Blessed Be the Merciful
by Rafael Henry
Chapter 5
The figure, modelled in clay, stands some twenty-five inches high. It's an ambitious undertaking for Jamie, but it's a labour of love and he's excited by it. Every evening he trots over to the Visual Arts Centre, as it is extravagantly called, to look at his new creation, if not to actually do anything to it.
'Just press little pieces of clay into it and build up the form where it'd needed, and use the modelling tools to cut into the recesses.' Mr Drew advises. 'You've picked a decent model there Jamie. What resources are you using, or have you just got a very good memory?' He laughs.
'This Sir.' Jamie replies, fishing for the now rather dog-eared photo of the swimmer, poised for action.
'Ah, that looks like Peter Thompson. Very nice. Are you friends?' He asks, his voice trailing away rather.
'Kind of, Sir.'
'Ok. Does he need those trunks on do you think?'
'I don't know Sir.'
'You can borrow the store room over there. No one will disturb you in there. Go and find him and ask him if he'll pose for you. In the meantime I'm going to lend you a book on Rodin. You're a lucky boy, I don't lend my best books to just anyone. Look after it.'
We didn't mind Mr Drew being there. It didn't matter to us. Peter was perfectly happy to take his clothes off for me, even though Mr Drew would be there too. Mr Drew isn't like that. He's quite young for a start……..and really nice. It doesn't take much to get Peter excited at the best of times and the idea of getting his kit off didn't put him off at all. Perhaps I should offer to take mine off too? That would make it fairer. Poor old Mr Drew. He would have to be there anyway. I hope he won't mind.
In that little room Fabian Drew had everything ready for us. The revolving stand with the large lump of clay unwrapped from its plastic sheet to keep the material workable, a chair for mine and Peter's clothes, the Rodin book open at the page with the inspirational standing nude figure, and a lump of grey clay ready for use, and an electric fire going full blast to keep us warm. Peter got undressed down to his pants and looked a bit nervous about exposing himself completely. I was feeling the same, and not too sure about the whole thing. Then Mr Drew laughed and said 'I'm not looking boys. Carry on.' Mr drew was looking the other way, undoing a bag of clay. Then I took my clothes off first, pants and everything. When Peter took his pants off, Mr Drew looked round at him just for a moment before busying himself with something. I suddenly thought that what we were doing must be against the rules, but Mr Drew was allowing us to do it, so it must be alright?
'Most things in this place are against the rules Jamie. Sometimes I think that art itself is against the rules. We will just carry on as usual. Go and have some fun with Peter now. You two are perfect together. Enjoy each other while you can.'
Peter is standing there not knowing quite what to do. His little creamy mouse stuck out quite a bit too. Fabian Drew doesn't seem to notice, while he demonstrates the technique of building up the forms with little fragments of clay pressed on, and then I take over. I work on the head for a while, but keep my attention wandering over the complete surface, moving Peter this way and that…….front view, then a side view and a view of his back. Mr Drew stands back and then looks on from a chair in the corner. We are not really aware of his presence. I'm aware that this for me is a special experience as well as a creative one, and dare I say it, sex is creeping into this. As I work the clay with my fingers I'm feeling for Peter, almost literally. I love the fullness of his behind as I look into it, my fingers pressing into the clay almost as is if I'm pressing my fingers into Peter body. I'm getting really deep feelings doing this. I've realized that playfulness of this kind is a vital and necessary expression of what Peter and I feel for each other, and it is completely right and proper too. Whatever we do cannot be wrong. Risky it may be for various reasons, but not wrong. There are moments as I work, with Peter looking straight at me, quite perky at times, that my body is telling the world how I'm feeling. I want to fill this lump of clay with my feelings for Peter. I want to fill it, him even, with all my love for him. Peter watches me as I explore each part of him, pushing in here, pulling the clay out there. Mr Drew has lots of advice for me as gradually the form of the figure emerges from that amorphous lump of grey mud into what is beginning to look like the figure of a standing boy. It's magical. A real artist would think it rubbish probably, but I love it. Mr Drew says it's the process, the looking, it's all in the process of exploring and looking .
'Feel for forms with your hands and fingers Jamie. His body must become your body in your hands. He's giving of himself to you Jamie, so take it……enjoy it…….love the process of exchange. It's art Jamie. No more and no less. Feel the joy of it.'
Quite so Mr Drew.
Peter knows what part of him I'm working on right now, and he stands smiling at me. I look at Mr Drew, and he's trying not to smile, but I can see he's intrigued and watching for our reaction. I can't ignore this very lovely part of Peter. The beginnings of the form are already there, but now I have to develop it. The testicles are largely hidden but the penis will need to protrude in a gentle curve as it emerges from his abdomen and gently lays on the small bulbous mass underneath. Gradually I sculpt with fingers and thumbs the delicate circumcised penis held firm by the tiny extended length of armature that supports the little supremely delicate organ which is Peter's cock, bless it, finally incising the ring of flesh around the darker head with a fine wooden modelling tool, and the opening at the tip, what Mr Drew referred to rather scientifically as 'the point where the urinary channel emerges'. With Peter, that part is pronounced and has been for me the most wonderful focus of my attention, much to Peter's delight. It's for me, one of those places on Peter's body when we are alone and in the mood, I use the very tip of my tongue to explore. There are other places too, like his ears, around his eyes, his neck, where his umbilical cord was cut, the perineal stripe that runs down the underside of his penis all the way to the opening in his bottom, and back again, time after time. I know I won't have him for ever, but while I do, and he has me, we will celebrate in whatever way we choose, and damn the rules.
'Most things in this place are against the rules Jamie.' Says Mr Drew. 'Sometimes I think that art itself is against the rules. We will just carry on as usual. Go and have some fun with Peter now. You two are perfect together. Enjoy each other while you can.'
It was an intense session, and after an hour we had all had enough, and the figure to all intents and purposes is finished. We decided that the 'rough' texture of the clay added to the impressionistic feel of the piece and that smoothing the whole thing out would not add anything useful. In the plaster casting, a few details might be lost but plaster can be carved out where necessary, but not added to. Now, it is what it is.
Mr Drew arranged the storage of my sculpture in a 'wet cupboard' so it would dry and shrink slowly and not crack and destroy itself. With both of us dressed, I knew Peter would want a chat about what had happened. 'Chat' is our code word for something else by the way. We would have done it there and then in the store room had Mr Drew not been present. Still, there are a number of suitable out-of-the-way places around here where two boys can masturbate together and relieve themselves of tension, other than the indignity of having to dive into a lavatory. A quick stroll around the perimeter of the school brought us to the rear of the gymnasium and out of sight. No one would deliberately stray around here.
It's always Peter first, and in moments we are fondling each other through our clothing, with mouths open and nicely connected, arms behind backs. Peter gets hard very quickly as we kiss, and disconnects to allow more air into his breathless lungs. The tips of my fingers slide down the back of his pants and between his legs, pressing hard between the cheeks of his bottom. He's undone now at the front and I have him, hot and hard and steaming, between my three fingers and thumb. I direct his face at mine and feel gouts of hot breath from Peter's lungs blowing onto it. I'm pressing hard into him at the back with my right hand, and with my left, I'm rubbing him as fast as I can. He won't be long. In a couple of minutes he manages to let me know that he's coming…….now. The contractions continue for a few more seconds before I need to support his body. It was all so urgent and lovely. Gradual recovery first, then……
'You do it.' Peter says, his hand deep into the front of my pants with my 'tenticles' as he calls them, jiggling away in his fingers. If there's anything that will hasten the process, it's Peter's fingers doing just that. I have hold of him in my right hand, still hard, deep into his knickers. Lovely!
He watches, head down, as I relieve the tension that's built up in the last two hours of erotic intensity. He watches as what has built up inside me, is suddenly and miraculously ejected from my body onto the grass where we are standing. The thought, rather oddly, entered my head as I saw the last of it descend in a thin string of stickiness…….how many other boys over the years have come together in this place? A fair number I'm sure. A happy thought of many years of wrongdoing.
Mr Drew supervised the casting of the model of Peter in a plaster mould in two halves, which meant he did most of the work. I know I would have made a right mess of what is a quite complicated process, even if I knew how to do it. Peter and I watched as my Tutor deftly flicked the liquid plaster over the clay, gradually building up the depth, the two halves of the mould separated by thin sheets of tin. The next evening we separated the halves, coated the inside with what Mr Drew called a 'petroleum jelly separating agent' which looked like Vaseline to me. He showed us the large tub of the stuff, and made a very odd remark…….
'You two could do with a bit of this stuff.' He says, holding up his middle finger coated in the slippery viscous jelly, and smiling broadly. 'This material is very useful for a number of purposes boys.' He continues, before applying a thin coat of it to the whole of the inside surface of the mould. Later I realised what he had alluded to, and felt my face warm. He obviously suspects, or knows even, that I'm queer. I thought later that Mr Drew's remark was very inappropriate, and definitely against the rules , thus in my estimation, perfectly ok!
We helped mix the bowl of plaster, and with the two halves of the mould held together by a knotted length of bicycle inner tube, we poured the liquid into the open base very carefully, shaking the quite heavy object a little to prevent any air bubbles from forming.
'Come back tomorrow boys and see what we've got…….and forget what I said about the jelly.'
I'm on friendly terms with a senior boy in our House. A rather camp boy called Abel. Later that evening in the Library I asked him what a boy might need petroleum jelly for. He laughed.
'It makes it much more fun when you play with your bottom matey…..not that I do of course. Or someone else's. Would you like a demonstration? I can arrange that right now if you like? Come on. I'll show you.'
Over the years I have, not so much endured, but been the butt of Abel's pointedly sexual remarks. He would stop me in the corridor and whisper in my ear…….'Sex darling?' Or……..'You get a little lovelier each day darling.' A reference to a soap advert. He's that type. They were never actual invitations, but asides that left a door open, should you ever decide to go through it. I never did, not until now.
We went to his study, places we all have as a base just to sit and read, or chat with friends. Junior boys share with a couple of others, but Senior boys like Abel usually have one to themselves. Abel shuts the door, goes to his tuck box on the floor in the corner of the small wood panelled cell, and extracts a small tube that I didn't recognize as the same stuff that Mr Drew had used. What Abel was about to show me had certainly never crossed my mind.
I'm standing in front of Abel, legs apart, with my trousers and pants down around my knees. Abel has his left hand on my bottom and with his right middle finger coated with the clear substance from the tube, he reaches between my legs. I'm bound to say that it felt very nice, rather tickly to begin with, but as he reached further and further, the better it felt. With what must be the full length of his finger, he waggles it about whilst slipping it up and down. The whole scenario dawns upon me as I visualize Peter's hard penis. Then the image appears of Peter's buttocks, held apart for my perusal just two days ago in the bath tub. In the meantime, the gently probing Abel comments……
'Oh, what a good boy you are.' He says as slowly and steadily I rise…..and rise…..and rise, until my rising is complete.
Rather shocked at the revelation, and excited by the implications of Abel's demo, I reach for my pants and trousers, hurriedly yanking both up, securing everything whilst making a feeble excuse, and exiting stage left. Still tingling, I go to the library, take down from a shelf the first book I see, sit down at a table, open the book and attempt to compose myself. Taking the pen from the inside pocket of my blazer, I write on the palm of my hand what I think was the name on that tube Abel had anointed me with.
We are allowed to wander the town should we wish to, in pairs, not on our own. This rule exists as a result of boys thieving from shops in the past. Peter and I are in Boots the Chemists. Wandering the aisles, Peter following, I recognize the product on a shelf, next to things that boys should not be curious about in, but are. Then we wander into our local Sainsbury supermarket. Again, I happen along the soap and toothpaste aisle, and further down close to the things that boys are not supposed to notice or be curious about but are, I see the very same product that Abel extracted from his tuck box. Looking this way and that, I notice that Peter and I are alone in that aisle. Sorry, it really is the only thing I have ever stolen. On our way out, I see a charity box. I put a one-pound coin, shiny and recently minted, into it, my conscience half salved.
'Why did you do that Jamie?' Peter demands. I'm already annoyed with myself, as I'm about to throw the container I've just filched from a shop into a nearby waste bin, a lesson learnt, and one pound the poorer for it. I know what I have to do, and five minutes later back in the shop, again unseen, I carefully place the item from whence it came, one pound sterling the poorer.
A couple of days later I met Abel in the Games Room, the day that my sculpture, if I may call it that, was to be released from the mould, and the image of Peter revealed. Abel asked me to come to his study in ten minutes as he had something for me. Naturally I was a little concerned that I might be walking into something I hadn't bargained for like the last time I spent any time in his study, albeit an interesting 'something'. When I get there, he hands me the tube of the clear slippery stuff.
'There, that'll keep the wheels oiled old boy. There's a fair bit left in it. You can use it front as well as back. So it's full steam ahead now, Sunshine. Do let me know how you get on. Don't forget that my offer still stands Jamie. My door is always open for you, and no need to knock.' And with that I depart, item safely in pocket. I was expecting a bit more than that from Abel, but Abel is not pushing his luck today. Half way down the corridor I stop. Shall I go back? No.
The two halves of the plaster mould came apart nicely, revealing the solid form of Peter within, all creamy white.
'There will be lots of little details to clean up Jamie, and small repairs to do with 'still' plaster. I'll show you how.'
Peter is thrilled with the result, as I am, and I'm in two minds as to whether I will make it a gift to him. But given the explicit nature of the image, I could imagine awkward questions coming my way from his parents, like 'Do you often allow boys to pose naked for other boys in your school Headmaster?' Sensibly I thought, Mr Drew has decided to keep the thing under wraps, at least for the time being. He even suggested that someone might make a miniature pair of shorts for the boy to make him decent. Heaven forbid! In the end we gave the piece a good waxing when it was completely dry, weighing half as much as it did, which added a subtle lustre and an ethereal quality we all thought just right.
I've come round to Abel. He has a dry wit which I enjoy, and he makes me laugh. He's totally non-emotional with regard to me and my 'attributes' as he calls them. That's honesty for you. He asked me to go with him to the cinema the other day, but I declined his invitation. I knew what the likely scenario was. The thought of all that in the back seat of the local flea pit at a matinee show didn't appeal frankly. It's the contrast. With Peter, it's all weepy and emotional with me, simply because he's just so loveable. With Abel, it's sex. He's the first to admit that, and makes no apology for it. If you agree to consort with him, don't expect the lovey dovey treatment. But if you enjoy having a finger stuck up your back passage, he's your man. I do, but when it comes to a paragon of virtue and beauty like Peter, it's me that's doing the doing……at least in theory. The idea of probing an older boy does nothing for me. Being probed by a senior boy does.
'I've got just six weeks to go before I get out of this hell hole Jamie.' Says Abel. 'Won't you…….just once?'
He'd just stepped off the Hall stage after doing his cello piece in House Music. Bach's Second in D. I said I would. It'll be more than just his finger up my bottom, but that's a sacrifice a good boy has to make for a nice bloke and Bach. He won't hurt me, and it will give him happy memories for the rest of his life, hopefully. For playing the cello that well, he deserves it. I'm left wondering where and when it will happen, for surely it will. I'm thinking at this moment, how wonderful, and how lucky I am to be a fourteen-year-old boy who is as gay as a pink tent. But the more I am with Peter, the love of my life thus far, I am realising that Peter will never be like me. Despite his superficial crush on me, coinciding with a rush of hormones, he will develop along 'normal' lines. Boo!
Thanks to Abel's gift in a tube, I have the means to consummate my relationship with Peter up to the hilt, literally, but it is not going to happen. I have decided that. Maybe it will happen for him with another boy sometime. Who knows. I need to keep our love as pure as I am able, and I don't want his memories of me to be dominated by some sordid event that he's going to regret. Sorry, I have no more words on the subject.
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