++++Now I am usually a very nice even tempered person, but I become grouchy and generally unpleasant when I spy persons of an age below eighteen (18) secretly and guiltily sampling this awful sexy material that should be reserved for later, when they are over eighteen (18). So-o-o-o, you have been warned.
What I am about to tell you, I have never revealed to any person before. Because you are one of my beloved readers, I trust you never to betray my trust.
From 1995 to 2000, I had the most interesting position at Wembly Boarding School for Young Gentlemen. This was a preparatory school; equivalent to your high school, except these were very rich young gentlemen to be sure. However, the fact of being high born to not insure that they were any better behaved that any adolescent boy from lower class homes. Yes, they could be quite nasty in their care of their bodies and in their preoccupation with sexual matters. Often I would find the most salacious material hidden in the space between their mattress and bedsprings. Really awful stuff about women with seriously glandular breasts, or with spread legs, revealing shaved slits. I can't imagine why they were so taken with these images, but it seemed to stimulate them. Many times I entered their rooms and found them pulling vigorously on their puds. Oh, if only they asked me, I could show them wonderful ways to enjoy one's prick.
I was eighteen when I began the position and twenty-three when I left to enter my present employment at Wingate Hall as tutor to young William, but that is another story I shall not essay at this time.
At Wembly I was in charge of the upper boys house. I supervised the boys when they returned from the playing fields, arranged their meals, and generally acted like, shall I say, their mother away from home.
The boys might have been rough at times, but they missed their mums greatly. I saw many times that they made me their substitute mum. Oh, how many times they came to me with rashes, crotch itches, constipation problems (or the reverse). They mistakenly believed that I had the magic cure for acne, or for sore muscles. Ah yes, I could assist in relieving the latter. I was glad to massage the lad's aching back, upper legs or arses bruised during equestrian practice. Then there were those touching times when some poor lad was ill. Nothing serious, otherwise they were sent to hospital, but those short-lived fevers, upset stomach and such. How piteous they looked, as if this was their last day on Earth and yet one day later they were prancing about as though nothing had happened.
The rooms were tiny. Each boy had his own room. That was touted greatly in the brochure. Rooms had no doors. That made it easy to check the boys at night.
I made it a self-imposed duty to say goodnight to each lad. That took the better part of an hour, as I had fourteen charges. They loved these tender moments, tenderness so excluded form their daily life of rough and tumble sports. I rubbed their heads and wished them good dreams and some of the boys asked that I kiss them goodnight.... on the forehead of course. They considered that manly. I loved the feel of their moist foreheads and the smell of their hair. Some boys actually fell asleep as I said goodnight and administered some affectionate body rub.
The administration degreed at the end of April that the boys should sleep in the nude, without bed dress. Of course I was delighted with the order and I found that my nightly ritual was even more pleasant when the lads were naked. But best of all was many patrols, passing open doorways, hearing sleep muttering, viewing naked arses uncovered by boyish thrashing about. Seeing those young, firm, perky checks was just perfect. But that was eclipsed by an even greater sight, a boy lying on his back, his surprisingly large and semi erected organ nestling against his hip, his sparse and newly grown pubic hair glistening in the moonlight.
I must stop a moment to regain my composure.
I became a cataloger of boy's smells. The younger ones, not yet, or barely into adolescence, had a smell like slightly sour milk, the older boys a heady smell compounded of sweat and soap.
I found that my trips along the corridor of open doors began to occur at shorter intervals as I enjoyed the sights and smells as a growing addiction. Soon that was not enough and I began to enter the rooms and stare down at the sleeping lads, noting the various expressions they assume in sleep. Some with lips puckered out as if seeking a kiss. Others with profound frowns as if the effort of sleeping required great concentration. But I was entranced with the boys who smiled in their sleep, as if they had just heard a joke or tasted a perfect trifle.
Like all addictions, they never lessen, they evince a greater hold as time goes on. And it was that way with me. I felt impelled to intensify my nighttime relationship with the sleeping ones. I began caressing their young chests and insolent nipples. Often this produced a murmur in sleep, a reaction of pleasure as I could see their penises react by lengthening. I rehearsed in my mind what to do should one boy awaken, "You were crying out in your sleep I wanted to see if you were alright. Go back to sleep lad."
But chests and nipples weren't enough. Like a drunkard swilling more gin I progressed to stimulating the lads. If I was fortunate enough to find a boy lying on his back with his boyish prick exposed I would take a tremulous finger and gently pull it along the underside and watch the organ grow and stick up proud and begging for more. More I would give it. Clever thumb strokes on the leady head, rythmatic uncovering of his glans and then pulling it back, yes, back and forth, back and forth. This alone would often produce copious pre cum in sensitive young ones. But the final coup de grace was a firm, but gentle stroking until orgasm occurred. Each boy had his own way of cumming. Some would almost jack knife as their knees came up to their chests. Others merely signed deeply and slide into cum of great quantity My favorite was the boys who groaned in intensity as their organism approached.
I am not sure that the boys were fully asleep. My visits brought them such joy that I think they were afraid to say anything for fear they would end. You know young men of their age were gluttonous for penile pleasure.
This practice on my part continued full throttle during the warm weather and somewhat less during the cold nights, yet even through the boys were swaddled in heavy bedclothes and flannel pajamas, many obligingly lowered their pants and uncovered themselves when they heard me approaching.
I still see their long silky eyelashes lying on their dewy cheeks, their young mouths partly open, puffing excited air through their soft lips. The smell of their sweet breaths will remain in my memory forever.
But pity, all good things must end eventually and likely it was fortunate for me. I had taken many risks in enjoying my passion. No one ever reproached me, but something else happened that hit me as being too close to the truth. George Knowles, one of my boys, actually the one who used to cry out so fervently when he reached his climax, that boy wrote a book about his days at Wembly. It was a very frank tell-all book. It dealt openly with his lovers from the lower forms, no names were used. And he wrote of a particular house father who performed much appreciated sexual favors whilst the boys were asleep. He wrote, "We all knew who he was, but he was the best lover all of us would ever have."
I left my Wembly and offered myself for the tutor position at Wingate Hall. The very first day I knew I would find this position interesting and challenging. That was after I was introduced to Master Tom, a curly headed boy of sixteen, who looked me up and down with admiration, and whose eyes lingered at my prick area.
Sir Thomas, Sr. advised me that like all the other Tutors, I would sleep in the same room with my charge. I agreed to these arrangements and moved in immediately after my being offered the position..
As I unpacked, I wondered how young Tom would smell when he was asleep, how he would like my ministrations in the sleeping hours. I could hardly wait.
End