by Rafael Henry

Chapter 7

Two weeks later I have learnt a lot about Ro's life, what happened to his best friend here and his untimely departure, and his difficulties at home. Not all parents stay together, and before they finally part, there's often acrimony which causes an unpleasant environment within which children have to live, and try to be happy, in the knowledge that their people are not. I have found life at school, sans the people that love me, difficult. It can be a lonely place, just a piece of 'scum', as New Boys are unkindly referred to. Ok, it's a joke really, but to me, not very funny. And the scum, that's us, can be by the unscrupulous treated as such, as you might imagine. The inevitable slimy product of a system, a pyramid of boy rulers that have to be fed with new material to sustain and feed them, and then in two years, our duty done, we are unceremoniously disposed of. The big boys need the little boys to work for them, and generally do their bidding, exactly when they want them. That's why the clock is so important in this place. The clock rules our lives. The House Whips run our lives here, and their days start with us. Bennington is mine. Every morning I will wake him up from his sleep, if he isn't already awake and waiting for his door to open, and me to magically appear. Senior boys have their own room, so it's just us and them; me and him. Absolutely no one needs to know what happens in there, apart from Bennington, Peter to his friends, and me. But; he treats me very well. Whatever his bidding is today, I can say no. That's the boys' prerogative; they are entitled to say 'No I'd rather not do that……sir.' But if you're ok with his request, like make his bed for him, or find his clothes for him, or whatever, you can agree to it, if you want to. The Whips are not boys. They shave, get injured playing rugger and hobble alluringly on crutches for a couple of weeks, and by and large, have much larger penises and balls that hang low, which can be seen and commented on by us waiting for our turn to shower.

'Have you noticed Amos's balls Tom? They're enormous. Do you think that's normal?

'Yes I think so. Do you like cocks like that?'

'No. Not really, Pretty yucky if you ask me.'

'Big balls. Does that mean that he gets more……..'

'No. I read that somewhere. Don't worry Ro, there's hope for us yet.'

'Price says that they do. Boys with big balls.'

'How would he know?'

'He's done Amos. He was his Whip.'

'Really? And that's what he said?'

'Yeah. He said he had to put it all into his tooth mug and then chuck it down the sink. There was loads of it.'

'And you believed him? Anyway Amos isn't like that. He's always bragging about the girls he's been with.'

'I know. Pricey said that he was looking at a magazine full of girls doing stuff while he did him. He had to hold the plastic mug in position to catch all his stuff. That's what he did. Honest. That's what he told me.'

'That's ridiculous. You'd believe anything. Did he say exactly how much?'

I like Eddy Price. He's very Welsh he's full of tall stories and exaggeration, all spoken with a strong North Wales accent. Goodness knows what he's doing down here in Gloucestershire. I suppose Wales isn't far away. The only run in I had with him was in the changing rooms one afternoon after a hockey game. He was sitting on the wooden bench, totally naked, examining in great detail, his penis. He'd got it up nicely with the ample foreskin pulled right down and the bubous dark pink head on show and glistening at the tip.

'What's the matter with it Pricey?' I politely enquire, as one does in those situations.

'There's something wrong with it Tom. I'm leaking.'


'Look. This stuff.' He says, touching the tiny bead of clear viscous substance coaxed out of his cock with the tip of his finger.

There's nothing wrong with him. I told him that it was quite normal. Apparently all his family are very Chapel, Strict and Peculiar Baptists, and consequently masturbation is a major sin up there in them there Valleys.

'But you're here now Pricey, in sexy Cheltenham, not back in that deep green and ridiculously wet valley. Just do it if the mood takes you. It's not a sin in England you know?'

'What's the best way Tom?'

'Would you like me to show you?'

'If you wouldn't mind. 'Preciate thart.' He says looking up at me with those dark Celtic eyes. Even his spoken words sound like a song.

I showed him a good standard method up in one of the loos. He's got to that age when he has to do something or he'll be teased and branded as a bed wetter. Far better this way and pre-empt delicate situations, and derive a great deal of pleasure into the bargain. I held him in front of me, both our trousers down around our ankles, and did him with three fingers and a thumb with him holding up his shirt and jumper whilst looking down to watch my hand working on his perfect medium sizer. I had my other hand forced between his legs, part of which was agonizingly adjacent to his anus. He produced in the twinkling of an eye intro the palm of my hand, a subject for close examination and discussion.

'Is it like yours Tom? Is it the same?'

'Not sure Pricey. Is there any point in comparing?'

'I would have thought so Tom, just to be certain of things? You don't need to worrying about this do you?'

No, so ok, no problem. He didn't offer to assist, being Strict and Particular, but on comparison, as one does, mine turned out to be just like his, absorbed into a couple of sheets of loo paper and down it went. Whether Pricey got into the habit I don't know. I never heard that he did.

The big boys spray smelly stuff under their arms, and the rule is that they treat their scum, ie. us, with the kindness we deserve. I don't have to do anything I'm uncomfortable with. Bennington is nice. The other boys say I'm lucky that he's my man. I think I am too.

'Better allow fifteen minutes in future old boy.' Bennington told me on the first day. 'Don't want you being late do we?' He goes on. I'm never late to wake Bennington. He's nice to me, so I stay with him for a while. He likes talking to me as I sit on the edge of his bed, halfway down, facing him. He lies back with his hands behind his head, propped up with two pillows, eyes closed and either still asleep or pretending to be. Almost certainly the latter. They're allowed two pillows. Scum are allowed only one. Just to the left of my elbow there's a bump in the bedclothes. It's obvious what it is. It's an overt signal that if we choose to help the boy out, go ahead. Ro, being an old hand, told me about it. It's up to us whether we do anything for them. Ro said it wasn't regarded as homming. Homming is a sackable offence. Peter's nice to me and I like him. If he wants me to wake him up the best way, I'll gladly do it. Gently move the palm of your hand over the lower part of his chest. If you're prepared to help your assigned House Whip, then lower your elbow to make gentle contact with the bump. And then see what happens. If he doesn't move, press a bit harder with your elbow. If he still doesn't move, put the palm of your hand right on it. If he still doesn't move, move your hand about and then take it away and wait. He either will or he won't, but you'll soon know. If he does, he won't want to wait. He'll move the covers out of the way and then you can see to his problem, but you will do it the way you are prepared to do it, not necessarily the way he wants it done. Any form of coercion, any form at all, however mild, is absolutely forbidden and punishable by immediate expulsion.

'Correspondence' is technically not allowed but goes on.

In an odd way, Bennington has alleviated my loneliness, despite my friendship with unhappy Roland. He's spoken about this at last. It seems nothing much can alleviate Roland's misery, but we make a good pair, my unhappiness mixed together with Ro's pain. We need each other, and we have each other thank goodness, and we are friends. I have yet to get used to it , this routine, like Ro has, being an older hand. Neither have I received any 'correspondence'. Not yet. I've not said the L word. Love. But it's in my mind alright.

'What exactly is it Ro? This correspondence business?'

'A note, or a proper letter. I had my first about a month after getting here. You might never get any. It's a private message system.'

Every boy has his pigeon hole into which is delivered his personal mail from home or elsewhere, plus any messages from masters or senior boys needing to communicate with you. There may be flyers for clubs and societies, or anything else. It's a way of making sure you have received information, and it's completely private. It's an open box in a long row on a wall with your unique number on it.

'You probably won't know who it's from, unless you answer and you get more. You can just ignore it if you want to. Then he'll know and won't bother you, usually. You'll know if you get one.'

'Did you keep it?'

'Them. Yes. I've had a few. I keep them in my tuck box. In a biscuit tin.' He laughs merrily.

'Can I see one?'

We're sitting in Ro's study he shares with two other boys. We're allowed to visit other boys' studies to be social, discuss work and so on. Kneeling over it, and conveniently showing me his neat bottom, he unlocks the rectangular wooden box's padlock using one of the two keys he has attached by a red curly plastic string to his belt. He reaches in and extracts a small tin and opens it. He picks out one pale blue sheet of writing paper. We all have a block of writing paper and envelopes for the mandatory Sunday after Chapel letter writing session.

'Read that one Tom.'

It's a veiled invitation to meet. A time and place is mentioned, and a couple of complimentary remarks about the recipient. It's all rather charming and innocent, like a boy tentatively seeking the company of a girl he likes the look of at school.

'There are rumours that some masters send them but I can't believe that. Usually it's from boys your own age, just for a laugh. Sometimes not, so they say.'

'A bit like a valentine card?' I said, definitely joking.

'Kind of I suppose. I've had one or two.'

'From whom?'

'Other boys. Other people. Read them if you want to.'

There were six in all. The quality and maturity of the handwriting varied from basic to the elegant.

'Who was this one from Ro?'

'He's left now.'

'Oh. Why?'

'I doesn't matter now does it?'

There was an odd tone to his answer. I didn't pursue it. I had the distinct impression I'd touched on a sore place.

'By the way, Bennington's your House Whip isn't he? What's he like?'


'Go on then. Has he asked you yet?'

'Asked me what?'

'Oh. So he hasn't. But he must like you. They pick who they want if they're that way. He definitely is ; I think.'

'You don't know then?'

'No, but I think he is.'

I don't know if he is that way inclined, and he hasn't asked for anything yet. Shy maybe. Maybe if I nudge him one morning, that might bring matters to a head. I used to wake Philip up that way before I really knew him properly. It could be accidental contact with the bump so you're not giving yourself away.

I used my elbow on Bennington for maybe thirty seconds, only because I saw his bump as a signal. He wasn't, as I'd suspected, asleep, and took my hand away from his chest and plonked it right on top of the bump. I left it there for a few seconds and then took it away. He looked at me, wondering no doubt. I smiled at him. He said……

'If you want to, I'd really like that. If you didn't object? Just something between ourselves. Ok? Only if you want to.'

I didn't react to what he'd said, yes or no, or even a gesture. I just looked back at him. My dressing gown had come undone at the front which they do easily with those slippery cords. The knot just undoes itself, accidentally on purpose. I had pyjama bottoms on but you couldn't miss it. When I stood up to leave his room, he could see.

'Thanks Tom.' He says with a little wave of his fingers. 'See you tomorrow?'

The following morning he was lying on his back pretending to be asleep again, the bump in the bed very prominent, just like the morning before. I did my elbow trick on the bump moving it this way and that. He turned his head towards me and smiled. Then he pulled and loosened the bedclothes on the side I was sitting on. It was quite clear as to what he wanted me to do for him, so I moved back to make room. I put my hand under the covers and immediately found what was causing the bump with my left hand. It was hot and rigid and big boy stuff. My dressing gown was already undone, with my own bump distorting my pyjama bottoms. I transferred to his balls that felt hard, tight, and slightly hairy. I gave them a gentle squeeze and some twiddling with my finger tips and then transferred back to his very hard penis, gave that a good squeeze from the base to the head and then tested the very tip with the pad of my thumb for any evidence of any sticky stuff. Oh good, it's there. Bobby Elmer said it wouldn't be long before I got that stuff after you've got yourself hard and been fiddling for a while. He said it just appears. Clear and quite sticky and very slippery. Nice. I asked Bobby exactly what it was and why it came before the other stuff older boys get. He explained it all. Nature is very clever. But let's get this clear once more. Bobby Elmer never showed me his. I never saw it. I felt it against mine, hard and stiff when I slept in his bed, but I never saw it. Even up on the Downs that afternoon.

It was wonderful sleeping next to Bobbie. Being with him. Then one day in Brighton he said he couldn't ever see me again. I knew why alright. He couldn't.

Peter Bennington looked at my face and body but made no attempt to touch me. I turned around and sat with my back to him, leaving the bedclothes still over him. I felt his hand move up inside my pyjama top and stroke the skin on my back. What a fabulous feeling. Thoughtful and tender and so very sexy. I did it that morning for Peter. It was very quick, using my fingers and thumb rather than a fist around him. He isn't very long. Not like Philip. His is like a long thin pole. Just before Peter came, he lifted the bedclothes up and clear of his upper body. I looked and saw the result, splattering his tummy and chest in milky puddles. I kept on until his hand stopped me, making sure that I'd got everything he had out of him. I knowhow important for boys that is, not to stop as soon as his sperm starts coming, but to keep going until he wants you to stop. The last vestiges of his warm translucent sperm had dribbled down onto my thumb. I left him, slightly out of breath, not from any major physical effort on my part but from sheer barefaced excitement. Passing a lavatory, I went in to wipe Peter's sticky from my thumb with one square of lavatory tissue and threw it into the pan. Life in this place might not be so bad after all. It was all very soundless, my session with Peter, and I suppose if neither of us looked or made any noise, we could pretend that it didn't happen. That's what Ro calls it when two boys rub each other up. A session. That's so funny.

I read the first note Ro had shown me. It was written hurriedly and in very immature handwriting………

Hello Roland. I like you a lot. I have seen you often in the playground. I would very much like to talk to you soon if possible. Maybe we can make friends. I hope so. 48 is my box number. I really like you. Please reply.

'He sounds rather sweet Ro. Did you meet up with him?'


'Oh. That's a shame.'

'Tell me about Peter Bennington. Everything that happened.'


Boys always want to know the facts, once they suspect something is going on. So I tell him, with one or two details left out. Ro's sitting in a wicker chair in his study, me in another just to his right. He's been fiddling and it shows.

I thought all this was leading up to something. Our relationship had been wandering somewhat aimlessly. I had been thinking that unless anything positive came about fairly shortly, I would seek solace elsewhere. He's a lovely friend but I want more out of this. The fact that he wants to know about Peter is good news, and quite suddenly things are moving. He has his hand in his pocket very obviously playing. That can't be anything other than a signal to me.

'You ok in there Ro?'

'I liked your story Tom. It's got me going a bit.'

'So I see.'

Pause. Ro looks at me coyly. Is this going to be our breakthrough? Now he's smiling at me and there's this very prominent bump in his trousers.

'Do you want to see?'

'I think I do. I thought you'd never ask. Yes please.' I answer with some enthusiasm.

I'm standing against the door just in case, and he's undoing his things, looking down, his fingers busy with his trouser clips and zip. I get my first look at the kind of pants he wears. No 'door', as my mother calls it, to pee through. Like me he wears the ones you have to pull down to pee 'over the top', so to speak. With his thumbs he lifts the elastic over his willy and hooks it under his balls. So here it is. Brilliant. A large rounded head appears, half clear of the thin skin that covers it under normal conditions. This is one of the Ro's secrets I've not been privy to.

'Any ideas Tom?'

'Don't let me stop you Ro. No one's coming.' Apart from him, hopefully.

With one of the wooden chairs jammed under the door know we are relatively safe. He's standing between my legs facing me as I sit in the chair, trousers half way down his thighs. I turn him around and feel his bottom, simple plain white pants still up at the back. He has a very nice bottom. Not one of those cheeky bulbous jobs that little boys seem to want to show off all the time; not a flatty either which do nothing for me. No, just nice. There are a few tiny red spots dotted about on it.

'May I touch?' I ask, eyebrows raised, in hope.

'Yes please. Anywhere you want.'

I'm giving his bottom a good going over with my palms, in here, along there, under, and a little pressing between just to test the water. No objections thus far. I go a little further. Still no objection. No pulling away or verbal objection. Then he turns around, looking down, his hand underneath his upward curving penis. I put my hand under his, upturned, so I can push through between his legs and gently press upwards and make contact.

'That made me jump.' He says, smiling with pleasure.

'Sorry Ro. Did you not want me to do that?'

'Yes I did. I really feel like doing something Tom.'

'Great. Why not? Can I help?'

'About Peter. Tell me what happened in the end. You know…….what happened. What it looked like? From the beginning again.'

Lovely. He's started while I told him about Peter. Ro is quite an average boy, from what I've seen of a few others. A cavalier. He does something which encourages the appearance of the familiar tiny clear bead. Then more appears twixt foreskin and the business end. He pushes himself towards my face. This is not a new thing for me. Philip again. I lean forward and kiss him which he accepts very willingly. This is all a surprise and very sudden. My story has got him in the mood bigtime. This is good. I have a middle finger at work. Even better.

I'm there, and still no objection to my intrusion. This is getting better and better.

'I haven't got anything Tom. Can you finish the story soon please.'

'Don't worry, I have.'

I have my hanky in my pocket. I can use that. Now for the end of the story.

I can tell a story if I have to. Peter Bennington came in milky pools. Roland just came.

I'm holding Roland now, wet and warm. Perfection.

'Thanks Tom. I didn't mean to do that to your property.' He says quietly smiling, the post-pleasure guilt clouding everything now. Reassurance required.

'That was really nice Ro. It was, really.'

'Sorry Tom. I want to be friends, proper friends. Will you look at me please?'

I do. I help him get sorted, standing now, pulling things up for him, his back to me. Facing me again, there's a darker patch at the front of his pants.

I like attending to the practicalities. I put my arms around his middle and pull him into me quite hard, his hands over mine. He likes this. Great. I can tell he likes what I'm doing. This has nothing to do with sex. It's doing something for a friend who needs someone to care for him. He's had a tough time at home. Correction. He's having a tough time of it, all round. He prises my hands away, and turns to face me. He looks at me with that seriousness that tells me something is coming.

'You won't go away will you Tom?'

'No of course I won't. Why would I. I'm excited Ro.'


'Being with you. You know, being friends. Like this.'

'I feel the same Tom. Just now. That was selfish of me. I want you to feel wanted Tom. I can do things Tom. I've learnt how to.'


'Yes, nice things; if you want me to?'

'What things? Did you have to learn them?'

'Yes. David said I was girly. Do you think I am?'

I thought he was going to kiss me again, full on the mouth. He's close to it I'm sure. It isn't going to take much.

He puts his thumb in his mouth. I was too, once, a thumb sucker. Then he takes it out, looks at the tip of his thumb and starts to very gently touch it with the tip of his tongue, then running it up and down, finally putting the whole thing back in his mouth and pulling it in and out. It took a few seconds to work it out. I must be very naïve not to have got it sooner. Philip loved it but never did it for me. Oh goodness, I'm feeling very odd at this moment. My mouth has gone dry, and my stomach all drawn in. Ro looks at me as he starts the routine once more, the tip of his tongue circling the tip of his thumb. I take the short step to stand with him, taking his hand away from his face. He looks at me again, open mouthed.

Girly? No, not really, but he has very defined features, like his eyebrows have been drawn on with a crayon somehow, and his mouth almost a dark pink. The nose too, quite narrow. Long dark eyelashes provide a cover for his eyes, again, a greenish brown with a darker circle and a black centre. I don't think I've ever looked at anyone's eyes quite like this before. He's perfectly beautiful.

'You're not at all girly Ro. Just right. You're just right. I mean it. You are. Just right.'

'For you?' He says, smiling.

'Yes. And yes, I do want you to show me.'

But not now. This is not the right moment or the right place. But there is something else Ro. Something that would be exactly right. I take the boy's face, his head, in my hands. His face is inches away from mine. He's looking at me wide-eyed. His mouth is open and visibly wet. So is mine. I drop a hand where I can feel him, all tucked away now. He pushes against my hand as I kiss him full on the lips. I'm telling him, this way, what I am and what I hope he is too. I'm sure he is.

It was a good one, and at the end slightly breathless, we both wipe our mouths with the backs of our hands. We're almost laughing. It's all rather comical really, but they were glorious moments because we know now about each other. But who was, or is, David? Was David his nemesis? Or rather, was Roland Halfpenny David's nemesis? I need to know.

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