Encounters

by Rafael Henry

School

There are two more boys waiting in line to have their daily five millilitre spoonful of cod liver oil administered to them, before it was my turn. I don't mind the stuff particularly, but I know some of us hate the taste of it. It's supposed to keep the common cold at bay I think, amongst other imagined benefits. It's my turn now, and as I take the white plastic spoon from her, Matron gives me an odd look. There's quite a lot of flu about this year. Half an hour later I'm in her little room where she doles out the Disprin, a form of soluble aspirin for boys with sore throats and other minor viral ailments. The upshot is that I am running a 'bit of a temperature' and I'm off school 'just in case'.

I'm not the only boy off school that day. There will be two of us who will be missing from lessons from our House. I can't say I'm put out by this situation. I don't have to go back to bed, so I'm free to wander the House at will if I want……..and perhaps spend a little time with George, the other boy forced to put his academic studies on hold. But I doubt if he'll be in hurry to associate with me all day. He's a year below me, and although he is one of eight boys I share a 'bedroom' with, we are not really friends. He's what people describe as 'outgoing', whereas I'm one of the quieter types. But……being one of the 'quieter types', I have found George interesting from the outset. Perhaps I'm jealous of his personality. It's not that I don't have any friends…….I do, and one or two older boys at that. I think I appeal to older boys, and when I say 'appeal', I'm nor sure why. I know I can relate to them easily, as I'm told that I have very good social skills as a result probably, of being effectively an only child. I'm not, but my female siblings are older and appear disinterested in anything I say or do. Sometimes I feel that my very existence is an irritation to them.

But, weighing everything up, life is ok in this place. A whole year on, I'm over the worst…...that unpleasant period of feeling home sick, and I'm certain that George never felt like that. He has that air of confidence that I really do envy. To start with, he's good looking. That's the term people often use. It covers more or less everything, and they're right, he is good looking. George is 'all boy' as my mother would say, a description that I doubt is ever applied to me. As far as I'm concerned, George is on a pedestal…..although a year younger, he is one to be admired. Perhaps you know what I'm trying to say here but can't quite find the right words. Why don't you just admit it Robin? Why don't I just come out with it…..exactly what I think……that George is an attractive boy…..nice to look at……..and nice to think about too. Oh yes, and it's not just his personality…….it's everything about him……physical things too.

George instigates things……nothing evil, but definitely on the naughty side shall we say. He's been caught once or twice jumping up and down on his bed, and the last time he was marched down to the Housemaster's study and received four strokes of the cane. Tradition has it that a boy will prove how many strokes of the cane landed on his bottom by lowering his pyjamas and showing the bruises to his mates. Then there are his special 'performances'. I'm two beds away from his, so I get an excellent view of proceedings. It's basically a strip-tease act for our benefit……the seven other boys who share the room with him. He stands on his bed and starts with his top half, baring his gorgeous tummy, and making all the necessary and suggestive twists and turns, as slowly……off come the grey school shorts to reveal the pair of dinky 'modern' underpants he sports. I'm watching the neat little bump inside the pristine white material. Nothing much happening yet.

I'm safely under the covers, but my own perky little member for 'groin south' is telling me that I'm enjoying George's antics. George is enjoying himself too. In goes one hand to adjust his now swelling penis into the vertical position, the head of which sits a couple of inches below the top of his pants. Then the waistband is rolled over a couple of times to achieve the bikini bottom effect, and the even larger organ is forced to one side. Everyone is silent by this time. In go George's hands once more, and down, oh so slowly, down comes the brief white garment. With legs apart and looking down proudly, George shows us the finished article. Someone whispers…….

'Do it George! Go on!'

George, ever the exhibitionist, duly obliges. It's the first time he's gone this far. I'm enthralled as I watch his fingers and thumb moving the brownish pink skin up and down the four inch [at a rough guess] rigid shaft, just as I'm doing, and just when I think he's going to come……I succumb to the overwhelming urge to eject. I'm unprepared, but frankly, I'm way too far gone to start worrying about where a few drops of my immature sperm is going to land. I really don't care.

In a few seconds, it's all over for me, and I suspect it is as well for two or three of the other boys with their knees up, but George needs a few more seconds before he thrusts his upwardly curving 'on the cusp of puberty' form forwards in an exultant orgasmic peak. We watch as he collapses theatrically onto his back, his body straight and horizontal, and beautifully naked, his hands now behind his head as if to emphasise his still perfectly rigid penis, twitching slightly, but eventually to subside onto his tummy. What a performance!

A curious first-year boy called Abel [the Unable…….at the moment] can't resist a closer look. He gets out of his bed with one hand over his pyjama bottoms, partly to hold them up and partly to restrain his rigid little pecker. George has his eyes shut and doesn't notice the youngster checking out the now relaxed organ presumably for any interesting results. One of the other younger boys whispers……

'Anything there?'

The boy shakes his head and trips off back to bed, still restraining his expectant hardness. I'm still looking, but the wandering lad is back in his bed, knees raised under the covers, and rubbing himself very obviously, fit to bust. No one really bothers about privacy. When I look back a minute later to see how he's doing, it's all over for Abel the Unable. He's lying on his side now, eyes closed. Sleep well Abel.


We are all allocated what's often known in these places as 'studies'. They are very small rooms which we share with two other boys, and the rather confined space does offer the occupants a degree of privacy. There are two rows of them either side of a noisy wooden floorboarded corridor. The doors don't have locks for obvious reasons…….just a ball catch. Inside there is a small table where two bodies can work at a pinch, and three tatty easy chairs of varying designs. I'm in my cell with nothing to do, just sitting by the one gothic shaped window looking out onto the quadrangle which has the school chapel to one side……circa 1450, and I'm bored. I'm not that unhappy to be missing lessons, but I'm confined to barracks, and this alternative is exactly what it's intended to be……not exciting for a recuperating boy. I know George is 'off school' too, but his whereabouts are unknown to me. He might be lying on his bed feeling grotty, or perhaps doing exactly what I'm doing……..nothing.

By sheer coincidence I'm recalling George's performance of a few nights ago with some amusement and a deal of pleasure. Everything is quiet, until……..

'Are you in there Robin?'

I recognize the voice.

'Is that you George?'

'Yes. Can I come in?'

Indeed you may. George stands in the doorway of my study [cell], hand on the door jamb. He's looking conciliatory, and no doubt as bored as I am.

'What are you doing Robin?'

'Nothing George. What are you doing?' I reply sardonically.

I look him up and down. He is, as I am, in uniform because that's all we've got here…….apart from one casual jumper of a different colour to the standard mid-grey. George smiles. He has his hands in the pockets of his short trousers……particularly nice ones if I may say so. They do vary in attractiveness, boys' shorts, but George's are……..alluring, shall we say, mainly on account of the body inside them. Anything would look good on him. He's one of those lucky boys.

I'm looking at George's shorts and I notice the fingers of one of his hands moving. I quickly look up again. There's a nice little bump there, and it's fairly obvious he's been fiddling with himself. As it happens, so have I. I just get the idea that the impressive George may possibly be up for…….something.

'You can sit down in here if you want to George?'

'Oh…….thanks.'

No problem. At least it's company.

George sits himself opposite me so we can both get a view out of the narrow window. He has his feet up on the rail of his simple wooden chair. His pose affords me an enticing view right up his inner thigh…….not all the way, but most of it. Is he teasing me? I'd like to think so, but he's probably not. Playing with me is probably the last thing on his mind. I also doubt very much if he's remotely aware of my interest in him. What I do know is that he's not slow in coming forward, isn't our George. I have my left hand in my pocket. I'm in long trousers now, unlike him. There's no conversation between us. We keep staring out of the window into the Quod which is devoid of any human interest. I push my hand deeper into my pocket until I can feel myself, and I move my fingers around the confined space. I deliberately don't look at George, but my peripheral vision tells me that he's stopped looking out of the window. For a few moments I know he looking at me, and possibly at what I'm doing with myself. If George has noticed, he might get the idea.I stop moving my fingers, deeply buried in my trouser pocket. A couple of minutes later I cast a glance at George. He quickly looks away from me and back out of the window. That's interesting. He was looking. It gives me a chance to study him.

Oh, what a handsome boy you are with your unkempt not-far-off blond hair that urgently needs attention, some of which must impair his vision, and then the freckles, and to top it all……two rather large front teeth between deliciously full lips. Oh dear, looking at him now fills me with……well, fills me with quite a lot. Did I mention the green eyes? He's one of those boys who you rarely see with his mouth closed.

'Why are you off school Robin?' George asks, after a long silence.

'My temperature was up this morning. Matron thought I might be coming down with the flu or something. You?'

'Same thing, but I've been off for three days. I'm ok now though. I'm going back tomorrow.'

'You had better make the most of it then.' I suggest to the now smiling George.

'And you.' George replies.

'Any suggestions then?'

My question makes him smile again. George touches those big front teeth, beautifully white, with his tongue, which suggests that he's very conscious of them. I think they're sweet, but George is not someone you would describe as 'sweet'. No, there's a strong sense of mischief about him.

I'm trying to think of a plan of action, but a way forward isn't immediately forthcoming. With any luck, George will come up with something himself. He leans back in the chair, brushes his hair aside, and puts his hands behind his head. This is interesting. He's put his knees wider apart. What I couldn't see before is now very visible, and this is patently deliberate. There's a large expanse of inner thigh, the pale skin contrasting with the lower parts of his legs which are unprotected from the June sunshine. I can't take my eyes off what he's showing me……..or telling me? He knows I have had a good look. I've decided that I'll let him know what I can see……move things on a bit. I want it badly.

'Do you have to sit like that George?'

'Like what? Don't you like it then?'

'I didn't say that did I?' I reply.

'No you didn't. So………do you?'

'Everybody likes it don't they? Especially when……..'

'When….what Robin?'

'You know……when you're old enough…….to get it.'

'I am old enough.' insists George.

'I don't think so George.'

'I can get it.'

'Come off it George, there's no way you can.'

I've laid down the challenge. What will he do?

He opens and closes his legs several times. He watches me as I make a big point of looking up the full length of his thighs, right to the top. Lovely. I see his mouth open, as usual, and his eyes look curiously expressionless…….as if waiting for my reaction. I'm thinking that a little sexual activity isn't far away…….and with George of all people. Oh, yes please!

'Give me a shilling and I'll show you.' George demands.

I certainly wasn't expecting a request for money, the cheeky monkey.

It took me a few seconds to weigh up the pros and cons before I put my hand in my other pocket. I always kept any coins I happened to have in my right hand pocket, being left handed. I pulled out six coins…….a threepenny bit, a sixpence, and four pennies. That would leave me with a single penny before pocket money was doled out on Sunday.

Twelve pennies equal one shilling…….and twenty shillings equal one pound sterling. A shilling would buy you a decent bag of broken biscuits from Woolworths, plus a nice full white paper bag of sherbert lemons……for example.

George inspects the coins, and then pushes them into a pocket. He doesn't appear to have anything else in his pockets…….not even a hanky. Most boys had two hankies on the go at any one time…..one you kept with you all day, and one under the pillow for emergencies.

'You'll have to help me Robin.' He says, sitting back in the chair, his hands back behind his head. It's an invitation to get the ball rolling, so to speak, but I need to check……….

'How George?'

'I don't know. Get me in the mood I suppose. It's not going to happen just like that. You'll have to do something.'

My tummy has just turned over. This is it.

Imagine a boy like George, sitting back with his knees wide apart, waiting to be pleasured. There are two inviting gaps waiting to be filled by my invading fingers, with the objects of my desire in the dark corners of George's body.

I pull my chair up closer to George's open legs. If I lean forwards my hands are easily within range of his groin.

I start with the palms of my hands on the outside of his thighs, moving them from his knees up to and just inside his trousers. Each time I repeat this movement, I reach a little higher then the last time. It's turning me on big time. It's blissful foreplay, and I know what it's leading to. There's no doubt about it now.

Now it's time to turn my attention to George's inner thighs. This time I concentrate on one leg at a time using both of my palms…one outside and one inside, and then swapping over to tease the other thigh.

I can feel the warmth of his upper legs now, insulated as they are by his short trousers that have enough spare room in them to allow me to reach right in and touch what I've been waiting to touch for quite a long time. Within hours of arriving at our House, he was on my radar.

It's obvious that George likes what I'm doing to him. His skin feels soft and smooth. His head is turned to one side as I tease him, mouth open….as usual. Sexy boy! He's going to pay for that shilling I've parted with, but I'm going to leave the 'undoing' to him. He'll know when he's ready, and at that point he'll begin what I suspect will be a rather short process which will disappoint me mightily. I want it to last.

Poor old George. He's getting desperate now, but I'm going to make him take matters to the next level.

George's hands are on the snake belt. Moments later he's undone it, plus the two meatal clips that holds the top of his trousers together. Then his hands fall to his sides. It's an invitation.

'Shall I do that George?'

He nods his head encouragingly. I lean forward and hold thet op of his shorts together, take hold of the little metal thingy, and slide the fastener downwards as far as it will go. An expanse of white material is revealed, not to mention his erection which is positively pressing through his pants in its attempt to escape.

All is revealed now. What a beauty! He looks bigger than the last time I saw him hard like he is now. A tidy circumcision leaves the sculpted head prominent and inviting, but there's nothing to see…….nothing to support his assertion that he can make any spunk. Early days I guess.

I help him hook his pants under his balls, pushing the two delightfully boyish forms upwards. It looks uncomfortable, so I gently tug with both hands at the grey shorts and white fabric which yield and slip lower down his thighs. George is further forward in the chair now, bottom resting on the front edge and perfectly placed for me, his balls churning inside the textured sac, and the line that leads my eye lower still. I wonder? Dare I? It's there for the touching, but not yet Robin…….not yet. I'm wondering if he has ever been touched there.

He's not a whole fist boy, he's a fingers and thumb boy. Funny……I wouldn't have credited him with such subtlety. I know I will have to time this right. Too soon, and the whole roof might cave in on me, and all will be lost. If I get it right, then sweet George will experience something new……a new delight……new possibilities……..new horizons…….as I push the boundary further. I'm under him and perfectly placed to do what I want. It's a risk worth taking. I'v got one finger there, perfectly placed. Then I begin. How will he react to a sensation he's never had before.

I'm there, applying firm pressure against that place. There's no sudden objection form George. I press harder. Still no objection. Now I press even harder and begin to screw him with the tip of my finger.

George is breathless now, going at it. A few more seconds of what I'm doing combined with what he's doing, and we will be there.

He has slowed dramatically, and if he's like me, he wants to come gently to the edge, and then tip over in a mad rush to extract every tiny bit of joy from the ever-new experience that a boy's body will graciously provide for him. Here goes……..

He's right……he can. I thought he probably could, and he has……not much, but he wasn't lying, bless him.

George's eyes are closed, his promise kept, and as yet no sign of subsidence. A couple of minutes later, he's back, more or less, on our planet. I'm not going to say anything. I'll just wait, still kneeling before my young fair-haired boy god. I've moved my hand from where it was and placed both palms on the outside of his thighs. He smiles now because he likes the movements I'm making up and down the almost hairless flesh, his hands now surprisingly resting outside mine. Any boy would like this. We're made that way. As soon as he turns his face towards me, I'll stop. At the moment it's slightly impersonal…almost, but not, if you see what I mean. As soon as we look at each other, and I don't stop……..then it becomes a relationship……something more than just proving to me that he's capable of certain things. Well, yes, he's proved that, more or less.

'Can I help?' I ask, holding the waist band of his pants.

'Not yet.' George says, smiling now.

'Why not?'

'There might be more.'

'What? In the pipeline.' I joke, rather tastelessly.

'Umm. You can do it if you want.'

George allows me to attend to the practicalities. They are moments of tenderness.


He came back with a bag of 'spanish'……..assorted lengths of jet black liquorice, which probably cost a good chunk of his well-earned shilling. I'm not a great fan of the stuff, but it's popular amongst the younger kids, and all the profits from the Tuck Shop support the school scout troop which I suppose is a good thing. No, I don't care for the lingering sweet aniseed taste of liquorice. George, chewing a short length of it, holds out the white bag towards me….

'No thanks George.'

'Why not?'

'You bought that with the shilling I gave you. It's not mine, it's yours.'

'Oh. But I wanted to share.'

'You mean you want to share……in the present tense?'

'No, I wanted to share…….you know……when…..' His voice tails off, unable to find the right words no doubt.

'When what George?'

He just smiles. My tummy turns over for about the umpteenth time this morning. George goes over to the window and stands gazing out onto the Quod, now devoid of boys again after the morning break. I sit looking at him as he continues to consume chunks of that disgusting black gunk. One long sock is down to the ankle, the other nicely covering a robust calf muscle. His shorts begin some way up his thighs, nicely taut across his bottom, and revealing. Is he posing for me?

'When are going to get your hair cut George?' I ask randomly.

'When someone tells me to.' he replies, still chewing….still staring out of the window. Then a hand adjusts his jumper. Boys do that when they are self-conscious about their anatomy……when they know their trousers are a bit tight and people might notice. They pull their jumpers down in a vain attempt to cover their bottoms. Boys with fuller bottoms do it all the time. That's why they do it.

'I don't want any more. Do you want to finish it Robin?'

'Finish what?'

'This, silly.' He holds the now almost empty bag towards me, his mouth and those two large front teeth temporarily discoloured.

'No, I hate the stuff. Don't you feel sick?'

'No. just a bit weird…….that's all.'

'Weird? Why?'

'Don't know. I didn't mind by the way.'

'Mind what George?'

'What you did.'

I thought he might not have been aware of my earlier indiscretion. I imagined he was so pre-occupied that he wouldn't notice. He obviously did notice.

'I'm sorry George. I shouldn't have.'

'I said I didn't mind.'

'That doesn't make it right though.'

'Are you queer?'

There's a lull in our exchange of thoughts. He didn't demand a definitive answer to his last question, which was a relief. One doesn't want to put some things into actual spoken words.

George puts one hand in a pocket and leans again the side of the window, turning slightly towards me. I can tell he's thinking about 'things'. The other hand goes in and the movements tell me he's making necessary adjustments. I'm sure it's an invitation for more. I know what it's like well enough. Often, once is not enough. The second time is often more intense.

I walk over to him as he looks at me, and yes, the two now pearly white teeth are visible. Some wisps of hair fall over his right eye with their green centres, forehead almost entirely obscured. He looks down my body. I can't hide how I'm feeling, any more than he can. There are just inches between us. Then he gently closes the gap between us and I feel gentle pressure from his body on my chest. He looks up and I catch on his breath the slight aroma of liquorice, now almost attractive…….almost.

'Again?' asks George.

Fulsome and firm….that's an apt description, but I'm careful not to intrude too far. Along with what prudes might regard as unnecessary brevity, back pockets have disappeared on boys' shorts. My palms have uninterrupted access as George's face lies flat and hard against me under my chin, hands by his sides. If he thinks this is 'queer' behaviour, he doesn't mind. Quite the opposite in fact. He's just asked me for more of the same…….quite a bit more as it turned out. George has the perfect bottom as far as I'm concerned. Not prominent particularly, but firm and pliable. I am about to get to know it far better than I had ever dared to hope.

I dare to touch his hair…..to feel it run through my fingers For this place is no good…….not right for us To find a place to lie we must. Follow me my little boy-maid because I know a place Here is right……unseen and undisturbed Now your head is in my hands as you lie upon me Your lips are bright and parted as I touch those tombstones with finger tip With narrow gap between and see you smile down at me. I smile back and touch your tongue with mine. This makes you laugh, sweet darling thing. Undo me now as I undo you, and all so urgent. I see you now and you are as before. Bare skin I worship and move apart, as filled with lust we are. You, watery boy not quite teen, and me, but I am made of sterner stuff, soon to spill on your milky skin…soon to touch your lips…antidote to liquorice……breath all mixed up. Turned round now as I let down your weight upon me. Oh such delicious pressure….almost pain. I wonder how long this will last, as I press my face between. Milk me now, and do me hard I plead with shortening breath No words from him, but such unexpected skills? Will he jump or cry out when the moment comes? There must be some by now? Some little foretaste of what will assault his lips. Not disgusted, he squeezes me from root to tip, his tongue tip felt But don't stop now my fair haired maiden boy!


Our appointments to see Matron, the person appointed to keep tabs on our general health, were both at a quarter to four that afternoon. If I got the all clear, I could use the school's outdoor swimming pool. Wednesdays after school are deemed for 'General Use'. What with one thing and another, I felt in need of refreshing cool water to relax in. George said he'd like to go too if he was allowed. We both passed the temperature test, and as we proclaimed ourselves to be feeling well enough, some 'light exercise' would be allowable. I had to smile when Matron said that. Light exercise eh? I looked at George who clearly didn't want to catch my eye, probably thinking the same thing as I was. I think we would have burst out laughing if he had.

'By the way.' Matron says, pointing a finger with red painted nail at George……

'You need to get your hair cut young man.'

No! He's lovely just as he is.

We toddled up to our room to find our swimming briefs from the cupboard. Regulation navy blue……..of course. George looks at his, stretching the waistband sideways and looking doubtful.

'Can you get in those George?' I said.

'You'd be surprised.' he replies, looking up and smiling.

'I would be. Do you want to change here or at the pool?'

The pool guard was in the form of a senior boy, complete with two lifesaving badges sewn onto his red shorts. He's rather a handsome devil, with a fetching air of authority about him. He's one of those who walk about in a flashy black blazer carrying lots of books, who you happen to know is good at everything. I suspect he gets a kick out of bossing boys about. He has won his colours in about a dozen sports, is good looking, and destined for Oxbridge. He's a superior being in other words, quite unlike the rest of us. We are just the ants, wandering about aimlessly, thinking about sex. That's the age we are. We are always thinking about sex.

'Didn't I tell you last week?' asks the senior boy, pointing at George.

'You shouldn't be in the pool with hair like that. Didn't I tell you to get it cut? What's your name?'

'Yardley….sir. I don't think so sir.'

'Oh yes….Yardley. I remember now. Get it cut.'

'Yessir. Can I swim sir?'

'Yes…….sir, not….yessir Yardley…..and yes you can, but this is the last time with hair like that.'

'Thank you…….sir.' says George, but actually thinking something quite different. Best be careful George. No point upsetting that arsehole for no good reason.

'And you can change there.' Says the Senior Boy, pointing to a space on the grass that surrounds, generously, the outdoor pool. I'm wondering why there, exactly?

Once or twice I looked at Senior Boy during the undressing, standing naked, and the pulling up of our bathing briefs. Both times, Senior Boy appeared to be looking. That's interesting. I hadn't realised. I must make a note in my 'little black book'.

We played underwater games….me and George together…….his hair flowing this way and that as he swam, like long fronds of seaweed waving in the current. Once or twice I caught him, but his slippery body always evaded my grasp. It was intensely sexual……like playful lovers teasing one another. Oh George, how I love you like this. How I love you in so many ways. How I know you will never love me…….not like I love you.

I catch his foot and he doesn't mind and up the slippery limb I climb to thigh softer feeling now but further meets with doubtful hand so let him go I must.

Surfacing once more, there is the piecing sound of a whistle. Our heads turn towards the source of that rude shrillness, cutting though the warm afternoon air. Senior Boy stands pointing at us.

'Out….now you two. You've had long enough. Out!'

It's unwise to argue with Senior Boy.

Changing, we kept our backs to him. Ok, he would see up our arses when we bent down, but not the other bits. George thought it funny, but then he would. It would amuse him, pointing his bottom at authority.

Crossing the playground, we saw the Head Man approaching…….a sight that would always upset a junior boy's equilibrium. Our paths are bound to cross. To change course would look like we are trying to avoid him. Just as we pass him, gown flowing, he stops us.

'Been to the pool have we?' the tall man with sculpted grey hair enquires.

'Yessir.' We both offer in unison, looking up against the light at the imposing figure, sharply etched against a bright sky.

'It's Eardley isn't it……and Jones?'

'Yardley sir.'

'Of course, of course it is! I hear your swimming is coming on well. Well done last week.'

'Thank you sir.'

No mention of me then….boring old Jones.

'Just one thing Yardley. A visit to the barbers is in order. You will see to it won't you.'

Not so much a question as an order, but so politely given…….important person to insignificant unkempt boy…..but a loved boy in the highest sense. A real gent is our Head Man. But do they really love us like they say they do? On the whole I believe they do.


George was one of the last to sit down for Tea. He has done the deed, or rather the deed had been done to him. The barber we all go to just across the busy city road knows the meaning of the word haircut…..and knows what the authorities mean by the word haircut, thus he knows which side of his bread is buttered. He will do the job regardless of a boy's instructions. We all know that so we never complain.

Poor George. He doesn't look too happy. Gone is the 'Just William' look we have come to know and love. I had better not call him Samson. That might be the end of the relationship, such as it is, or can never be. Well, he may have lost his strength, but not that certain……..twinkle in his eye.

The End.

Talk about this story on our forum

Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.

[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]

* Some browsers may require a right click instead