by Rafael Henry

Chapter 11


Robbie's reading the book, A Beginners Guide to Gay Loving, under the bedclothes. It's still light enough to see, so no torch required for another half hour or so. Our little foray into the long grass the other day lingers in our joint memories, like the complete experience itself if we ever manage it; it will linger nicely on the tongue and the lips; according to the book. It wasn't completely plain sailing as we were interrupted by a boy runner who decided to stray off the designated perimeter path around the school grounds. He must have seen the tops of our heads or enough to make him curious; so he diverts from the path. Luckily Rob sees him wander off, stop, look for a few seconds, hands on hips, before trotting towards us. We had enough time to make it look like we were sharing a book for academic purposes. He gets within five yards of us and then stops, looks, and turns round and trots off. Significantly, he says 'sorry' as he turns away from us, because he realises that he's interrupted our privacy. Both Robbie and I recognized the leggy dark-haired boy in the fetching white shorts we all wear for almost all our sporty activities. The same boy we saw drop his towel at showers the other morning; and very noticeably, show his all as he bent down to pick it up. Boys like me don't miss treats like that.

'Do you think he saw anything Jon?' Asks a worried looking Robbie.

'No. He wouldn't know what he was seeing anyway Rob.' I say with a stifled giggle.

Wouldn't he? Actually he would.

After that interruption, the moment had gone for us. But once an idea is fixed, things have to be seen through, if not then, later.

I'm checking the sleep status of the two other boys in our room. My bed is next to Robbie's, a couple of feet apart, which is more than they were in our last larger room we shared with ten other boys. So there's just enough kneeling room between our beds. The two other kids are on their sides, heads barely visible above the bedclothes, and obviously asleep. So is Robbie, but not for much longer. He has his back to me, but that's no problem. I ease him onto his back, and then towards me slightly. I check the other boys. Perfect. What we failed to achieve this afternoon, due to the unwanted interruption, I intend to bring about now. I'm very strongly in that kind of mood. My boy stirs, eyes flicker, and sleep gradually departs. One part of him woke up a while back by the looks and feel of him. Now he's right there for me. With my right hand inside Robbie's brushed flannel pyjama top and on his bare chest, I feel for his nipples and find them. They immediately harden. That's very nice Robbie. He's incredibly responsive, this boy, and he's got me going too. There's a faint gasp of exhaled breath, and then sharp inhalations as I find what I'm seeking, my head now disappeared into the rather steamy darkness. I can smell Robbie. It's uniquely him . He has his own unique musk. I just want him to adjust to something new. Neither of us expect instant success. It's just a matter of getting used to the idea, and accepting it's going to be part of our friendship from now on, and more to follow with any luck. We are old enough now. But I do know that what I might broach with the Chaplain, should I do so in one of our now regular chats, has to be in general terms, not specifics. I'm sure that consenting boys of similar ages here have had sex at one time or another. But to be discovered in that situation on school grounds, or in one of the rooms, would mean that your people would have to find you a new school. I trust the Chaplain, Roger. He knows all about me and it's totally confidential, I assume, at least he says so and I've no reason not to trust him. He also knows I would have a relationship with a boy if I could. He doesn't know about Robbie. Nor does anyone else. But briefly on another matter…….

Litter is a perennial problem in any open space it seems, and us boys are conveniently on hand to deal with it. There's a rota for 'volunteers' to collect it all up into black bin liners by hand. The nuisance is not caused by us boys, by and large, but by the public who can infiltrate our grounds easily, thus courting couples find the little corners [which we know well] to conduct their affairs, and then leave their detritus behind. You find those things all over the place. You can't fence in the entire perimeter of the grounds. That would cost tens of thousands. It's far worse in the summer months when one can easily and accidentally come across a boy and girl from the secondary school not far away 'doing it' in the long grass. At least they use a Durex which the boy quite reasonably discards only for us to find the thing lying there in the grass and collect it up in our bin liners in due course. We are provided with latex gloves for the 'litter picking' excercises. There's a certain fascination for us, I'm bound to say, about real sex going on so close to us. Very occasionally one can witness the act in progress, the protagonists completely unaware of your presence as they take their pleasure for our entertainment. If they knew you were there, it wouldn't stop them, the desire to get on with it being that strong. I have witnessed the event three times now, the last couple being no more than thirteen at a guess, the boy appearing smooth as silk as he kneels between his girl's legs, ghastly patterned briefs down his thighs, grey school jumper rolled up his tummy, her knees wide apart as she attempts to guide him into her intimate recesses, him displaying an equally dark recess between his spotty buttocks. His chances of a successful outcome are greater than hers in all probability. The boy makes several attempts, holding his skinny tool in his hand, staring down at it, his heart beating faster still at the thought of what it's going to feel like as he slides in. That's the first problem. It doesn't slide in. In this case it was about fourth time lucky aided by liberal applications of saliva. I can't imagine she was getting any pleasure from her experience, he slightly more so as he appeared to orgasm eventually, if that's what it was. I wonder how many girls have got themselves pregnant without having had the pleasure of a deep, satisfying and loving sexual encounter? Plenty. I watched on wondering how long it would all last. After five minutes it didn't seem to be going that well, and soon after he withdrew his very droopy, dry looking skinny dipper. My opinion is this. If a boy and a girl can, as and when, if they know what to do, and how, then a boy and a boy can. And my Beginners Guide to Gay Loving tells Robbie and I exactly how. The two bodies have flattened the grass so it's easy to find the evidence lying there, half rolled up, the full length not required. Not even half of it. My curiosity gets the better of me and I hold up the object for examination against the light. It's still warm and a good job he used one. I'm pleasantly surprised. I'll volunteer for the next round of litter picking and deal with it in due course. On my wander back I'm wondering what the boy's name is. Shane? No, Trevor. Something like that. Maybe even a Marcus? I'm bring unfair. I'm sure they are both lovely people, and just like me, at an age when they need to express their joie de vivre.

But now, back to the present. Robbie and I are joining two of the most sensitive places together, two parts at different ends of our bodies. That has to produce something good surely, and so far so good. Robbie can't keep his hips still. This is very promising. I'm taking the advice the book has offered me,and all the subtle nuances possible with the tongue. What a weapon that twisty tickly little muscle is!

So the littering goes on, as does our inspection of the occasional abandoned unrolled rubber tube thing, and the contents thereof. We always look, holding it up at the open end with judicious use of a twig, and staring at the contents that's collected at the other end, feeling faintly sick. One just has to look, driven on my by some weird scientific curiosity I suppose.

I've often wondered what conversations have taken place between the couples prior to planning to invade our territory for their comings together. Maybe at the back of the mathematics class the plan is made mid giggles and a bit of knee touching and a hand slipped under a skirt to feel the last line of defence. The book goes on about it. Certain secretions that both boys and girls produce when their excitement builds. I noticed that with Lael. He explained to me one day why it can be a problem with him.

The couple agree a time and place, homeward bound after school. An exciting detour to trespass, a prepared excuse for being late home, and then the act itself, too hurried, the young boy's tight little pale buttocks going up and down at a frantic pace, painfully gripped by his unprepared accomplice. The girl just gives in to what the boy wants, regardless of the risks to her. A boy like Robbie is so different. So much better. And this is going so beautifully. I have to stop what I'm doing now, but not what I'm doing for Robbie, but myself. There's a reason which has taken me by surprise somewhat. Robbie has found my arm with his hand, and then follows it down to my hand, and moves it to where he wants it now. This is entirely new. I have never dared go there with him. For Lael it was required from the start, almost. Expressing an interest in that part of a boy's body might offend with fatal results to our friendship! But here he is wanting precisely that. Oh Robbie!

He allows me to break off and kiss him on his mouth, but only for a few seconds. The Book talks about kissing, and the unique odour we each will give off when we do lots of it. I love the smell of Robbie; the taste of him, and the intensity of it all. When I resume giving my favours to my friend, my head pushed down again, poetry in motion as this is, I'm thinking; knowing in fact, that this is all going to end in more this time rather than less, and soon. This is no false alarm, no interruptus like the last time. I can sense it, feel it; know it.

He's playing with my ear now, the silly boy. His breathing has slowed right down now, and he's still. And I'm still where I was, where I've been for the last ten minutes probably, doing what I've wanted to do, in my waking dreams, for Robbie. I could stay here all day, savouring Robbie as everything relaxes, everything almost over, but not quite it seems. Just when you think it's all gone, there's always just a little more to tease out.

The Book talks at length about the mouth and all it contains, and the effects it can induce.

I've heard that the Chaplain's children are all adopted. He has three, two boys and a girl. I see him for a chat every week now, sometimes twice, or even more. Word has it that he was a good athlete in his day. He looks slim and healthy, now I come to think about it. I'm always a little nervous when I knock on the door of his office. It's a glazed door approached via his garden which has a high brick wall around it, probably eight feet high, with a small green door in one corner; the only way through it. He prefers visiting boys to go through that small green door, and on through the garden to his external office door rather than disturbing the family by ringing the front door bell. The garden is somewhat neglected but nonetheless interesting, full of hiding places, tumbledown sheds and haphazard rows of vegetables that never got picked, straggly now and all gone to seed. On the walls of his room are old photos, rows of boys of all ages in black frames, school, college and sports group photos. Rows of them. There's an old leather Chesterfield in there, plus a couple of easy chairs, and then his massive mahogany desk with a green shaded lamp on it, and a space for his long legs to go through. Roger looks about thirty something, nearer forty probably. Two of his children are at the Junior School, the elder being a boy, Adam, who is ten; I think. Then there's a much older girl, sixteen or so by the look of her. She looks quite Asian, and if you like girls, rather handsome. I've seen Adam in running shorts with his father jogging around the perimeter path. Adam looks too dark to be his natural son. He looks sweet too.

I think Roger, our Chaplain, talks to several boys regularly, like he does to me. I like talking to him because he understands us, and we feel free to talk about anything; at least I do. I've told him about my friendship with Robbie. He knows all about us. I've told him that we like to touch each other. He asked me if we did. He always listens, not saying much, but nods his head, frowning slightly when I let another secret out. He understands how difficult it is to 'be together' in this place. There's nowhere to go to 'be together' safely. All our waking moments are regulated it seems to me, all planned so that Robbie and I can never 'be together'; not properly.

'Do you understand Sir?'

'Yes I do Jonathan. Completely.' Good. He does understand. Then there's a long pause before he gestures with a hand towards the window. 'What do you see out there Jon? Over there in the corner?'

'It's hut on wheels Sir.'

'That's right, it is. It's called a shepherd's hut. They used them as a place to stay overnight in the fields at lambing time; so they could be on hand to help the ewes with their offspring. They had to be moved around the different fields so that's why they have wheels.'

'What's it used for now Sir?'

'Nothing Jon. In fact I'd like it to be used. It seems such a waste not to. I keep it locked of course. Our children have rather lost interest in it. I see it now as a place of sanctuary really, a place of contemplation if you like for those that might need it. Somewhere for a boy to go where he feels undisturbed. Yes, a creative sanctuary. This conversation with you Jon has made up my mind; I shall tidy it up, put a chair in there again, and maybe a few other things. It might suit you Jon at odd moments when you need a little peace and quiet. I have spare keys for it.'

I'm stunned. Roger is offering me a private place to go. I shall be undisturbed there. It's all in a large half wild private garden behind a high brick wall, out of bounds to all the boys. But why is he doing this?

When I leave Roger's office, I can see that the boy Otta is approaching the house, wandering through the garden. There is no way I can avoid him on my way out, even if I wanted to. What's he doing here? He's dressed like he's going for a run, in the usual white shorts and a white sleeveless woollen games jumper. I've seen the Chaplain running on the School's cross-country course once or twice. How odd.

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