Sanctus
by Rafael Henry
Chapter 2
It's my last year here amongst the rolling green hills of Devon, older boys all gone, and at Easter, a member of the PE staff left. I know not why. Nothing special about that then. Another appears to have been recruited at very short notice. A student the other boys are saying. He doesn't look more than sixteen or seventeen to me, but what do I know. I think my dad looks about eighty to me but he's only forty six.
On the first day of the summer term, our new teacher, Mr Elmer, is taking my class of fifteen boys for outdoor PE. At my very first sighting of this paragon of virtue, my whole concept of sex alters. He's far too young to be fully qualified, according to the rumour. But who cares about that? Earlier, I pass this person in a corridor on the first morning wondering who he is. He's wearing sports kit so that's a give-away. As he approaches in neat and very fitting white shorts, my eyes naturally go down south. Goodness. I look away quickly hoping he hasn't seen me notice. As he passes, I turn to check out the back view. It's just as good as the front view. I see the familiar shape of the under layer stretched over the neat and trim buttocks. I take this image back a few years and I can see, easily, what he would have been like then, not quite a teenager. Instantly, my fantasy priorities have changed. I have exchanged Philip, my dormitory chum, for this young man. I can't think about much else. The new man is now in my thoughts both night and day. This is an entirely new fantasy for me. It's not a boy. Something has sparked off in me. Initially I'm taken aback by my reaction to him, but a few minutes later, on reflection, I've recovered my equilibrium. No, I can allow myself a few thoughts on the matter after all. Later, in Latin, I'm imagining all sorts of things about him. All the possibilities, and how they might be achieved. Caesar having conquered the Gauls has ceased to bear any significance compared to my current thinking. Frankly I don't care what Caesar has done.
We are on the big field, standing in our white shorts and tee shirts, arms folded, waiting for the arrival of my Adonis. I'm looking around at the other boys. Some look nice in their kit, and some don't. The olive skinned boy with the beauty spot always looks good in his freshly ironed shorts, with creases, and they're tight enough for his knickers to show. Nice. I know he's not a boy's boy that one, despite his effemininity; if that's the word for it. I reckon 'madame' is a man's boy, just like I think, right now, that I'm a man's boy. Madame should have been born a girl really, but I do hope he doesn't think that. That would be very sad for him. I can tell you that I'm delighted to be a boy, and be boy-like, and boy liked, and maybe man-liked too? Oh yes, no regrets, me. I like what God gave me, am thankful for it, and I intend to put it all to good use.
A minute later Mr Elmer appears. His voice is soft but wonderfully commanding. Posh too. He talks like we do. He's wearing running shorts, unlike our general purpose things that do for all sports and games. His dark brown hair dips and dives in the breeze, as his grey eyes cast about us. He doesn't look at me. I look down, disappointed, but notice his legs. Athletic legs, brown too from the early summer sun and organizing tribes of boys outdoors in the sunshine. We sit cross legged in a semi-circle, our knees wide apart on the warm grass like little ducklings awaiting our instructions. He stands in front and above us. He has paper in his hands, a list no doubt. Names are called but I'm not hearing any of it. He divides the group into the different activities we think we are best at, or failing that, could make a decent attempt at. I'm looking at his face hoping he'll look back at me, but he doesn't. He's ignoring me. Then suddenly I see his eyes focused on mine. He stops talking for a moment as I stare, unsmiling, back at him. He looks away and then back at me again. I'm sure he's noticed me. I've nothing underneath my shorts, and the way I've organized my posture, I'm certain my little dickie will be visible, all pinky beige and very likely slightly swollen by now. He looks back again; and down. There's more talking which I'm not hearing. Groups are formed.
'You're with us.' The treble voice says. 'Come on, wake up Tom!' A different voice this time. His.
I've been put in the 'distance group'. The 440 yards running track for me. It's a warm afternoon, so at three thirty and the lesson over, twelve sweaty boys get told to go and shower. We like the showers, so much so that we are in them on average twice a day and usually supervised by an older boy or one of the masters. If we've been in after games, we needn't go in again before bed unless we want to. During our lesson, our lovely new man, Mr Elmer, has been watching four of us running the 440……one lap around the athletics track, and being a quarter of a mile. I'm quite good at that distance. Our times are recorded. All done now, the other three boys wander off to the changing area to shower as instructed, but I know I need to talk to Mr Elmer. Is my running the most economical? Did I go off too fast? May I have another go please? I'm sure I can improve my time Sir?
With the other boys out of the way I find myself close to Mr Elmer. He turns to look, expecting a question from me.
'I was thinking Sir, maybe I could improve my style……get more power from my arms? Would that work do you think…….Sir, to get more speed……do you think, Sir?'
I'm looking up at him with my green eyes, which are quite alluring according to my mother. He looks down at me. I have my hands held behind my back, tummy pushed slightly forward in classic pose. I watch his eyes as he thinks how to answer my question. Momentarily, his eyes travel down my body. He can't hide where he's looking. It's just a millisecond. But it's there. A glance. He looks back at me, but no smile there. Nothing.
It's always the same with us. The boy walks around the corner making for the showers, naked. The first thing you look at is his face because you want to know who it is, and then down the eyes go to see what he's got down there, and then back up to his face to see him looking at you. All of you. That's the way it always is with us. That's the way we want it.
I'm a popular boy with the teachers because I ask the right questions and they like that. It flatters them. Some of them are sympathetic to the boys, probably remembering their own miserable experience at a boarding prep school. One or two go out of their way to be kind. Those ones seem genuinely interested in us.
Straight from college and keen, my question Mr Elmer took pleasure in, and some time answering. It's flattery again. You have to make him think that you're very interested in what he's about. That's the key.
We stayed out on the track for another ten minutes while he explained any adjustments I could make to my running technique. The use of the arms in particular. I could generate more power from my arm movement.
His explanation involved putting his hands on my arms and back. His hands on my body. Those hands on my back, gentle yet so firm and in control. Sod the running. I look up at him again, my mouth open, my face so ready to hang on every word that falls from his lovely mouth. There's a smile now. I could have melted into a glorious radiant puddle just then.
'Thank you Sir.' I say, head bowed in total compliance, before raising my head once more to confront his eyes again. I'm not moving, just looking into his face.
'That's ok. It's always a pleasure with a boy like you.' He says, with a last touch on my shoulder. Oh Lordy, again please, thrice times more!
It's a pleasure with a boy like you.
By the time I get in the shower twenty minutes later, the other boys are nowhere to be seen. They're dressed and gone thank goodness. The boys' shower heads are open to view, but I could hear Mr Elmer's shower going, out of sight, inside the staff changing area. I heard it stop running. I knew you get a peek inside the staff shower room at a certain angle as you leave the room. It was completely brainless of me. I walk over, naked, to that particular point and look into that private space. He's out of the shower and standing about to towel himself off. I'm about six feet away from him. I look down at his groin because that's where boys look first when they see another naked figure. You just do. I could only have paused for a couple of seconds but that was enough.
'Sorry Sir, I…….'
He just looked at me, all of me, as I look back at him. I quickly turn towards the pegs and my uniform hanging there. I had just pulled up my underpants, being careful to keep my back to him, when he came towards me with just a towel wrapped around him. I'm standing, looking at him.
'What did you want Tom…….just now?'
'I don't know Sir…..nothing really.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes Sir…….it was just that I wondered if you were a runner…… are a runner. You look pretty fast Sir.'
'Yes Tom. Athletics. That's my specialism…….and cross country. Why?'
I needed to think fast.
'That's funny Sir, I really like cross country, but no one's very interested here. There was a club here a year or so ago. I used to go to it.'
'Really? Perhaps we should start one.' He says, sounding enthusiastic.
'I hope so Sir. We used to go in the mornings before breakfast.'
'I don't see why not. I'll have a word with Mr Worthington.'
Imagine my excitement. I had seen my hero's dickie, and his curvy bottom too. And not only that, with any luck at all, I am about to go running around the countryside with him, preferably the only one in his cross-country running club which, if his enthusiasm for the idea was genuine, is to be started imminently.
A notice inviting interest in a cross-country running club went up on the board later that evening. I saw several boys reading the hand written notice with a drawing pin through it. It was posted on the URGENT section of the board.
Three of us turned up for our inaugural run at Mr Elmer's prefab bungalow in the school grounds. It's like a hut more than anything else. He suggested it as it seemed the obvious place to meet him at the appointed hour of six thirty…….a bit of an ask for twelve and thirteen-year-old boys who really don't want to leave their cosy beds and their private thoughts before they really have to. Two weeks later I am the last runner, running. One by one the others have dropped out. Perfect. I have Mr Elmer all to myself from six thirty, three mornings a week, until forty-five minutes before breakfast.
They were wonderful jaunts, exploring the tracks and paths of the Devon countryside, observed by those gorgeous dark reddish brown coloured cows in the fields, steam gently rising from their backs, wondering what on earth we were doing……and did we have anything nice for them ? No, you lovely creatures, I have other things on my mind.
It must have been about the third week. I tripped on a bramble and fell heavily about a half mile from Mr Elmer's little bungalow, and it was an accident, really it was, and nothing deliberate about it. He helped me to my feet, with an arm around me, and mine around his waist. I'm not going to fall for that old cliche….. a bolt of electricity shot through me…….. but it was a bit like that. Maybe that first contact affected him too but I will never know. It had already started for me, my mini infatuation with Mr Elmer, but that one touch……that perfect sensation…..confirmed the message that my brain was telling me. I just had this image of him naked, just out of the shower and drying his hair with the towel; and that sight of his body. The fulsome globes of muscle, pale where the sun could not reach. And then, as he turns to see me, the male sex organ with its pink head exposed like that. The hanging testicles, one lower than the other. Perhaps one day I'll look like that, heavy laden with all the sperm that will come between us, our bodies writhing and sliding in it. Gosh, yes.
I hobbled back to the hut, holding the back of my thigh. By this time the pain was easing nicely. We stood at the door.
'What do you think I should do now Sir? Should I go and see Matron?'
'Umm. It's your hamstring. You need a spray on the muscle. It looks like you may have pulled it.'
'Could…….you Sir? I mean….do you have any of the spray? It's a bit embarrassing Sir…..you know…….where it is. I don't really want to show Matron.' I say, holding the back of my upper leg.
'Why not Tom?'
'I don't think she's good on muscles Sir.'
Perhaps not the perfect answer. A Physical Education trainee? He'll make a better job of it than Matron, that's for sure. They must know about muscles and all that stuff surely?
He helps me in through the front door. It's quite cosy in there, and a lot better than the drab exterior would suggest. He helps me into his bedroom and I lie face down on his bed. The slight pain I'm experiencing is as nothing compared to the excitement of being where I am at this very moment. I'm wearing the usual stuff……tee shirt and white PE shorts. I've left the trainers at the door. He's sitting on the edge of the bed feeling the top of my right thigh with both hands. I'm embarrassed at my breathing. It's faster than it should be.
'It should be about here Tom?'
Exactly there. His fingers are pressing on the muscle just below my shorts.
'Not quite Sir. I think it's a bit higher Sir.'
'Here?'
The mildly painful sensation is centred right at the top of the thigh, almost within my left buttock.
'Almost Sir.'
'I can't get to that bit properly Tom, not without……'
'That's alright Sir.'
That's alright? In a medical situation, that is alright. But in this situation? Why not? If I was in physio, they'd have everything down, and off. I'm just a boy with nothing to hide. And why is this happening? Simple. It's happening because I want it to, not him. He's just trying to help.
'A twelve-year-old boy is just as capable of seeking and maintaining a meaningful friendship with an older person, as any other.'
In the next few minutes I'll know. What will I know? I will know if Mr Elmer, lovely young man that he is, will…….well, put it this way, I'll know . He has the perfect opportunity right now to let me know how he feels about me, if anything. He has just asked me if it's alright to remove my shorts to give him the required access to my upper thigh and other bits. I told him he can. I'm telling him that it's ok with me……whatever. Anything's fine. Everything is fine. Or is this some sort of totally unjustified fantasy on my part?
I'm left in the underpants we wear for Games and PE. I don't have any other kind. I feel sexy and confident in them. They show through my shorts, but your shorts need to be tight fitting otherwise they won't. That's the idea these days. All the footballers do it. I checked earlier in the mirror, twisting myself around so I see my bottom, and yes, it's all working fine. The sight of my own body aroused me then. But what will it do for Mr Bobbie Elmer? Probably nothing if he's a good Christian boy, not that that means too much. There have been rumours about our chapel altar boy, the sexy beast. We have joked about the possibility that he doesn't wear anything under that black cassock and virgin white surplice. A hand-picked virgin for the use of. Not any more I bet. He's definitely like that . Nobody as pretty as he is could not be like that . Mind you, you don't have to be pretty to be queer. Read on.
My parents took me on a Church camp in the Cotswolds one summer when I was, ten probably. Maybe eleven. A boy, a rather unattractive example I thought, asked me if I was like that? I didn't know what he meant by like that . Then he pulled his shorts down and extracted his plump penis. There was a little skin at the end of it which he gently pulled down to reveal a shiny dome shaped form, the whole thing gradually increasing in size as he showed me. I looked at it, and then back at him, open mouthed, and said nothing.
'Well, do you want to play with it then? Or aren't you like that . You look like you are.'
Actually, no I don't, not particularly. I think one needs a little time to consider these matters, so nothing transpired. Frankly, he didn't appeal to me in any way, despite his big willy with the deep slit in the middle, otherwise things would have been very different. But he was right about the other thing . I knew about myself, even then. Later that day I regretted my indecision. I wasn't given another chance. He'd found someone else. There were three of us in the tent. I had to endure the other two playing with each other for the following five nights until we went home. It was all just with hands thank goodness otherwise I don't think I could have stood it.
I've been thinking a lot about what I think am. The sight of that mature penis excited me, and what Mr Elmer does with it; or could do with it. Perhaps it's just curiosity. I'm not sure, but that doesn't inhibit my imagination. I've been thinking about my Bobbie Elmer few a few nights now. Interesting thoughts.
His hands have been working on me for a while, and then I feel his fingers gently finding their way under the seams of my underpants and creeping higher around my right buttock where I've told him the pain is located. I'm elated. This is something else, and I know it, but does he?
I need to get rid of these damned underpants. My face is buried in the pillow. I can smell his scent on it. I can feel his hands gently kneeding my flesh, pressing and shaping it with his palms and fingers while I drink in his perfume embedded in his pillow. I'm intoxicated by the prospect, albeit unlikely, of real sex; something I've never had. I don't even know what it is.
'Would it be easier Sir if……?' Comes the muffled question.
'Yes, probably Tom, but…….'
But?
'It's ok Sir…….It would be much easier for you Sir, wouldn't it?'
I've said it. I've told him he can if he wants to.
I raise my tummy to facilitate the removal of my last defence. This is it….this is our moment.
It's a very pleasant sensation when you are twelve, nearing thirteen, to have someone gently rub your bottom. That's where both his hands are now. On both buttocks. Boys my own age won't do it, but an older boy would if you asked him.
You've just changed for swimming. He looks at my face as he is about to pass you, smiles perhaps, and then looks down to see if there's anything interesting showing. Then you walk off, and a little further on, you look back to see if he's looking. I told you he would be, and he is. You wonder what he's thinking. You'll probably see him again later, in the pool maybe. Another might have been.
Mr Bobbie Elmer prepares to remove the last line of my defence. As he does so, I turn over onto my back. Bad move. He didn't ask me to. He looks at me, frowning, with his hands held away from me. He's realised what he's dealing with here, and it's potentially very bad news for him. Not for me. I think I'm falling in love.
He looks down at me. A sexually excited young boy craving his attention. It's all so obvious now. Trapped. My Bobbie, duped and made to look like some kind of predator, and in imminent career ending danger.
He's gone far enough. I've gone too far, and shown him too much. Too much of what I am. Too much of what I want.
As quickly as this delightful process began, it stops. I'm horribly disappointed. I have fooled him and he knows it. He's embarrassed. No, more than that; he's angry and mortified and probably terrified of all the frightening consequences for him. He's been trapped; a trust betrayed by me. There's worse that that. I have to dress again and try to hide my arousal; pretend that I'm not what I seem to be. I glance up at him, my face burning red. Those running shorts of his. That thin satin material can't hide anything either. They can't hide him . My mind is a blur of confusion, mixed messages, crazy thoughts and burning guilt; and my excitement persists. So does his.
I received a terrible and very angry telling off that morning from Bobbie Elmer, richly deserved. I was told to get dressed and then I was sent packing with my metaphorical tail between my legs. I tried to say sorry through my tears. He wouldn't listen.
'Just get out Tom. Get out now before I kick you out.' He shouts. 'You should be ashamed of yourself. Go on, get out.'
Is he talking to ME? Yes, me.
But there's one truth in this situation, one that he should never have allowed. Ok, my fault. But he had reacted. His body had reacted to my body in his hands, and I had seen him. The irrefutable truth. A seed sown into fertile or infertile ground?
I know he'll be worried now. Bobbie. Somehow I have to tell him that everything will be alright. When you love someone, that's what you tell them; what you believe. Everything will be alright.
Two days later I saw him in the pool. I just had to look. He saw me looking, he looked, and then he looked away. We have no changing facilities in our outdoor pool, just a grassy surround. I was changing from my uniform into swimming briefs. I wasn't going to take my eyes off him, not for a second. I just couldn't. I Would not. He looked again, for longer this time. Has he forgiven me? Is this all over, or not quite yet? Do I still have a chance?
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
