Kings Blue
by Rafael Henry
Chapter 6
Dinner that evening was a simple affair. Alea quite understandably didn't want to do anything elaborate, as the family are leaving tomorrow. We all had wine, with Mathias getting a little tipsy. He and Alea, it seems to me, have a strong and healthy relationship, not that I know much about adult relationships. The rather outspoken Ties told his father to behave himself. That's a bit rich coming from him. I think my mother was slightly embarrassed. She has to do without the intimate company of a man now, and I imagine that could be trying at times. The way I feel these days, that would drive me mad. But seriously, it must be the stage I'm at. I know other boys are just the same.
About nine thirty, Alea starts clearing up, with my mother's help. The party is over, lots of nice things have been said, compliments exchanged and so on. I thought it was all over until the last farewells tomorrow morning when they set off for the Dover ferry. I thought wrong. Ties just came out with it.
'You two are in my bed tonight. I'm going in Per's.'
I stood there in total amazement, as did Per. My mother and Alea just got on with the clearing away. There is no discussion. It has been decided.
I think the depth of my friendship with Per has been something that those around us could not ignore. I never saw the point of hiding my feelings for the most beautiful thing I had experienced thus far in my life. I had fallen in love with life really, with Per at the centre of it. It has liberated and empowered me, and the last thing I am is ashamed of what I know I will be, and am now to a lesser extent. I yearn for the time, years ahead no doubt, that I can fulfil my potential as a sensitive and rounded man who will give himself completely, in every way, to my partner, if I'm lucky enough to find one. Sex, I earnestly hope, will be an important and essential part of that relationship, and the simple physical pleasures Per and I have enjoyed together will mature into much more advanced love-making. But for now, the touch of his skin, the feel of his mouth on mine, and the mere scent of my very best friend is enough. Per and I make love to each other in our own ways, decided by us, and with an overwhelming joy.
We dealt with all our emotional baggage that night, together. Let's get it all over with, and not spoil the farewells tomorrow. There were profound moments, important things said, and tears of course. There had to be those. We need not have borrowed Ties's bed. We were so close that Per's single would have done. He's very tired tonight, and today was hard work generally. We are both anxious and upset about tomorrow. He's asleep now, with a tiny trickle of saliva coming from a corner of his slightly open mouth. I scoop it up with a finger.
I held him as he slept, now turned over and fitting nicely against my tummy. I'm a long way from sleep, and I'm excited. I slip my hand down to check on his unconscious state of being. He's in an interesting condition. I heard once that males get like that up to ten times during the course of the night. I know what I'd like to do right now, but I don't want to wake Per. But the feelings are too strong, and I reach the line, selfishly and intensely, between the hard mounds of the warm flesh of my beloved's buttocks. Throughout, he does not stir. I ignore the consequences. I am not proud of myself at this moment.
Morning.
It was all over quite quickly……..almost painlessly. Ties had woken us up at about seven thirty with the announcement that the family were leaving in half an hour. That came as a bit of a shock. Not time for anything……not really. Per had put out his clothes the night before for travelling in. It was the usual minimal outfit. I wanted to help him, and he smiles his agreement. It's a very sexual act for both of us, and part of my need to nurture him. He stands before me, beautifully naked. I want to examine him one last time. Per looks down as I hold him intimately, rollling the two egg-like forms between my fingers and watching his wonderful little penis swell, as the glans slowly emerges, shiny as it wakens. I want, as he does, one last kiss…..one last act of worship.
I look at him now, dressed, my Kings Blue jumper against white shorts. So perfect.
'Well you look reasonably decent Per.' I say encouragingly. Per turns around for me, turning his head trying to see what I can see.
'Very nice. That should go down nicely in Amsterdam.'
He doesn't 'get' my weak joke.
I've said my goodbyes to Alea, Mathias and Ties, and I'm watching from our sitting room window. My mother is saying hers, finally, as the family board the pale blue and cream VW camper. Per is the first one in. He's gone now……..unseen now……..a fleeting shadow in my life, disappeared. My uncle once said, with reference to my father, that to cry was a strength not a weakness. Ever since I heard those words, and know them to be true, I've readily indulged myself in the release of tension through tears, but preferably in private, as I do now.
'Why don't you take yourself off for a walk darling?' My mother says. Good idea.
I made it all the way from Hythe to the western end of Folkestone. I rather like the imposing ex-hotel turned into apartments, with parched lawns in front that extend almost into the town itself. It was strange to see a ferry pull out of the harbour which might have carried Per back to continental Europe, leaving me as I am now….bereft, unhappy, not knowing, confused about myself, and a bit cross. I tell myself not to be stupid. Per would not want that.
There's a notice outside the entrance to the Arts Centre which occupies the basement of the huge yellowish red brick building. 'Call for Entries' it says, with details of how to submit work for the Folkestone and District Art Society's Autumn Show. Bring your work between seven and nine, with form duly filled in and the fee of two pounds sterling per piece of work. I smile at the use of the word 'per', sans capital letter. I turn to see the cross-channel ferry again, now some miles out, and just a tiny white shape with a line of wake behind it. I look back at the 'Call for Entries' notice. I imagine Per looking back to the white cliffs of our coast. An idea strikes me. Why not?
The letter came on Wednesday. My drawing of Per had been accepted for the Annual Exhhibition. In the envelope was an invitation card to the Private View, to be held on Friday…….six until nine thirty.
I wondered what to wear for such an occasion…..I mean you don't turn up in beach kit to something like that do you? No. I went for jeans and a smartish shirt with a nice grey jumper cast around the neck, and open sandals, no socks of course, as a gesture towards the more avant-garde amongst the arty folk of Folkestone. As an afterthought, I took the precaution of trimming my toenails.
It was hot in there, noisy with chattering exhibitors and guests holding glasses of wine, and I had not the slightest idea of what to do with myself. Then I had the bright idea of having a look around the show. I found my drawing. They had hung it nicely, albeit in a corner, which was nice of them because it was hurriedly and rather cheaply framed. Then I looked at the small card with my name and the title of the work printed on it. I had titled the drawing rather crassly, because I'm only thirteen and taking myself a bit too seriously…….'Portrait of a lost friend'. And then I notice something else……a bright green round sticker to the right of the title. What does that mean?
The grey haired lady at the desk near the entrance tells me to find a Mr Ashton. He would explain the meaning of the green sticker.
'They wear labels dear, so everybody knows who we are.' She says, standing up to see if she can spot this Mr Ashton in the crowd.
'There he is…..over there by the widow. The young man with the red tie.'
I can see him. I walk over to the standing figure feeling decidedly nervous. I can see he's talking to another man. I don't want to interrupt their conversation, so I stand a few feet away. After a few moments, Mr Ashton notices me standing there, looks away again, and then back at me. This time he realizes that I'm waiting for a good moment to speak to him. He makes an excuse to break off his conversation with the other guy, turns towards me and smiles broadly.
'Don't tell me….you must be Leo?'
'Yes sir……..I mean, yes I am. I was just wondering why there is a green sticker next to my drawing.'
Sir? Oh dear……a freudian slip there I'm afraid. Now I'm blushing.
'Right Leo. I'm pleased to tell you that you've won a prize. Your drawing was judged to be the best piece by anyone under sixteen. You're thirteen are you not?'
Indeed I am, and I've won a book of my choice…….up to twenty five pounds in value. I've never owned a book that expensive. We begin to discuss my drawing of Per. He obviously likes it.
'So who is this lost friend? We were all rather intrigued by your title. Did you do this from life?'
Answer, yes. He likes my response, and wants to know more. I tell him as much as I want about my lost friend, which is quite a lot, but stopping short of divulging anything very personal.
'That is so very interesting Leo. And what happened to this boy? Are you still friends?'
I explain. Then he asks about the kind of book I would like because it's his job to sort that out. I know exactly what I would like.
'Something about the human figure? Would that be alright?'
'That didn't take you long. A 'how to'…..or examples of?
'Not a 'how to', 'examples of' I think. Just drawings.'
He asks me why. That's easy. We talk more and he's interesting. It's the first time I've ever had a conversation like this. I'm excited. Then he asks me how much experience I have. Of what? I blush again. I tell him I fill little sketchbooks with people I see around me. He gets more interested.
'Like who Leo?'
'Boys at school……that sort of thing. Anyone really……people on the train……people sitting down somewhere.'
He nods his approval. We walk round the exhibition while he asks more questions. I'm enjoying answering them, and I'm feeling more confident by the second. I'm excited.
'So you will appreciate these maybe?' He points at a painted nude.
'Yes. Is it yours?'
'Yes it is.'
I like the way the paint has been applied….loosely. It gives the work life and vitality. It's of a woman standing, with her hand on the shoulder of a boy. The boy is not nude. He has a small cloth hiding what I would have preferred to see. The cloth is thinly painted, which suggested to me that it was an afterthought, put on to avoid criticism perhaps. Looking at the painting, I'm thinking…….the presence of the woman makes the boy acceptable………..maybe?
I agreed to meet Mr Ashton at the bookshop in Folkestone. It's what I would describe as an alternative bookshop, as opposed to Smiths, which specializes in all things cultural. I've been here before, and seen books that looked interesting and perused them hoping nobody would see the cover, or the page I was looking at. Sometimes I would get odd looks, as if they thought I shouldn't be there.
We're in the visual arts section. It's extensive. I find a book I've seen before and it's called 'Naked to Nude'. He finds a book and brings it over to see what I think of it. He shows me the cover……'The Boy in Art'. I wasn't born yesterday. He's gay, or whatever. I know the book. There are some beautiful things in there, and some fairly explicit images. There's the famous Caravaggio boy, showing us everything.
'Would you like this one Leo?'
I tell him I would. It's still here on the shelf in my workroom. Then……..
'If you're interested Leo, you might like to see a working artist's studio?'
As you might imagine, my mother wanted to know how I got on at the opening night of the Folkestone and District Art Society's Private View. Of course she was thrilled at my news. I neglected to tell her about Mr Ashton's invitation.
He lives in a small house close to the beach in Sandgate…….about a half hour walk from my house, and right next to the one once lived in by H G Wells. There's a plaque on the wall.
There's a room at the back which he uses as a studio. You can see the beach through the window. He makes two mugs of tea which we drink looking at the view. There are people on the beach.
'Have a look round Leo……do. More books up there.' He says pointing towards some shelving, as he left the room with the mugs. Looking at the spines of the books, I notice a title that intrigued me. 'Show Me'. I had seen several educational books on the subject of growing up, but not one like this.
He sees me with the book. I have it open at the page where a boy is being admired by a girl. Mr Ashton smiles.
'Do you like him Leo?'
'Yes I do.'
'More than the girl perhaps?'
I smiled but did not commit. It's increasingly obvious to me that he prefers men to women, and possibly boys even more. I know I'm on dangerous ground here, but the impression I have of Mr Ashton is quite a nice one. I don't feel at all threatened by him.
'And your models are all on tap , as it were?'
'Yes. We are rather stuck there. You have the beach though…..from this window?'
'Yes, but I seldom use it. I like to work from a model, but they are hard to find.'
'The ones you want?'
'Yes, the ones I want…….rather like you. You had your boy from Amsterdam did you not? I'll pay you well.'
I have not had a summer holiday remotely like this one. Here I am, eight days away from another year of purgatory, and I've landed myself a job. Most of those days Mr Ashton wants me, my mother will be out at work, so she'll not know what I'm up to. Assuming I'm not going to come home after a session at Mr Ashton's smelling of a mixture of blood, semen and fecal matter, I should be alright, and with cash in my pocket to enhance my life in Dorset. I've modelled in the art class at school, admittedly with a pair of briefs hiding my modesty. I don't mind stripping down to my underpants for Mr Ashton.
Before my first modelling session at the studio, I gave the nudity issue a bit of thought. I decided that in the first instance, I wouldn't take anything off at all, but just wait and see what he said. Maybe it's just my face he's interested in? If it's a boy in his underpants, then that's ok. I'll look out something to wear that's reasonably conservative, which is probably all that's left in my wardrobe after Per has had his pick of the more racy examples of an English schoolboy's pants drawer. Mind you, he did look good in them.
He booked me for three sessions of two hours each, with ten-minute breaks as and when I needed them. I arrive at the appointed hour, by bike, and I am shown into the studio, and handed a bathrobe. The implication is that I'm expected to take my clothes off. It smells like it has just come out of the tumble drier, so that's a good start. It's clean. If Mr Ashton's intents and mind are as wholesomeness as the robe, things should go swimmingly.
He goes out of the room while I strip down to my underpants, and I go and stand by the window. A mother and small girl go past the window. The child sees my top half, stares at me, before her mum yanks her onwards. I move back a couple of feet. Then Mr Ashton appears.
'Is this ok Mr Ashton….like this?'
'Yes, if you're not comfortable nude. Do you have any problems with that Leo? Sorry, I didn't realise.'
Well, that's clear enough. Get naked young man!
Everything was fine. The fact is that I enjoyed the whole thing. Some of the poses were standing, which is hard work, but the lying down ones are easy, so it's swings and roundabouts. My penis, which was of some concern to me, behaved fairly well on the whole. Once or twice, perhaps a bit more often, it acted up, which we both thought amusing. If you make a joke about it, it removes the embarrassment. One pose exposed my anus almost certainly. Obviously I couldn't see it, but it must have been clear as day to him. I tried to remember if I had washed my bottom that morning. I reassured myself that I always did. School rules! But lying on the sheet covered mattress can create problems. There's nothing much to do while you're lying there, apart from allowing random thoughts to float into the imagination. Since Per has gone, I think about him a lot. That involves the nice times we had together. On the second morning, thinking about Per needless to say, and lying on my tummy, my penis let me down badly. Bad timing for me. Mr Ashton decided he didn't like the pose, and asked me to stand up so he could try something else. Oh well. I apologized with that winning smile of mine. His reaction was interesting.
'Don't worry Leo. Just turn sideways would you?'
I did as he asked, then looked back at him. He had moved. I stood there with my faithful friend in no mood to return to normality. I found his obvious interest in the poor behaviour of my penis exciting.
'May I say something Leo? Don't be offended….please.'
'What is it Mr Ashton?'
'You are very…….really you are.'
'Very what Mr Ashton?'
He didn't finish his sentence.
At school, we have those 'Now let's talk about some things that boys should know about' discussion sessions. They are about sex of course. In one such discussion, the issue of the age of consent cropped up. I had no idea what it was at the time. Sex between consenting minors is frowned upon, but everyone knows it goes on, so that's one thing. Sex between me and an adult, male or female, under sixteen is another matter entirely. As the discussion got more complicated, and interesting, someone asks…….what happens if the minor gives his consent, perfectly willingly, to sex with and adult. Answer, it makes no difference in law. Then the Master leading the chat session announced that he had heard from somewhere that a twelve-year-old boy is just as capable of giving his consent, as anyone else. We were stunned into a temporary silence. I imagine now that he regretted saying that. Perhaps he was trying to put an idea into our heads. Later that evening, I allowed myself an amusing fantasy. After a PE session, I approach the very sexy new student Games teacher who is about to shower after our lesson.
'Sir?'
'Yes? Mileham isn't it?'
'Yessir.'
'Well….what is it Mileham?'
'I like you Sir….very much……and I was just wondering Sir……if I might be allowed to share your shower Sir? I wondered, Sir, if you would like to have sex with me……..Sir?'
It was just a fleeting thought, but I know what I'm doing here. Mr Ashton is more than interested in me at this precise moment, and it's partly my fault. I walk over to him.
'I'm sorry. I can't make it go away.'
'Oh dear. Perhaps…….'
'Perhaps what Mr Ashton?'
'Perhaps if you……….perhaps that might help?'
'Would that be alright Mr Ashton?'
'Yes of course. Now?'
Him or me? I wasn't sure, but I had offered my consent.
He led me into his bedroom. I laid on the bed on my back and waited. I felt his weight pressing the bed down next to me, and I turned my head away. He took my hand and laid it on my penis. I felt the warmth of him against my body.
'You know what happens when…….'
'Yes.'
'Do you you Leo?'
He takes my hand and lays it directly on me, which is the signal to start the process. I had an idea what he was doing, but I wasn't about to look. I wasn't going to take long, and he must have realised how near I was, because at that moment there was a warmth around my hip where there wasn't before. He pushes my hand away, and I let him.
I lay there for some minutes contemplating what had happened in my very recent past, and thinking how nice it all was. He has a gentle touch. I rather like him.
When I arrived for the third and last session, almost before I had got through the door, he had a question for me.
'Would you mind if we……..like last time?'
I sat on the bed whilst he knelt on the floor. I wasn't undressed. I let him do it his way. I have to say it was extremely pleasurable. He didn't ask me to touch him. I wouldn't have. At least I have made one person happy.
School.
You probably know the feeling…..doom. But…….it doesn't last long, at least for the hardened warriors like us who have endured the thing for these two years past. Not so for the new ones, who will weep for their mothers this coming night. Cruel? Oh yes, in many cases it is.
I've topped up at the school shop this afternoon, so I'm all booted and spurred, complete with a new 'Kings Blue' jumper to replace my old one. I can imagine Per back at school showing off his smaller version I off-loaded onto him that morning. How I miss him. Still, I have my memories and my private stash of sketches of my lovely friend…..and Mr Ashton has his sketches of me. He asked me if he could 'back up' his work with a few snaps, but I said no to that one. I'm not being photographed by him. Another thing I wasn't about to do was to look at him, or any part of him, during our 'moments'. It was bad enough to feel the 'consequences' of his activity on my bare skin. Anyway, that's enough of all that. I consented. I could have run a mile but I wanted it. It's down to me really.
Now I'm back in the here and now….the nitty gritty of school life, relieved by a new friendship perhaps? You never know. Tim might have changed his mind, or 'Marcus-in-the-breakfast-queue' might have grown up sufficiently to want to know me. No, that would never do. Beware the 'too young for you' boy. Looking is as far as you need to go on that score.
I'm looking at 'queue boy' right now. He's grown, and by the look of him, still in last year's trousers, at least for a bit longer. He has to wait a little longer this year as the new third formers are at the front of the queue. This way I get to look at him for longer. He's a real beauty too, hands in pockets, looking like butter wouldn't melt. Marcus…….quite a nice name. It suits him.
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 (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) 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
