hole I used every day for shitting, and Mr. C. was making love to it - making love to my hole, to my anus. I didn't know these expressions then I do now, and this grown-up was making love to my hole. There's only one thing that embarrassed me. I farted. Not a big one. Not a long one. But he must have heard it, smelt it, but he kept right on trying to fasten his lips round my the tiny lips of my bumhole.

"Over," he said.

I turned over. He kissed my chest, my nipples, my tummy. He licked my pubic area and slid his lips over my hasrd-on again. This time he sucked me hard and fast. His finger pushed against my bumhole until it slid right it. His saliva had made my hole slippery so his finger didn't hurt much as it slide in. He finger-fucked me - that was an expression I worked out for myself. My bum and hips bounced up and down. My stiffy slid in and out. I pushed his head down. Then I was bucking and thrashing as I had the first cum of my life - and it was a wet one!

We lay there in silence for a few minutes. Then: "Up you get." Up I got. I stood in front of him. He pulled up my trousers and underpants, then did up my clothes as if I was three years old. He tucked me in and tidied me up.We went into the living room, finished the lesson, and had tea and sandwiches. Then he walked me home.

That, more or less happened every week. I came to love my bumhole being sucked, even the first time I knew there were little, hard, round balls of shit between my cheeks. I know that because before we went to the bedroom, I said I had to go to the bathroom. Mr. C. asked me if it was for a pee. When I said 'no', he said 'never mind then'. I was embarrassed but I enjoyed the bed sessions so much I thought he'd just make me jump up and clean myself when he saw I was dirty back there.

And how dod I know there were some hard, little shit balls? Because Mr. C. Showed me one of them. I would have died of embarrassment but he only laughed, popped one in his gob (mouth) and swallowed. "Ah, the real Robert," he murmured... "I wonder if there are any more?" And, with that, back to my bum he went.

After a bit, he came up for air and said: "If you need a shit, just go for it. Let the tip out and hold the rest in. Please. For me." I couldn't. I just sort of froze. It's not that I was disgusted or anything. Grown-ups have got their own weird ways. But some reason I couldn't shit in his mouth on request. And there was a turd up there. I know, because when I got home, I went to the bathroom, and stuck a finger up my bumhole. I could feel the hard tip of the turd. I took out my finger and looked at it. Brown shit. Especially under the finger nail. I looked and lookedswitched off my brain, stuck it in my mouth and licked it clean. Plop plop, the rest of the turn went into the bowl, I flushed and went downstairs for dinner, proud to tell mum how well I'd done in my session with Mr. C.

At the end of the year - July 21st - I said goodbye to junior school and prepared for the adventure of secondary school in September. I shone at football again, and, though I wasn't brilliant, I coped with all my classes. Sometimes I met Mr. C. when he was refereeing one of our matches. We talked about my progress at school, but never about what had happened on the bed. That was for the memory box. But I sometimes wonder if he remembers what I tasted like.

ERIC

I've got lots of photos of Eric. That's because people never stopped taking Eric's photo. At our secondary school, Eric became captain of just about everything. I didn't know Eric well. 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 money. Eric was fun, and I appreciated how much he befriended me - this 'fish out of water'. Not very intelligent but witty. Athletic. And 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.

It was mid-September. An Indian summer - warm, 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 which had been grassed over by the years. 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 people grabbed their stuff and headed up the hill. A few of us die-hards went on playing. Then the second bell went. Seconds later, there was only Eric and myself left, with Eric taking a few last pot shots at me in goal.

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 hill. 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 him and stroked my genitals! I was stunned. My face, already red from our exertions, burst into flames. 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 me cock.

I'm not sure what I would have done if Eric hadn't kept looking straight into my eyes. His hair flopped over his face. He was sweating. He pushed the hair out of his eyes and kept looking at me. I turned my head way, turned it back, closed my eyes, open them.

Horror of horrors. I was getting an erection. I had an erection. I was stiff and hard under his touch. His fingers and thumb closed round my stiff penis and began working the skin along the shift. At last he spoke. "Do I have to hold you down?" he asked. I lay there for a minute. I shook my head from side to side. Eric slid from my body and we lay side to side. He was still manipulating me. "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 the polite name for the boys' latrines on the far side of the playing fields. Smoking went on there. Everybody knew that. So did sex, but we were too new to know that.

We got to the sheds and slipped inside. I was trembling, so, I realised was Eric. He 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.

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 still 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 as far as my prick would go.

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! But when his lower hand slipped into my crack and headed for my bumhole, that was too much! I clenched my hole and clasped my legs together. Eric didn't persist. I wish he had.

Eric brought me to the brink of orgasm at least five times. My prick was going frantic, my heart was racing. Then when I thought I couldn't stand any more, he let me come - and he let me come in his mouth! I couldn't believe it. He waited until I'd relaxed completely in his mouth, slipped me out, took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my cock and his lips. Sheer class!

I glanced at my watch. "Shit, we're going to be so late."

Eric laughed.

"Let me think. Yes, you got too much sun at lunchtime. You threw up. I was worried, so I took you home. I live in Stirling Road. We'll go there. Look sick. I can talk my mother into anything. We'll get a note from her. Then we'll come back to school; that'll look good. No. On second thoughts, we won't come back to school this afternoon. My mother will tell you - us - to stay at home at rest for the afternoon. Then at half three we'll go swimming. How does that sound?"

"You sure it's okay?" I asked.

"Yeh, no probs... but you owe me one. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Anything."

"Anything?"

"Yeh, anything I want. Okay."

"Okay," I said beginning to wonder what 'anything' was.

To cut a longish story short, Eric's mum was brill. She fussed over me. Phoned the school. Gave Eric's story, and then told us she was off to "to play bridge with the girls... back in a couple of hours. There's plenty to eat in the fridge. Find something to do but don't over do things. Robert looks a bit flushed."

Kissie, kissie, bye, bye.

We were in Eric's bedroom, stretched out on his double bed, naked. Eric was rubbing my tummy with the palm of his hand.

"Sorry, Eric, I'll have to get up. Where's the toilet?"

"It's over there," he said. "It's ensuite. Why?"

"'Cause I think I have to take a shit."

I shifted my gaze from his hand and looked at him. He was staring at me with the weirdest expression.

"What?"

"Remember what you said."

"What?"

"Anything. You said anything."

"Well, what is it? Just tell me. As long as it doesn't hurt..."

"Oh it doesn't hurt," he smiled.

"Well, what the fuck is it?" I said, a bit exasperated.

"You said you're gonna take a shit?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm going to take a shit."

"Well....."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, what is it? Jus say it."

"Can I watch you take a shit?" he blurted out.

"Oh, is that all," I said, thinking of Mr. C. for a moment.

"Well, no actually," Eric said. "It's just a bit more than that."

What?!"

"I want you to shit in my mouth."

"What the fuck! Shit in your mouth? And what you gonna do after?"

"I'm gonna eat it."

Eric, King of Year 7, blushed bright red.

"Where we gonna do it?"

"You mean, you'll do it," he said excitedly.

"Where?"

"In my bathroom," he said, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me off the bed as if he was scared I would change my mind.I couldn't believe how excited he was about me shitting in his mouth or how excited I was getting thinking about doing it.

"Sit on the toilet," he instructed. "That's it. Pull your legs up. Spread your legs. Slide as far forward as you can. I want to know your watching the shit slide out of you and into my mouth." Eric certainly knew what he was doing. I perched on the rim of the bowl, sqautted and held onto the tank for support.

Eric knelt in front of me. His fingers stretched my bum cheeks apart until I protested. I wasn't sure I could shit in this position. I looked down and saw Eric staring wide-eyed at my arse, then his face slipped between my cheeks, and felt his tongue and lips on my hole. This might be dirty but it was thrilling. He licked, kissed, pushed, probed, and... made love to my arsehole.

Anxiety was making it difficult so I fixed my gaze on a spot on the wall and tried to relax. It worked. I could feel my hole open and swell. I felt the shit - turd - make its way down my back passage. It was a hard one. That would make life easier. When I felt a couple of inches were out, I looked down.I was amazed. About three inches of the turd were outside my rectum. Eric had his lips round the first inch and was gently sucking on it. I know now - because he told me later - that he was sucking gently because he didnt want it to break up. "I was giving your shit a blow-job," he explained.

My smells rose up. They didn't bother me much. I guess everyone is used to the smell of their own shit. And I bet every boy on ths planet sometimes sticks a finger up his shitty bum and then sniffs it. Some of us lick it. It felt great to empty my bowels and I admired Eric for swallowing so much of it. I deliberately tried to shit in chunks to give him time to swallow it all. Then came the last couple of inches of soften turd.

Eric got to his feet and, holding the last two inches sticking out of his mouth, leaned foreard to me. The turd was almost touching my lips. I know an imnvitation when I see one. Ah what the fuck. I opened my mouth and let Eric slide about an inch of warm turd between my lips. We'd never even kissed, and yet here were were - two twelve-year-old grammar school boys sharing a warm turd.

Finally, we mashed the turd against each other's lips and french-kissed until our lips and chins were covered in smelly soft shit. It was great!

I thought surprises were over for the day. Not quite. Eric said, "Watch." He showed me his right hand. It was covered in shit - my shit. He toom my shit and ran it up and down my hard-on until my cock was covered with my shit. Then he turned, bent over the toilet bowl, raised his bum, looked behind himself at me and whispered: "Fuck me, Robert. Fuck me hard."

I began to protest I didn't know how to do it.

"Just stick it in," he hissed through his shit-covered teeth.

My four-inch dick wasn't the first or biggest thing that had ever been up Eric's bumhole. His sphincters gave way and I slid into the hilt. If I'd had pubic hair, it would have pressed almost up to his hole. Nature did the rest. I held onto his hips and began to fuck him gently.

"Harder. Rougher," Eric hissed.

Sweat was pouring from him... and trickling down me. I pushed harder into him. I realised why he asked me to do that. The head of my penis was suddenly surrounded by warmth, and the stink from Eric was so strong it could only be one thing - shit, his shit. I should have been disgusted but I wasn't. I wanted to fuck the shit out of him and back into him. Eric started crying. Not a lot, but loud. "Harder, fuck me harder." So I did my best. I couldn't make it last. I felt the uncontrollable take over, and, trembling, shaking shuddering I squirted my cum into him - three, four times...

When I finally slid out of Eric and he stood up grinning, I saw semen splattered up his belly. He had cum while I was fucking him! Was I that good?

Eric immediately reached to turn on the walk in shower. I screeched as the cold water hit me but seconds later it was warm, then hot. Eric put his arms round me and pulled me under the shower. He french-kissed me again. Then we turned our face up to the shower head and let the hot water clean us inside and out. Eric splattered me and himself with three different kinds of shower gel and we rubbed each other down until we smelled like heaps of freshly-done laundry.

We towelled each other off, dressed and then Eric showed me how to fresh-air the room. By the time we left his bedroom to go downstairs and eat - we were starving - everywhere smelled like the first days of Spring after an April shower. After pizza and orange juice, we got onto Eric's computer.

"Porno?"

We looked at each other and said in unison: Yuck!

THEO

There he is. The boy called Theo. Sitting on bench in the park. Looking up at me. Smiling. Streaked blond hair with a darker underlay. The face of a choir boy. Clear, freckled skin. Strong dark eyebrows. Eyelashes that brushed the skin below his eyes. Large hazel eyes. A small, straight nose, slightly curved, slightly upturned. Fullish lips and perfect teeth. I didn't see all that in a single glance. I saw it a few minutes later as we sat together on a bench in the city centre. I'd nodded to him and walked away. He got up and followed me. Butterflies danced in my stomach. I remember thinking how crazy this was; not only me walking off with a boy who'd been soliciting males in front of a public toilet, but the boy himself taking such insane risks. And now letting me taking his photograph in the park even before we...

A warm, sunny afternoon in the cathedral city of Canterbury. I was doing freelance work (photography) for a months, staying in a classy hotel, and feeling pleasantly bored. About four in the afternoon, out window-shopping (for boys), I answered a call of nature and headed for the toilets near the city centre. Going in, I glanced at a young boy, about 12 or 13, sitting on the entrance step. He was in school uniform. I thought he might be waiting for a friend or even for his father - though it was a pretty insalubrious place to be sitting.

I entered the toilets, found a urinal and pulled my dick out. I'd hardly started to piss when I noticed someone take the next urinal. A bit odd since none of the other urinals was in use. Tradition dictates you don't stand beside another guy if there are spaces elsewhere.

It was the boy.

A little embarrassed, I listened to myself splashing into the bowl. No similar sounds from the next bowl. I didn't look. He was a boy, I was man, you don't look. I shook myself and washed my hands. I glanced back. The boy was still standing at the urina, looking over his shoulder - at me! I hurried out of the toilets, crossed road and stood watching the entrance to the toilets.

Curiosity (and lust) got the better of me. Surely the boy wasn't... I had to take a look. Sure enough, he was sitting there on the step, eyeing every man who entered the toilet. Drawn as if by a magnet, I strolled casually over and looked down at the boy. He looked up at me and held my look.

God, he was an angel!

I'd nodded to him and walked away. He got up and followed me. After three steps, he caught up with me and started chattering away. For a moment I thought the boy might be simple. He was far from that.

His name was Theo M. He was thirteen. He went to the local boys' grammar school, which meant he was as bright as a button. . He was funny, articulate, self-possessed, and in no way naive. He only had an hour. His little sister was in McDonalds for a birthday party with her friends. He had to collect her at 5 and see her home. He wasn't quite 13; he'd be 13 on August 8, in exactly one month. Theo steered the conversation round to sex, and more precisely to dicks, pricks, cocks and bums.

Had I seen a big one? What did I consider a big one? Did I know any boys with big ones? Did I know any boys his age with big ones? Did I have a big one? Put like that it is crude. But that's not the way Theo discussed them. did it. His skin glowed and his eyes shone.

"Well, do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have a big one?" At last he blushed.

"Depends what you call big," I fenced, blushing.

"Can I see it?"

Then... "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm new to Canterbury."

"That's okay," he chirped. "I know a place. It's not far. The toilets at the bus station. The toilets are closed for repairs, but all the boys at my school know to get into them the back away."

Theo led me through a gap in the fence at the back of the bus station. The toilets were empty. There were two cubicles. Neither door had a lock. Theo pulled me inside one. The place reeked of urine. He backed me towards the toilet seat.

"Sit down. I'll do you first."

Semi-dazed, I sank back onto the toilet seat. Theo dropped to his knees and scrabbled with the opening of my trousers. "Fuck it." He pulled the belt open, unzipped me, hauled down my slacks, then my underpants.

My cock sprang up, so hard it actually ached.

The boy knelt over me, his fascinated gaze on my prick, as he jerked me hard and fast, his lips brushing the head every now and then. I was too nervous to feel that much. It was a tiny cubicle with another next door. There was no lock on the door. The toilets were closed but some of the boys from Theo's school might break in at any moment.A twelve-year-old schoolboy was kneeling between my legs, enthusiastically tossing me off. Insane!

After five minutes, Theo gave me an exasperated look. "Hurry up," he whispered.

"Stand up," I whispered.

The boy stood up and started to undo his trousers. Then he took his hands away and looked down at me. He didn't have to say anything. I reached out, unclasped his school flannels, unzipped him and pushed his trousers and white underpants to his knees. Theo pushed his jacket open and pulled up his shirt and sweater until they were around his neck.

His body was as beautiful as his face. Clean, creamy skin. A strong chest, washboard stomach with little belly button (an inner). A patch of dark hair at the base of his stomach. His erection, around four inches, pointing straight up to his chin. His prick as thick as my thumb. I edged back the foreskin and ran my fingers tenderly over his prick and balls. Theo pushed at my head. I sank down and took his prick in my mouth. I sucked him the way I thought it should be done, varying the pressure, depth and speed, while one hand worked on his ballsac and the other stroked his chest and nipples. I could hear the boy sighing audibly above me.

The boy's hips and knees began jerking and I knew he was about to cum in my mouth. But he didn't. He suddenly withdrew, saying "Turn round turn round. Bend. Bend."

Was this twelve-year-old going to fuck me?

Startled I did what I was told and found myself kneeling over the toilet bowel. Then small fingers prised the cheeks of my arse apart. Shit, the kid was going to fuck me. No, he wasn't. It was his tongue. A twelve-year-old was rimmng me! I could feel my thumbs peel me apart, open me up, the tip of his tongue wiggling just inside me. I hadn't my morning shit. There was bound to be a turd up there. Did Theo know that? Did he want it? Is that what he was searching for?

I bounced him backwards. Stood him up. Turned him round. Now his face was over the bowl. He wiggled his creamy little bum. Was he expecting me to fuck him there and then. I grasped my swollen cock, so hard it hurt, ran it up and down his crack before burrowing it between his cheeks. I shot my load! Cumming took my completely by surprise. A stream of warm jism shot deep onto the boy's hole. Theo's reaction - he wiggled his bum!

"Get your fucking clothes on," I said.

"You get yours on," he giggled.

Outside, Theo turned to me, eyes shining. He looked at his watch: "Plenty of time." Then added, "Can you get me a burger, please? I'm starving." As we passed McDonald's, I popped in a got a couple of burgers and fries. We sat in the park and ate them. Theo was full of questions about my photography assignment in Canterbury.

"Do you want to take my photo?" he asked. I took his photo.

All too soon it was time for him to go.

He stood up and shook my hand politely.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "I really enjoyed that." I wasn't quite sure what it was he'd really enjoyed. Then he said: "I really like your bumhole," giggled and was gone.

I haunted the toilets for the next two weeks. I wanted sex with him again, but even more than that I wanted to sit him down and giving him a good telling-off. I wanted to talk about the risks he was taking: rape, murder, AIDS. Theo needs help. Every boy who is driven to haunting the streets and toilets looking for casual sex needs help. I probably needed help, too, but that was help of a different kind.

I never saw Theo again.

KARIM & STEFAN

This photograph of Stefan and Karim always makes me smile. Stefan (10) and Karim (12) are brothers. They helped me set what must be a world record: seducing two boys on the same afternoon.

The boys were from Libya in the days when Col. Gaadafi and oil meant that some Libyan feamiles were stunningly rich. Stefan and Karim were from one of these families and had been packed off to one of Switzerland's outrageously expensive schools to 'give them some polish'. Both boys were fluent in Arabic, Italian and English, owing their mixed parentage. Karim got his father's looks, Stefan his mother's (Austrian) - basically European, pale skin, dark brown curly hair. Stefan was cute, Karim handsome. And both, along with 118 other boys, were entrusted to me as head of the junior house (8 to 13).

The atmosphere at ........... International School was relaxed, the lessons not too demanding, lots of sports, including compulsory skiing weekends in Montana-Crans, and similar places. There were about 30 nationalities in the boarding houses, and it was neverr dull. Most of the guys who looked after the boys' boarding house were young and out for a good time. You can imagine with boys, aged 8 to 13, flying in from all over the Middle East there was plenty of caviar and cannabis from the older boys (13 to 18). There was one group of older boys, all from the same country, which I'm not going to libel, who spent more time in each other's beds than their own! All in all, the atmosphere was liberal, then some.

I took an interest in Stefan and Karim right from the start, not only because they were attractive boys, but because I'd been asked to the Director (owner) of the school who wanted "nothing but the best" for the sons of a family who could have bought the school out their loose change. Neither boy had been out of Libya before, neither had seen snow, and both were wonderfully naive. Like every other boy, they called me 'Mister Robert'. We established a fun friendship from the outset.

All went well until the Spring when both managed to damage themselves during a skiing trip: Stefan badly sprained his right wrist and Karim broke his left leg. I was not on that particular trip. They were simple fractures, and if you have to break bones, there are fewer better places to do so than in Switzerland. Carted back to school in plaster, both boys made the best of things, and again I was called to take 'a special interest' in the boys, especially Karim who was confined to bed in a single room just off the main dorms. Half my scheduled time was allocated to Karim so that I'd be available as and when he needed me.

I spent a lot of time in Karim's room, chatting, playing backgammon, cards, reading, and generally just being there. Day after day in bed can get anyone down, snd he appreciated what I did for him, especially when it came to stuff like lifting him onto his bedpan, disposing of his waste, and giving him body washes, which, he laughingly admitted, he grew to look forward to. I would strip off his pyjamas, top and bottoms, and cover him with a single sheet. Then with a cloth and warm soapy water, I'd wash him all over. Of course, he got erections. H was twelve years old! I pretended to ignore them as my hand hand circled his neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, legs, knees and feet. Then I'd wash his pubic hair. Up would spring his four inches of hard flesh and Karim would bury his face in a book.

Blame it on 'The Exorcist'.

He was reading the book while I was washing him. He'd reached the part where the young girl starts masturbating with a crucifix. Karim was not a Christian, but that really turned him on. His erection was hard against his belly. It was all too much. My fingers closed around his stiff penis and I gave it a few squeezes. Maybe I could have stopped there but Karim began to raise his bum off the bed pushing his stiffy through my fingers again and again.

"Do you want this?" I asked.

"Yes, please," came a mumbled response.

I began masturbating the twelve-year-old gently. Another mumble came from behind the book. I couldn't quite make it out. "Pardon?" I asked.

His voice was low but crystal clear. "You never wash all of me. You never wash my really dirty bits. They need washing too."

It took me a minute to work out what he meant, what he wanted, but he helped out my pulling his feet up the bed and crooking his knees. Karim lay there, naked, exposed vulnerable. I took the washcloth and wrapped round my fingers and began to wipe deep beneath his bum cheeks. The wask cloth didn't help. I threw it aside and soaped by fingers. I pushed the tip of my middle finger against his hole. Karim grunted and pushed his body down the bed. My finger slid in down past the first finger. I began to finger-fuck the boy and masturbate him again.

His mumble came again.

"Do the insides of me?"

Not quite sure what he meant, I started circling my middle round and round inside his rectum. As the width of the circle increased, I felt the soft velvet of the boy's insides. He tried to keep silent but it was too much for him. He began moaning quietly. I thought of forcing in another finger but decided against it. I didn't want to cause him any pain and, besides, there would be plenty of time as the weeks wore on.

Suddenly the door swung open and Stefan skipped in.

Karim spat something at him, which I learned later, was the Arabic for "Fuck off!"

Stefan skipped out.

Karim returned to his vision of the girl in the 'Exorcist' masturbating herself with a crucifix while I masturbated him with one hand and finger-fucked him with the other. He lasted thirty seconds more and then shot hald a dozen squirts of suprisingly thick semen up his belly. I started to wipe it away with the facecloth, then thought "Waste not, want not," leaned over and licked it from his light brown skin.

Karim laid down his book, sighed and said: "You can take your finger out of my bum now." He paused. "I need a shit now." Both remarks were accompanied by satisified smiles, and I knew that all would be well in my world, and in Karim's. About Stefan's I was not yet sure.

Just for fun I've tried to put what happened in Stefan's words.

I saw them all right, and I was jealous. Just because Karim's two years older than me, he's always been regarded as the 'first', after my father, in the family. Frankly, I think he's a dumb shit, but everybody's brother is a dumb shit, so that doesn't mean much.

Although I only got a quick look, I saw Karim's zob - that's Arabic for prick - in Mister Robert's mouth, and I guesses where his finger was. He was meant to be taking care of me as well as my big brother. Anyway, I found sir and asked him if he could help me take a bath. I waved my wrist in its plaster pathetically in front of him. "Sure thing, Stefan," he said, "Go get your stuff and meet me in the bathrooms."

"Can we use the clinic bathroom?" I asked, putting my shyest look. "I don't want everybody to..." I didn't have to finish the sentence. Sir ran his fingers though my hair, thick, glossy, curly hair, as loved by my mother, and said, "See you there in five. Don't disturb, Karim. He's sleeping." ("Bet he is," I thought.)

By the time Mister got to the clinic bathroom, I was running the bath, and standing there naked. I reckoned it would be difficult for him to ask me to put my clothes back on. We chatted about nothing until the bath was filled, then he told me to step in and sit down. Sheer luxury! Sitting there in that hot, steamy bath with JD's soapy hands running over my body. Maybe my body was a bit slight, but I wasn't skinny, and I had the kind of cheeky features you see on the back of a cereal packet.

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

I stood up. My dick was sticking straight out at ninety degrees from my body. Okay, it was only a couple of inches, but you could hardly miss it. Funny that. When I got older, my erection would always be vertical, pointing straight up my body, but at that age, my erections stuck straight out from my body. Like a little hooded cobra. A cobra without the hood, of course, since I was a good Muslim boy - well, I was a Muslim boy. The soapy water streamed from my body.

Sir sat on the edge of the bath. He took towelfuls of warm water and squeezed them down my body making the soap run off. He'd ignored my stiff dick, but he'd have to do something when he got down there.

"Turn round. Bend over. Hold onto the bath."

Wow!

I did as instructed and felt the warm wet cloth stroking my lower back and bottom. Then no cloth, just JD's warm fingers. Then the cheeks of my buttocks being pulled apart and his warm fingers sliding in. For a few moments, I felt his fingers trace the circle of my ring. "Inside inside," I willed him, and it worked. I felt a finger worked its way deep inside me - the soap suds helped. It began to fuck me. I'd learned lots about sex from two Swedish boys - twins - in the dorm. They showed me how to wank (that means masturbate) and let me watch them suck each other off. They also sucked each other's bum holes but they hadn't let me try that yet.

"Suck my hole... suck me hole," I willed him. "Suck the shit out of me." The idea should have been disgusting, but it wasn't. "Do it. Do it." But he didn't.

"Turn round."

I stood up and turned round. My dick was aching, my balls were aching. (Can your balls ache before you can physically cum? Mine did.)

"Let's get you really clean."

His arms slipped round my waist. He pulled me towards him. And my dick slid into his open mouth. He gently rocked me back and forwards while he sucked on my stiff penis. Mister Robert really knew how to get a kid clean! My legs shook, my knees shuddered, I trembled all over. I pushed him away. I was that sensitive.

I stepped out of the bath and sir towelled me down, gently, roughly, tenderly, vigorously. Then he towelled my head. Then he had me climb up on the padded table and he gave me a massage all over. I lay on my front hoping he would finger-fuck me again. It's funny but that was a different kind of sexy from what you feel in your front bits, but just as good in its way.

When we'd finished, I dressed, said thank you, and went up to my room. I lay down on my bed, closed my eyes and fell sound asleep. I was that relaxed. Next day I asked sir for another bath. He smiled wryly, told me not to be so cheeky and kicked my arse down the corridor. I scampered off to find my Swedish friends. This time I would make them suck my bum hole and I would suck theirs!

I know Mister Robert and Karim were close for the rest of the year, but it didn't seem to be any of my business any more. I had Nils and Axel, and they had me - lots of times.

Stephen

Although I'd had lots of sex since I was eleven years old, I didnt fall in love till I was eighteen, so the photographs I have of Stephen Lonishen mean more to me than any of the others. I was almost 18, first year at college, everything was possible.

College was wonderful. I absorbed information like a sponge, so, apart from attending lectures and seminars, I'd lots of spare time for a hectic social life that quickly developed. And it developed so quickly because Stephen Lonishen 'adopted' me. 'Stephen Lonishen' isn't his real name, but I've chosen that one because it's almost as exotic as my senior man's. In those days, and I've no reason to believe anything's changed, senior students 'adopted' first year students and 'mentored' them for a year.

'Mentoring' could be as dull or as exciting an affair as the senior man dictated. My mentoring was never dull. Stephen was something of a legend at university: directing plays, running the literary club, heavily into far-left politics, showing imported movies for profit, and raising pots and pots of money for charity. He was academically brilliant, and I never understood how he managed it; at least I attended lectures and seminars. I once asked Stephen how he managed it: "Easy," he said, "I only opt for subjects I already know inside out." I think Stephen opted for me.

To be fair, I hung around Stephen more than he hung around me: I was the bee to the exotic bloom. It wasn't difficult because we were both in the same halls of residence. Stephen told me he didn't move out because he at least knew he had a bed whatever happened..

I was fascinated, hypnotised by Stephen Lonishen. He let me come on a roller coaster ride that left me breathless but begging for more. And as the weeks wore on, I began to realise what that more might include. Stephen and I grew more and more intimate. At parties we'd end up sitting on the floor side by side, drinking, smoking dope, talking. We'd rush out together and catch a midnight movie. We were often pissed together or stoned together, so much so we slept in my room on the ground floor because Stephen couldn't make it to his eerie on the fifth. It was all big time fun.

I realised Stephen wanted me physically. I don't know how I knew, but I knew. I remember one day we were doing a 'photo shoot' for the charities' magazine; Stephen wanted me as Superboy. This meant being naked, apart from underpants and the Superman Logo painted on my chest. The logo was easy. However, I had on the wrong kind of underpants - Y-fronts! (I also wore a string vest in those days.) We decided to swap. Stephen got his off quickly. I dillied and I dallied, dallied and I dillied, 'accidentally' showing off my genitals to Stephen until, exasperated, he pulled his cotton slip over my arse, saying: "Let's get on with it, Robert. We'll save the strip-tease for later."

On another occasion, Stephen came to find me. I was in the shower. He stood outside the shower door speaking to me. "Catch you later," he said. "Don't go," I called. "I need to speak to you." I'd been busy pulling on my dick until it was semi-hard and swinging suggestively in front of me. I opened the shower door and towelled myself while inventing a totally meaningless conversation. I dried my hair vigorously and could feel my cock bouncing against my thighs. I was temptation made flesh, if that's the kind of flesh you fancy. By the time I'd finished drying my hair, Stephen was gone! I couldn't blame him; even I didn't know what I was talking about.

October 31st: my eighteenth birthday. Part of the celebrations included drinking half a pint in every public house in Hope Street. I don't know if anyone's ever achieved this, and I don't suppose we even got halfway through the pubs. I can't remember any of that all. I do remember it was a viciously windy, rainy, cold, dreich, miserable Edinburgh night - but Stephen and I didn't give a fuck: we were 'fou and unco' happy'.

I don't remember how we got up to Stephen's room. There was a bed and a mattress on the floor. There was an angle-poise lamp. I was lying on the mattress. Stephen was helping me off with my wet things. I was singing. Someone shouted along the corridor: "Shut up, you English bastard!" I remembered I was in Scotland and I shut up.

Stephen was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He was stroking my cheek tenderly. Pity, probably. Here was I, an 18-year-old fresh-minted English drunk lying on his mattress singing drivel about Ilkley Moor. My scarf and rainjacket were gone. My boots and were gone. My wet shirt was gone. I felt his fingers trace a path along my string vest, and I said the immortal words: "If you try to seduce me, I won't stop you." Now, that may not be the clearest invitation in the world but thinking about it I don't see it can be construed as anything else: "Try to seduce me and I won't stop you."

I felt my string vest being tugged out of my jeans. Then I felt warm, wet lips on my stomach - Stephen's, I presumed. That's all he did at first. Warm, wet kisses that traced patterns across my stomach, sometimes playing in my belly button, sometimes edging down to the tendrils of hair that peeked above my Y-fronts. His patience gave me an erection that throbbed, pulsated and ached. He tugged my string-vest up my body, over my shoulders and over my head. It snagged in my glasses which he gently took from my face and placed somewhere safe. I was now blind as a bat but made up for it by the sensation of touch.

Stephen kissed me. Not just a simple peck, but mouth on mouth, that had me open and gasping for breath. Then his tongue was inside my mouth, probing, seeking, moiling (a favourite word I'll look up later). His mouth left my lips and worked their way down my body. His hands were at my belt - I raised my arse from the mattress and let Stephen work my jeans and underpants down to my ankles and off. I felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable and erotic. My prick was so hard it felt like fleshy steel when Stephen gripped it between his fingers and thumb. I didn't have much time to think; he pulled the foreskin back; I was already wet and slippery; and he suck me deeply into his mouth and throat.

"That's it," I thought. "I'm a fag now. Best lie back and enjoy it." Actually I can't remember what, if anything, I thought. It was nothing but sensation, only feeling, no guilt, no shame, just an intense desire to cum, but not to cum forever and ever. If this could only go on forever, I'd be the happiest birthday boy in the land.

Stephen sucked up and down on my shaft, at the same time jerking the base and twisting it to create different pressures, frictions and suctions inside his mouth. He'd let me almost slip out, then probe my cockslit with his tongue, then slide all the way down my shaft until I felt his lips brush my pubic hair. His other hand gently eased my legs apart.

He played with my balls and ran a finger along my perineum, a little further each time until he naturally slipped all the way into my crack and along my anal ring. Part of the excitement was the fear of what he was going to do, what he wanted. Was he going to penetrate my hole with his finger? Would it hurt? Would I like it? Did I want it? Would he try more than one finger? What if he tried to turn me over? Would I let him? Did he want to fuck me? Did I want him to fuck me? Would I let him?

I didn't turn over. Stephen did.He was naked. When had that happened? He was naked. He was beneath me. I was naked. When had that happened?

We lay there pressed together. I snuggled into him, feeling the curve of his back against my chest, my balls in the crack of his arse. I wriggled a bit lower on the matress, not sure what I had in mind. My arms were round Stephen's chest and waist; I could feel his hair against my wrist. He reached round and pulled his buttocks apart. I slid my cock in till the head was wedged in deep, the tip touching the heat of his ring.

"Just push," he whispered.

I pushed hard. I felt Stephen grasp my cock and guide it to his hole. Another push. Something gave and the head of my cock was inside him. I realised how slippery it was down there and explored with my fingers. The head of my cock was inside him and the heat was exhilarating. Steadily I pressed my groin into his buttocks, and my cock slid in about three inches. Stephen pulled his left leg up into a kneeling position, and my cock slid in another inch. Because of the way we were lying, that's as far in as I could get. That was enough. I began to rock my hips back and forward, pushing myself in and out of his hole. His asshole was hot, very hot, and gripped me tightly as I entered and withdrew again and again.

The room was filled with little grunts and squeaks and moans that would have sounded silly in any other circumstances; then, they just added to the intensity of the experience. I felt myself cuming as my hips and groin began to buck and I stroked Stephen hard and fast. If we didn't spurt simultaneously, there could only have been seconds difference, for we lay there shaking, juddering, trembling, shuddering as our orgasms took over. I felt his hot cum pump along his shaft as my own pumped into his rectum. His chest rubbed against my back and there little popping sounds of bursting sweat bubbles as our bodies shook uncontrollably. Then it died away, and I lay there listening to our breathless panting.

Stephen tried to roll over but I gripped him tightly and whispered, "Let me stay in you." He pushed his bottom into my groin, and we fell asleep that way, cradled together like twins in the womb.

In the morning when I awoke Stephen was gone. I got up, wrapped his dressing gown round me, grabbed my clothes and slipped downstairs to my own room. It was 8.30. I'd slept soundly. I showered, dried, dressed and headed for the refectory. Stephen was there, sitting with a group of mutual friends having breakfast. Someone made room for me, and I slipped in opposite Stephen. I was ravenous.

"Good morning," Stephen said. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead, man," I yawned. "Like the fucking dead."

"How does it feel to be 18, to be a man?" he said.

The whole table laughed but it was friendly, warm and welcoming.

"Great, man," I said. "Just fucking great."

What puzzled me then and still puzzles me. Within two weeks, Stephen had found Maggie, who, as far as I know, turned out to be the love of his life. Was I broken-hearted? No. We went on enjoying our 'special friendship' (no sex) throughout our time together at the university. It helped that I remained the happy predator I was and had sex with some of the best-looking boys in Edinburgh.

Was Stephen bisexual? I never asked him. I'm not interested in labels. I just do what I want to do with whoever wants to do it with me. But Stephen remains special.

Eric and Dean

Now you might have thought my sex with Stephen was all very tame, so I'll go back to Eric - and Dean - which was anything but tame, and shows me at my worst - and best?

Remember Eric who introduced me to a world way beyond anything I'd imagined with Mr. C. Eric who'd introduced me to his personal addiction to arseholes and shit. I wasn't his first and certainly not the one who'd been corrupted beyond anything I'd thought possible.

"Suck my hole," Eric tells me, and I start by licking his bum cheeks. He reaches around and pulls them apart, telling me what he wants. "Sniff me, smell the sweat in my bum hole, smell my farts. I run my tongue from his balls to his crack. His farts smell like cracked walnuts. I probe his hole with the tip of my tongue. "Fuck..." he groans. "Fuck me with your tongue."

Eric's hole loosens easily, easier than it should in a twelve-year-old boy. I know he uses what he calls 'dildoes' to fuck himself with. I fast my tightened lips over his hole and suck really hard, tasting his bum juices, that mixture of sweat, shit and slimy fluid. Dean is kneeling at the other end, fucking Eric's mouth. Dean is 13, in Year 8, and play in the school football team with us. Dean can cum, really cum!

I start sliding my tongue in and out of Eric's arse as Dean slides his cock down Eric's throat. Dean has almost seven inches, and lots of hair. I reach under Eric and start working on his cock as Deam and I are fucking him from both ends. I feel his anus pushing outward into my mouth. It's like a little red doughtnut. At the centre of the doughnut, the tip of a hard, brown turd peeps out. The tip of a turd meets the tip of my tongue. Eric holds it where it is while I start licking the tip.

We're pretty good at this now, so when Dean slides his cock out of Eric's throat I know what to do. We make quick adjustments and Dean's on his back, legs raised in the air with Eric straddled across his chest feeding him his cock. I'm between Dean's legs, my tongue fighting its way into his hole. He doesn't smell as good (bad) as Eric and his bum juices aren't so juicy, but change is good as a rest and I'm happy to burrow my as deep inside as I can. I worm further and further into his bum as he loosens up, and, Yes!, the knobbly end of a Dean turd. I try to loosen him up but the turd doesn't seem in the mood for fresh air so I content myself with the intoxicating smell of his insides, and the taste of the velvety textures my tongue can trace.

I don't know long we're at this but I get the signal from Eric and I know it's time for din dins. Quick adjustments and he is squatting over my face, lining his anus over my mouth. I heave his cheeks up a bit. What I love most of all is seeing a boy's bum swell and the lips of hus anus open as a turd pushes its way where the sun shines. Not that it will get sunshine for long. Weird when you come to think of it. How many turds go from one tummy directly into another?

I turn my face a moment to see Dean's face sharing the space with me, his eyes fixed on Eric's burgeoning hole. We hear Eric grunt as he strains to push the sweet shit out of his hole. His bum lips slowly open up. The turd slides down. It's amazing how elastic the human bum is. I suck the end of the turd but its a soft one and falls into my mouth. It's soft and delicious and fills my mouth completely. Eric gets off me and I turn to share his shit with Dean mashing it together in open-mouthed kisses.

Before I've swallowed everything, Dean is squatting over me. We know Eric wants to fuck my throat with Dean's beautiful log. His hand is ready under Dean's hole. Dean grunts loudly. His cheeks tense up, and it's a good ten seconds before his hole starts to expand, and then it's open all the way. His shit is dark brown, knobbly and hard, just like a boy's shit should be. Eric pinches off about three inches and steadies the turd with his other hand to prevent it breaking up. I immediately slurp up the juices around Dean's anus.

Eric holds the turd to my mouth. I open my lips just wide enough for him to insert and begin sucking it as gently as I can. Dean as shit the rest of his turn into his hand and is rubbing it across Eric's lips and then against his own. The whole thing is so over-whelming I feel a bit faint. I've come a long way since Mr. C's first lesson. I gulp down Dean's shit as it breaks up in my mouth.

"My turn now," says Eric.

I'm not sure what he means. He lies down on his front and puts his head comfortably on his elbows. "He's not going to try and take a shit like that," I say. Dean laughs and says "Just watch and learn."

Dean kneels down beside Eric's bum. His right hand is covered with shit. "Get down here," he whispers. I get down and watch his fingertips playing with Eric's hole. A finger slides in, the another, and then I'm stunned to see the four fingers of Dean's hand are wrapped over each other and are forcing themselves into Eric's rectum.

Eric grunts and says something like: "Do it."

I'm shocked as Dean pulls out his fingers, closes his thumb inside them, and works his hand into Eric's bum. His whole hand! Right up to his wrist! I didn't believe that was possible. "What are you doing?" I ask Dean, scared about what's happening.

"I'm fisting him," he says. "It's called 'fisting'. I'm working my fist right inside him." As he says this, he's still working his hand into Eric until his wrist and a little bit of his arm is inside, too. "I'm past his sphincters now," Dean says. "My first is in his guts."

Then he says, "Eric, turn over but be very careful. Slowly. Take it easy."

And turns over onto his back. And Dean says, "Watch his belly?" And I watch his belly. And I see something moving under his belly. His belly changes shape. And Dean says "That's my fist doing that. I'm fisting fuckcing, Eric. He loves it. Do you want to have a go?"

"Not now," I say. "Next time. Not now."

Dean slides his fist from Eric's arsehole. He opens his fist. His hand is full of shit, Eric's shit.

And I've just been introduced to fisting.

THE OTHER DEAN

Here's a photograph of me and the team I played with when I was 14. I am standing on the left. It wasn't the school team or even the district team. Mr. C. had put me forward for a summer football camp and I got a place! Here's another photograph. It's me and Dean Tilson.

The camp was held at a small international school near Cambridge,England, now closed. The junior boys, 10 to 14, were housed in converted stables. The senior boys, 16 to 18, were in the old manor house. We had dorms that held about eight kids. The junior house was headed by an 18 year old. We got Dean Tillson, and Dean Tilson got me. The Head of House had his own bedroom with inside bathroom and shower.

The Head Boy and I, a scumbag junior, had only two things in common - soccer and David Bowie. Maybe a bit more. We were both dirty blond, athletic and sex-hungry.

Dean took things seriously. Training after school three times a week. He and I got into the habit of staying on for an extra twenty minutes after everyone had gone while he took shots at me in goal. Dean said it would sharpen my reflexes and his shooting, so he had a double interest in extra practice. A triple as it turned out.

There was one problem. By the time extra practice was over, I was sweaty and muddy, and by the time I reached the junior block the showers were cold. "No problem," said Dean, "use mine. They're always hot." Nobody questioned this. Rules and regulations were relaxed. Dean was HB.

I got into the habit of staying on in the manor, in Dean's room, listening to Bowie, rapping about life, the universe and everything, and sharing a joint. The talk was a lot more interesting and intelligent than the juvenile stuff in junior dorm. It was good to get a break from their obsession with football sex and simple wanking.

We showered together and drying off in his bedroomroom while we listened to music. In the presence of Dean, I was glad I'd a good body, and a fully-developed cock for a fourteen year old. About six inches and thick. I know it was fully-developed, nearly, since I've added only an other inch since those days. Dean already had about eight inches. I suppose it was the heat of the shower that made our dicks hang loose and free, and maybe the heat in the room. We'd wrap our towels around us, I'd sit on the bed, Dean on a chair near the stereo changing records, pass the joint and get high on Ziggy Stardust. Of course, sometimes my mind would wander, and I'd wonder if he'd ever been fisted.

I wouldn't be telling the truth if I said Dean's looks, body, and personality didn't get to me. They did, every time, but so what? Every boy in the junior block was horny 24/7. The sounds of boys jacking off in my dorm got so outrageous we all talked about it one day and agreed we wouldn't bother trying to hide it anymore. That night the sounds of half a dozen boys jerking off simultaneously was one of my most erotic memories of that summer. I say half a dozen and not the full complement of eight boys because a couple of them resisted temptation. The truth came out later that they were being sucked off regularly by the guy who ran the whole camp, but that's another story, and who knows if it was their first time.

How the conversation got onto sex, I don't know. It wasn't something Dean and I'd talked about before. There was a Bowie LP on the turntable. He was sitting next to me on the bed. I could feel the heat from his damp skin. My cock was thick, semi-tumescent, under my damp towel. Dean held the joint to my lips with one hand while the fingers of the other ran back and forward across my thigh. I drew deeply and held the smoke in my lungs. Dean drew deeply and put the joint aside. His fingers traced patterns across the damp towel.

"Continue," I said, rising as he tugged my towel away.

Dean dropped to his knees on the floor in front of me. He grasped my prick which went from semi to full tumescence in seconds. He appeared to study it, then pulled the foreskin back from the head of my cock which was already embarrassingly swollen and purple. I have a very loose foreskin, and there are a couple of blue veins that run from the base to the tip of my foreskin. I've got big balls, and by then I'd lots of dirty blond pubic hair.

Dean wedged my legs wider open, then sank his mouth straight onto my cock. I almost blew it then and there. I might as well tell the truth: I did blow it then and there. Within seconds I was spurting into the Head Boy's mouth - "he was giving me head on the unmade bed" - so hard I heard him choke. I couldn't stop cuming. I sat there watching Dean's dirty blond hair (long), his powerful shoulders (freckled), and his spine (curving into his towelled ass) while my thighs trembled, my balls rocketed into my groin, and my cock squirted hot cum into his mouth.

Dean raised his head and looked into my eyes. I blushed. "Sorry," I mumbled. He got up from the floor. I was encouraged to see he had a huge hard-on under his towel. He sat on the bed next to me and again held the joint to my lips. My cock was hanging between my legs, twitching, dripping. I inhaled so deeply I thought the smoke would come out of my arsehole, which felt so loose I thought I might shit then and there.

"You gonna go on a guilt trip?" asked Dean, chewing and swallowing the roach.

"Naw, don't think I'll bother," I shrugged.

"Me neither," said Dean.

We sat there for a few minutes talking about Saturday's soccer match. Amazing to think back on it. I was sitting naked, cock dripping; Dean sat in his towel, huge hard-on; the smell of dope filled the room; 'Diamond Dogs' was playing. If anybody had walked in, we'd have had a lot of explaining to do. The door wasn't locked. Dean never locked it. And, as I was to discover, nobody ever walked in. Privileges of rank.

I felt a little guilty. Dean had a huge erection, and I wasn't doing anything about it. The idea of having acock that size up my arse was scary. God, he was big. But what the hell. I reached out and wrapped my hand round him. Not that much longer than me, but thicker, definitely thicker. Big nipples, too. I always remember Dean's nipples. I sat there squeezing him, plucking up courage. "I'll do you if you want," I whispered. Dean grinned. "Thanks, but no thanks, I'm saving that for Stephanie. She loves the taste, too."

I gulped and nodded.

"What about you?" he asked.

I looked down. My cock was hard again, standing straight up so that the tip hit my belly button. "Shit. Sorry," I murmured. Dean grinned again. Then he stood up, undid his towel and dropped it. I gulped again. This wasn't a boy, this was a man. His chest was hairless but his abdomen covered with light blond hair, his legs were covered with the same hair that darkened as it disappeared into the V of his legs. His cock looked huge, his balls even 'huger', to coin a word. I'm glad I wasn't taking that in the mouth, but I panicked a little as Dean pushed me backwards onto the bed.

In the ass?!

"Shhh, baby" he whispered, it's not what you think.

I lay across the bed sideways, my shoulders against a wall, my feet on the floor. Dean heaved a big cushion behind my shoulders, which made it a lot more comfortable. I closed my eyes, hoping for the best, expecting the worst. A fresh, clean, slightly perfumed smell cut through the dope smells. I recognised it. It was Nivea Cream. The smell of Nivea combined with shit, still turns me on like nothing else on the planet.

Dean's hand was round my cock. He smeared Nivea its full length. It feel cool against my burning skin. "A hand job," I thought and relaxed. I felt Dean clambering onto the bed. I mentally revised the possibilities. What...? I blinked open my eyes. He was straddling my groin, a knee on either side. I felt him take my cock and guide it into my crack until the tip touch his asshole. I don't know who was burning more: Dean or me. He lowered himself onto me, and I felt my cockhead slip through his ring, his sphincter and into his anus. It was like an elastic band round my cock. The band slipped lower and lower until my cock was buried into the hilt, my hair brushed the cheeks of his ass. Dean began to raise and lower himself on my cock. I was fucking the Head Boy! Or was he fucking me? Same difference.

Embarrassed at first, I soon got into the swings of things (the dope helped) and began to bounce my hips up in reaction to Dean lowering himself onto me. It got easier and easier. Soon he was sliding up and down my greasy pole, the friction was wonderful. I wondered if fucking a cunt was as good as this. Dean's cock was like a projectile aimed at my face. I leaned forward and grasped it with the thumb and fingers of my right hand; they met, but only just. I jerked Dean off in time to our body rhythm. His head and body were thrown back. His eyes closed. His blond hair bouncing around his shoulders. The air was full of the sounds of Bowie and the smells of sex, sweat, dope and Nivea Cream - and shit

Dean came first. Jets of semen exploded from the tip of his cock, the first two or three hitting me smack in the face, the next two landing on my chest and belly. I was able to go on longer. For another ten minutes Dean rode me. Then I hissed, "Tilson, Tilson, I'm cuming."

His eyes opened. He grinned. "Well, fucking cum then, don't just talk about it." I spurted up into his arse, as hard as before but with not quite so much semen. My cock felt so swollen, I wondered if I'd get it out in time for dinner.

"Shit, man, you telling me you haven't done that before?" whispered Dean as we lay side by side exhausted on the bed.

"Nope, first time," I lied.

"I ain't a fag," whispered Dean. "I just love sex."

"Me, neither," I whispered. "But us it okay if I... naw, never mind."

Dean looked at me. "Go on say it, jusy say it."

So I said it.

"Is it okay if I get my cum back?"

It took the HB a whole minute to work out what I was saying.

"You wanna get your cum back - right out my hole?"

"Yes, please," I said.

"Shit. I thought only Stefanie was into that shit," he laughed. "Be my guest," he said, rolling over and raising his beautiful bum in the air. I squirmed my way between his legs, pried open his hole as far as I could, fastening my mouth to his anus. To be honest, the taste of cum, Nivea and hint of shit isn't all that wonderful but the smell, at least to me is utterly intoxicating. I slurped and slobbered until I could slurp and slobber no more. I raised my glazed eyes and licked my lips.

"You are one diirty little fucker," laughed Dean. "Now get your arse off that bed. We'd better take another shower."

"We'd better," I repeated.

We had sex every day after practice and I introduced Dean to things he could try out on Stefanie, though not fisting!That suited both of us. I'd also wander round on a Saturday evening, during the disco, and Dean would suck me off or let me fuck him. Then we'd go back to the disco, Dean with Stephanie, and me with a bunch of juniors to find as much booze and sex as we could get away with.

The last time I saw Dean was in a park in Cambridge on a warm July afternoon. A bunch of us juniors were lying on the grass in a discreet corner of the park trading joints and bullshit. Dean came strolling through the park with Stephanie on his arm. He let her go for a moment and walked up to us.

Looking right at me, he said, "I'm going to miss you, man." My heart thumped, my pulse raced, I'd never been so proud. I looked up into Dean's eyes. "I'm going to miss you, too."

Dean turned and went back to his woman. He left school that evening, not waiting for Sunday and the last day of the camp. I never saw or heard from him again.

Every few years, I look at our photographs in the Souvenir Book. I look at what he wrote: "The end of the year is at hand and I suppose 'All things must pass', but I'm hoping our paths will cross sometime in the future because it's been great knowing you and sharing times with you. Dean - in the year of the diamond dogs."

Our paths haven't crossed again yet - but I go on hoping they will.

FRANKIE

By now you will be wondering if I really got into shit. I'm sitting here looking at the photo of Frankie Doyle, the only photo I've got of one of the boys from school who is naked. Actually I've got a whole bunch of them. They are digitised and on my encrypted flash drive. I love being able to enlarge a photo and inspect Frankie's 'best bits' close up.

Frankie and I were thirteen. We weren't 'mates'. We hardly knew each other. Frankie didn't seem much interested in sport, and I'd heard he was a bit of a computer nerd. I wasn't interested in much else but sport - except, of course, sex. Eric and Dean had turned me into a predator, but maybe that was always there. What I didn't guess was that in the predator stakes Frankie made me look like an amateur.

Frankie had that very Irish look: dark hair and freckles. Fine features. Eyelashes that belong on a girl. Slim but no skinny - much like me. And a 'bubble butt' that had me drooling in and out of the showers. We were in the same group for PE; that's how I saw a lot of him in the showers. And it was in PE class it happened.

We were wrestling. Our PE teacher watched to like "his boys" wrestling - perv - in only our shorts. He paired me with Frankie Doyle. I was surprised to find Frankie was a lot better than me. He managed to maneuvere mde until he was practically sitting on my face, legs either side of my head. I didn't put up much of a struggle as he wiggled his bottom with my nose half up his crack. Was that the giveaway?

Anyway, after showers, I found Frankie at the doors.

"Hey, wanna walk home," he said. "I live in Morgan Street, just round the corner from you. You're pretty good at wrestling." A blatant fib. "You should think about joining the wrestling club." We walked along talking about nothing in particular.

Halfway down Morgan Street, Frankie said: "Hey, come on into my place. Mum and did won't be hime till six. It's only four now. That'll give us plenty of time." Frankie didn't specify what the time would be for, and I didn't ask. We got into his house: "Come on, let's go up to my room. I want to show you something." His new laptop?

Wow - Frankie had his own double bed.

"So you like smelling my bum?" he asked.

I froze.

He laughed. "That's okay. I like your bum, too. I watch it in the showers all the time. It wiggles when you walk. Did you know that?"

"So does yours," I risked.

Frankie laughed again.

"Take off your clothes - all of them. Lie on the bed. And don't open your eyes until I tell you." With that, he turned and left the bedroom, leaving me with the option of walking out or following instructions. I did what I was told. Stripped off - even my socks, and lay down on the bed, head on the pillow eyes closed, dick hardening.

A couple of minutes later there was a tap at the door.

"Are you lying down? Are you naked? Have you got your eyes closed tight?"

"Yes... yes... and yes."

"Promise."

"I promise."

I heard Frankie pad across the carpet. Then the bed creaked. I knew he was on the bed with me. I waited to feel his hands on me, maybe even his mouth. "Okay, open your eyes."

Frankie's bum was right over my face. He was raised above me. I was looking directly at his bum hole, a little pink orifice with hints of brown all around it - not shit, just darker skin. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I breathed in deeply through my nose and took as much of his smell in as I could. No shit smell.Just a musky, almost spicy smell that went straight to my brain - and my dick.

Frankie lowered his bum closer and farted! I wasn't expecting that! The smell went straight up my nose - putrid but utterly intoxicating. Pure Frankie. I tightened my grip on Frankie's thighs and pulled him onto me. He let another one go. I almost choked. Above me, I heard him giggling: "I was right, I was right. You're like me."

I scrambled my face out from under him.

"You're a cheat, you're a fucking cheat."

"Why am I cheat?" he asked, a surprised look across his face.

"Because... because..." I tried to think of something.

"Look, Robert," he said - that was the first time he'd called me Robert - I'm going to give you what you want if you give me what I want."

"And what is you want?" I said.

"I want you to fuck me," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh," I said... "So why are you sitting on my fucking face?"

"'Cos I want you to loosen me up."

"Loosen you up?"

"Loosen my hole up, of course. I want you to lick my bumhole - but, of course if you don't want to..."

I yanked Frankie back into position above my face. I pushed his legs as wide as I could, could be nose between his cheeks, and licked probed, slobbered on his hole, then fasted my lips as best as I could to his browny pink starfish and tried to suck him inside out. He opened up. I was surprised to find he opened up so easily. I thrust my tongue up as far as I could and felt him shudder above me. I wormed around in his smell anus, holding my breath, as I thrust back and forward as fast and as far as I could. Above me, I heard Frankie's unbroken voice begin to whimper and moan.

"Fuck me fuck me fuck the shit out of me, which was exactly what I was trying to do.

"My turn now," I heard him gasp. "How would you like me?" I showed him how.

Frankie lay on his back, head on pillow. I raised his legs which he grasped and held almost behind his ears. Must have been his wrestling training. I got back down and prised open his bumhole, against surprised that his hole opened so easily. I spat into his hole a few times, then on my knees edged forward and push the head of my hard-on deep inside him in a single thrust.

"Oooof!" went Frankie.

I withdrew, then thrust in hard again, rabbit-fucking him the way Eric had shown me. My groin was bouncing off his bum; his head was bouncing off the bed board. I then settled into a steady rhythm so that I was able to look at Frankie's face as I fucked him.

"Spit in my mouth," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me. Spit in my mouth."

He opened his mouth wide. I formed a huge gob of spittle in my mouth and then hawked into his. For some reason this aroused me even more and I began to rabbit-fuck him against, my arsehole tightening on the in-stroke and opening on the out-stroke. I knew I wouldn't last much longer and I didn't.

With what amounted to a squeal, I thrust in for the final time and held myself there, pumping my cum deep into Frankie's rectum. Then, as his legs flattened onto the bed, I flattened onto him and our bodies lay there stuck together with sweat. We rolled sideway, held each other, and then began french-kissing, swapping saliva as we did so. "I wonder if there's any shit on your dick," he whispered.

Frankie slipped down the bed, inspected by dick and reported back.

"Yeh, there's some shit on your dick mixed up with your cum." He paused. "So do you want to?"

"Want what?"

"Do you want to watch me take a shit?"

How the fuck did he know me so well?

"Yes, but..." I couldn't get it out.

"What? Just say it."

"I want to fo more than that?"

"What? Just say it, Robert, just say it."

Again I was tongue-tied.

"Fuck. Just say it. You want me to shit on you?"

"Yes but there's more..."

"What? Say it, just say it. You know you want to."

"Well, would it be okay if you..." Deep breath. "Shit in my mouth."

Frankie beamed. "And what are you gonna do with my shit? Just say it."

"I'm going to swallow it - if you'll let me."

"Of course I'll let you," he said and hugged me.

"Come on. Let's go to the bathroom. Then we can shower afterwards. Okay?"

"Okay."

In the bathroom, I inspected my dick and was surprised to see how much shit had stuck to the crown. Then I inspected Frankie's anus and was surprised to see how much it had opened, and stayed open. The 5p coin was now a 10p coin and my sperm was leaking from the hole, oozing down his inner thigh. When Frankie looked away, I scooped his shit off my dick and stick two fingers in my mouth. Musky, spicy, a trace of bitter almonds.

"How do you want me?" he asked. "I can't hold it in much longer."

I arranged myself on the bathroom floor. As I was doing it, he said: "I was hoping you'd want to do something like this. I'll do it for you next time." I was really glad to hear him say "next time". He went on: "I know everyione will say it's dirty and pervy. But it's my body and it's your body, and if we want to do something and it's not hurting anybody else, why not?"

"Do you know why we want to do stuff like this?" I asked.

"No idea" he said. "Now hurry up and get over me. I'll try to do it as slowly as I can but I can't hold it in forever."

Frankie squatted over me. He held his bum up high enough so I could enjoy his bumhole. He farted a couple of times. The area around his anus began to swell on both sides creamy and ivory. I pursed open and the end tip of a dark brown turd poked through. "Hold it," I whispered and begain licking it with the tip my tongue. He eased out an inch or so and I managed to get my lips round it. The turd began to soften and disintegrate into my mouth, and I was forced to gulp down the bits that broke off. Frankie was doing a wonderful job in easing the turd out slowly. He pinched off the first couple of inches and I let them slide almost whole down my gullet.

From above I heard: "Does my shit taste good? Ready for some more."

It did and I was, though it began to soften and wasn't so easy to make love to. I decided to let it slip quickly down my throat and into my stomach. I didn't want to make a mess of Frankie's bathroom after he'd been so good to me.

"That's the lot," said Frankie, "But stay where you are."

He stood up. I looked up. He was holding his dick. He was pointing it straight at my mouth. I opened wide. He began pissing into my mouth. I couldn't swallow it all fast enough. I began to cough and splutter and most of it ended on the tiles floor.

When he was done, Frankie shook the last few drops of piss on me then helped me up.

"God, what a fuckin' mess," I said.

"Yeh, but look at this."

He reached and turned on a big silvery knob. It began to shower from all over the ceiling. Well, at least it showered from six different shower heads. I'd never heard of this but Frankie explained afterwards that the whole bathroom was a 'shower room'. And as the water hit us and the floor it was carried away in four different channels until the floor - and us - were sparkling clean.

When our showering was finished, Frankie opened a walled cupboard and pulled out two huge bathroom towels - and they were hot - not just warm, but hot. We had great fun towelling ourselves and each other dry.

"I don't know about you," Frankie said, "but I'm always hungry after a good shit. Let's see what mum's left for my tea. There's always enough for two, so be my guest." So we put on our clothes and that's what we did.

Frankie became my 'shit buddy' until his family moved to Brighton and we lost touch. But we took photographs of each other after making solemn promises never to show them to anybody else. I never have and I bet Frankie hasn't either. I've got one where he is squatting, laughing as a long turd slides out of him. But you wouldn't want to see that one, would you?

Paul and Lendon

I know what you're thinking. Is this guy obsessed with shit? Can't he tell a tale without scat coming into it. Yes, I can. But only if I tell about something that happened when there wasn't any shit involved. And only if it's true. I mean, I've got these snaps of Paul and Lendon. They've just burst into my kitchen from the rugby field. The seat is pouring from them. The mud has caked their shorts to their arses. They've run into my kitchen because my 'home' is attached to their annexe. I'm teaching in a school in the south of England - a school for boys with 'special needs'. Isn't it funny how the big wheel turns?

I remember exactly what happened after I threw them out - or least out until they used the showers in the annexe. And I'm going to stck myself in the story - not as me, but as one of the characters in the story. It may be factually true but it will be emotionally true, and that's always a greater truth. And another reason I'm writing his is because Paul and Lendon were and are real. Paul still keeps in touch with me after all these years.

Here goes.

"They raped Ross last night."

"They didn't."

"They bloody well did."

"When?"

"During Prep. In the Sixth Form Block. It was an ambush. They sent a note for him, and he went over to the Block."

"Bloody fool."

"True."

"He didn't have to go. Fagging's not allowed in this school, so he didn't have to turn up."

"True."

"Bloody good-looking though."

"Too much like a girl. Those eyes. Looks like a bushbaby. That hair. Those lips."

"Wouldn't mind them round my cock."

"Dirty beast."

"Dirty beast yourself."

"Homo!"

"Homo yourself!"

"Come here and I'll show you who's a homo."

Laughter.

It was time to make my presence known. After all, I'd no right to be there. I coughed and dropped my shoes on the floor, one after the other, as loudly as I could.

There was a scuffling, then Paul stuck his head round the shower curtain. His head disappeared.

"It's okay. It's only Dowson."

His head reappeared.

"What do you want, Dowson? This isn't your annexe. These aren't your showers. Bugger off."

"Ours are burst, Paul," I explained. "The others have gone over to Main House. I slipped in here. I didn't think there'd be anybody around. Do you mind...?"

His head disappeared. Then reappeared.

"I suppose not. There's only Lendon and I here. Got permission from Mr. C. Hurry up and get in here before I turn the water on. The hot only lasts twenty minutes and we want to make the most of it."

I stripped as quickly as I could, hanging each item on a peg. As I did, I looked around. This was an eight-boy annexe, attached to one of the new houses built for the bachelor masters. Lucky blighters. Our annexe housed twenty-four boys, so it was endless warfare, largely ignored by our Dorm Master and his wife, who had enough on their hands with four kids of their own to be much concerned with what we got up to. I'd only arrived in September, a new boy, new to the public school system. Though this was a very minor public school, it had many of the same traditions, including boys addressing each other by surname, and sarcasm all round. I suppose I was pretty shy in those days. I liked the place. I appreciated the investment my parents were making. But settling in wasn't easy.

I was in the same year as Paul and Lendon, Third Form, but we didn't live in the same annexe and they didn't have much need to communicate with a squirt like me.

"Hurry up, Dowson. We're freezing our balls off in here!"

I stepped into the shower room. Paul and Lendon were standing under the middle shower, naked, shivering, though it was far from cold. I moved towards them a little surprised we were only using one shower. Paul reached for a knob (shower) and turned it on. A cascade of cold, cool, lukewarm, warm, fairly hot water hit us.

"Get in here, Dowson," said Meaby wrapping an arm round my waist and pulling into the intimate circle. "One showers lasts twenty mins., two showers ten mins., three showers... work it out for yourself. I'm dyslexic."

"I'm dysgraphic," I confessed.

"And I'm bloody dyspraxic," laughed Paul, pretending to fall over and grabbing onto both of us.

I should explain our school was for very bright boys with some sort of dysfunction. So everyone had a 'dys...' of some sort labelled to them. So everyone was equal.

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

"Rape," said Meaby, passing a bar of Wright's Coal Tar to Paul. "Here, soap my back. Ross got raped by the Sixth Form last night. You said he was asking for it."

"Well, he was," said Paul. "Here, Dowson, do my back. Meaby'll do yours." he passed me a bar of soap. I dropped it.

"Careful how you bend over," laughed Meaby.

I picked up the soap. Meaby started to soap my back. I blushed so hard I could feel the blood in my prick. I felt Lendon's warm soapy fingers on my back. I took a deep breath and started to soap his. There was something elemental, primitive, satisfying about what we were doing.

"You'd better be careful, too, Paul," said Meaby, surprising me by the use of a Christian name. "Half the Sixth Form are in love with you, the other half just want to... you know."

"Rape me? Well, if you've got it, flaunt it, babe," laughed Paul, "but they won't catch me in the Sixth Form Block after dark. Anyway, everyone knows Mr. C. has got the hots for me, and nobody's going to risk offending him." (Mr. C. was the master-in-charge of their annexe. Lucky blighters.) "Lower, please, Dowson, lower. Don't be shy. We're all Third Formers here."

Meaby's fingers brushed my buttocks, then started soaping. I let my fingers drift down to Paul's bum. 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 masters. Yet there seemed nothing boastful or arrogant about Paul; he simply laughed and got on with life. Now here I was, washing his bum, terrified I'd get a full erection.

It was terrifying but liberating. An only child, my parents were quite elderly, and though there was love, there was a distinct lack of open affection. My mother, if she kissed me at all, gave me a peck on the forehead. I do not remember my father ever kissing me. Now here was real, warm, living flesh under my touch.

Paul turned and half-faced me. "Frontsies now," he smiled. I looked down. He had a hard-on. A column of pinkish brown flesh jutted out from his body, his erection hot and hard, with the head of his cock a purplish brown. Like me, and Lendon, there was a covering of pubic hair, mine dark, Paul's golden brown, Meaby's glossy black, but none of us had enough to intimidate the others. Our cocks were almost virginal, innocent, naive in appearance. I stood there transfixed, my bar of soap circling the hollow in Paul's right thigh.

"Come on, chaps, we can't waste the water." That was Meaby who dropped to his knees in front of Paul. He started soaping the boy's genitals, then I gasped as he let the soap fall, grasped Paul's erection between fingers and thumb and started masturbating him. I knew about masturbation. It was impossible not to know about it in a boys' school. Sometimes at night or in the loos, I'd gripped my own erection and started drawing the foreskin up and down the length of my hard penis. Exhilarating but far too scary, I'd always abandoned the process when I felt an indescribably explosive feeling build up in my groin and balls, a diffuse feeling that spread throughout my body as I lay there in the dark listening to the night sounds of the sleeping boys around me.

"You can leave if you want to." That was Paul. I didn't want to leave. I dropped to my knees, my face level with his crotch. "Squeeze his balls, he likes that." I laid my soap aside and felt Paul's balls. Squashy, soft and vulnerable, they moved around in his hairless scrotum. "Mmmmm, you have a nice touch." We knelt, heads close together, working on the boy's cock and balls which seemed to swell and harden under our fingers. Meaby slipped his hand away from Paul's cock, my fingers slid round to take his place. I jerked him gently, the heat and hardness beneath my fingers communicating themselves to my own cock which now stuck out fiercely between my legs.

Meaby's mouth closed over the top inch of Paul's prick, his lips coming into contact with my hand. As he slid up and down the shaft, my hand slid lower until I was gripping the base. My eyes were inches from Paul's prick and Lendon's lips. I could see his cheeks bulge as the cock slid in. I could hear the sucking sounds even above the noise of the shower cascading around us. My cock ached so hard it hurt.

Paul's arms reached down and, slipping his hands under my armpits, he pulled me to my feet. Before I could protest, Lendon's lips were around my erection; he was sucking, sucking hard. I looked down and saw his dark head bobbing over my hard cock; I turned and looked straight into Paul's eyes. He leaned forward and kissed me gently on the lips. My face burned as hotly as my stiff penis. Then he was sliding down my body to share me with Lendon. At first I knew which mouth was round my cock, which fingers were round my balls. But I lost track of who was doing what. I stood and stared at the far wall, enthralled by the sensations running through my body, exhilarated by the shame and guilt of it all. The best-looking, the most popular boy in the school was on his knees before me, sucking my prick.

My legs shuddered, and before I quite knew what was happening, my hips were jerking and I was shooting my sperm, my semen, my boy juices into someone's mouth. I didn't see. My eyes were closed, my head thrown back. My whole body shook, I thought I was going to faint.

Paul and Lendon were on either side of me. They were grinning. Huge, friendly smiles. Water plastered their hair to their skulls, hung from their eyelashes, earlobes, chins, ran down their chests, groins and legs.

"Do we call you Jon or Jonathan?" asked Paul.

"Jon, please," I mumbled.

"Come on then. Let's get out of here. The water's turning cold."

We stepped into the changing area. I started to dry off. Lendon put his hand on my arm. "Not here. In the annexe. It's much warmer. And, besides, we've still got half an hour."

We went to the annexe, and I learned to have fun with my body, and to share the fun with Paul and Lendon without too much guilt. The following week I transferred to their annexe. Mr. C. really did have the hots for Paul. As far as I know, they never did anything together, and it turned into a warm, loving relationship we all benefited from.

Paul used to read a bit from the Bible every night. He'd get on his knees by his bunk and read a few verses out loud. Then he'd say his prayers. I had the bunk above him. I don't know if it had any effect on me.

None of us ever tried anal sex.

None of us ever got raped.

I've put my story in the form of... a story. I'm no writer, but I wanted to try and give you some of the emotions and feelings behind what happened. Sex was fairly common place throughout the school. I think the Headmaster and the masters turned a blind eye to sex amongst the boys as long as things didn't get out of hand. Coop up a couple of hundred pubescent and adolescent boys, and what do you expect - choir practice?

I never met any boy at the school who considered himself gay. In later years I never met any boy from the school who was openly gay.

Ross is happily (as far as I know) married with five kids - all boys!

Lendon is something in the city. Paul is a leading figure in an international charity organisation. And me...? Well, I'm just me.

Footnote

Some generous folks have written generous comments on my story telling. Some have asked if there are more stories available on Nifty. Indeed there are. And here is the list. There are others I have written under other names but I've forgotten the names of these stories and the names under which I wrote them. I occasionally come across them, read them, and then realise I wrote them. Very few of these stories have scatalogical elements. Scat is an aspect of sexuality I've begun to explore in my mature years and I'm already running out of interest and insipration in writing more of them. So here are the stories of Jon Kent, and, as always, my thanks to Nifty for publishing them

THE STORIES OF JON KENT

Oscar My Love Sweet William Mine Still Life Water Colours You Never Can Tell Suddenly That Summer Sweets To The Sweet Falling In Love Again These Foolish Things Rescue Me Now And Then Boys Like Us Beautiful Game Sandhaven Loving Boys

The easiest way to find them is, of course, to stick jonkent in the Nifty Archive Search, and up they will pop. The jonkent email no longer functions. It's now jpcreamcheese@tutanota.com

Happy Reading Jon Kent