The Observer
by Rafael Henry
Chapter 11
I had a few things to do in my office before going to bed a second time that night. I had lain next to James until sleep overtook his over worked little mind. I sat in my office chair and reflected on James' performance earlier, and his loss of emotional control. He had seriously worried me. He had asked me if he could sleep in my bed that night and I had said he couldn't. That appeared to be the start of a tirade, ending up with him going absent-without-leave, and frightening me half to death. It wasn't just that of course. School has been a challenge, both socially as well as work-wise. It's been hard for him.
I left it a good half hour before I check on him. He's asleep, and looking peaceful. He's not what you would call a pretty boy, but there's so much about him both physically and in his personality that most people would find immensely attractive. I do what I used to with Mathew……check he's actually breathing. Of course he is, but I just need to know that he is. Silly really. I want to see more of his beauty. I gently remove the duvet that covers his upper parts, and his middle parts too. Not for the first time, I see his fingers under his balls and his thumb resting on his penis which is close to flaccid. The question of what he may have been up to crosses my mind, but quickly I dismiss it. It's none of my business. I turn off the low wattage light on my side of the bed. I leave the door ajar. I intend to join him in another half hour.
I try to finish some work, but I can't concentrate. I told James to wear something in bed in addition to a tee shirt. He has either forgotten to put some pants on, or ignored me. I undress, finally removing my briefs. I'm almost hard at the thought of sharing my bed with James. By the time I carefully climb into bed, I am fully erect. James does not stir. I decide to risk the light and disturbing him, and press the switch on the flex. I want to finally finish my Patrick Gale novel.
A half hour later I haven't finished it. The next thing I know, it's morning. I look at the clock on my bedside table. Just past seven and still almost pitch dark. James is leaning against my side. Last night there was a good two feet between us. I can feel his warmth against my skin. I can hear his breathing which sounds slightly faster than usual. That's not all I can feel. I'm on my front, and I suddenly realise that my stomach feels wet and cold. My right hand is between James' thighs. I quickly take my hand away. Within seconds I realise what has happened. I've come, and very recently. My first thought is for James. Hopefully he slept through the whole thing, and wasn't aware of what was going on. My second thought is for the state of the bottom sheet.
The memories of the very few wet dreams I've experienced are vivid indeed. One thing I do know is how the penis is stimulated to bring about orgasm whilst semi-conscious. You are on your tummy, and rubbing yourself against the mattress. Shortly afterwards, you wake up and gradually a very recent intensely pleasurable vague memory surfaces. Then you realise what has happened.
James stirs, turns over, and now there's a small gap between us. I need to sort matters out, so I get out of the bed with as little movement as possible. James lies perfectly still. I go into the family bathroom to clean myself up. It's amazing how that stuff gets all over the place. I'm in a mess, but within two minutes I'm ship-shape again. My orgasm is still strangely lingering, and I feel that I could easily go again. It feels like unfinished business somehow. The memory of the day not long ago that David the artist and I had sex together, drifts into my head. I would dearly like his attentions at this moment. I don't know where he is right now….in Canterbury probably. Meanwhile I have James in my bed.
I remember the moment when David came inside me. It was a first for me. I remember his hot and moist body as I gripped his sides willing him to come, and then as he finally did, forcing my fingers between his buttocks. I still have his finger marks on my shoulders.
It's as if nothing has happened. I'm not touching James of course, and I won't, but I can see him as he lies on his side. I look at his back, still tanned from summer's lease…..from hours and days on the beach, running and jumping, digging and laughing like so many there…..just being a boy…….our boy. Why does this beauty have to pass, as it surely will, all too soon?
James is facing me now. He's smiling that enigmatic smile of his with hazel green eyes that seem to mock me. I wonder what his thoughts are at this very moment. I look at his hands with long fingers that make a piano speak to us…….that brings tears to our eyes. His eyes close once more. I whisper….
'You're a sleepy boy.'
'Umm.'
'What are you thinking about?'
'Mathew.'
'Do you miss him?'
'Umm.'
'Do you think he misses you?'
'Yes I hope so.'
'Do you love him?'
'Yes of course I do.'
'That's very sweet. You're a very sweet loving boy.'
'Do you love me?'
'That's a very silly question.'
'Why?'
'Because you know I do.'
James smiles and closes his eyes once more. It's true. I do. I continue to look at his face…..the long eye lashes and nicely shaped mouth. No wonder Mathew finds him so interesting. I notice the tiny fair hairs above his top lip. James opens his eyes again……
'Can I stay here for a while?'
'Of course. It's Saturday. You can lie in for as long as you want. Would you like me to leave you on your own for a while?'
'Why?'
'I don't know. Maybe you'd like to be on your own now?'
'No. Will you stay with me?'
James is on his back now, his head turned away from me. He finds my hand which pleases me. I respond with giving his a gentle squeeze. I'm looking up at the ceiling trying to imagine what is going on in his head at this very moment. The movements are slow to begin with. I become hard almost immediately, knowing what James is doing, but I lie still. The movements beside me are quicker now. I doubt if it will much longer. Suddenly the motion slows almost to a stop. Then it stops completely, and two short sighs from my beautiful boy tells me it's over now. We lie still. Two minutes later, James turns towards me.
'Can I cuddle in please?'
His hands are together and under his chin as I draw him into me. He's warm, and quiet, and thank goodness, content. Then…….
'Otta.'
'What darling?'
'I think I'm a bit wet.'
'Really?'
'Umm. Will you look please?'
James draws down the duvet to expose his middle. His penis is still slightly engorged, as it rests on the stretched skin that encase his balls. It makes for a pretty sight indeed. Carefully, James retracts his foreskin….enough to expose the tip of the glans. He is indeed correct. The pinky mauve head is glistening with a smear of clear liquid.
'Give him a squeeze James….from the base towards the tip.'
'Like this?'
'Yes. See?'
'Is it?'
'Yes it is .'
It's some way from the real thing, but it's a start. I knew it had to happen, but rather shamelessly, I'm also disappointed. Our boy will not be that boy much longer. I ask James if it's a cause for celebration. He nods and smiles.
'How shall we celebrate James? Shall we nip down to Boots and buy you a box of tissues?'
He didn't think that was very funny. I'm going to take him out for dinner tonight.
We had all the family for Christmas in Rye. That included Amy and her partner, the two girls, James and his mother Jane, and Mathew of course. Another event of some note was the snow. We don't get much of it in the south of England, but when we do, it tends to come in spades. The cobbled Mermaid Street, and Church Square, and Watchbell Street looked so pretty with the covering of white. Before that we had the Christmas carols in the town and the church, and an invitation for James to return to Chichester as a former singer to join their choir for a service. James still has his treble voice, just. The tenor of it is different now, and a top C is well beyond him, but everything below that he can still make. It's a matter of singing the bits you can, and not risking the highest notes you can't reach. Simple.
Jane, Mathew and I all went down on the train to support James. It's the smallest, for some reason probably to do with cost, of all the major cathedral choirs. With another eight visiting bodies, the stalls were full and had to be augmented by a few chairs to the sides which were occupied by several tiny little probationers, none of which looked a day over eight. We all stayed at the Ship Hotel. It was a lovely occasion. The boys shared a twin bedded room, and Jane and I had a double. I hadn't slept with her for some time, so we were both on our best behaviour for the first part of the night. We lay in bed partially clothed. I thought if anything were to happen between us physically, it would be best if Jane made the first move. I hoped she would, and when she did, I was ready for her. Like me, Jane likes sex to begin whilst clothed. We had gone to bed with enough on to make it interesting. To feel moisture through or inside a pair of pants or knickers, whoever is wearing them, excited us both. We had some pretty vigorous penetrative sex that night….noisy probably, and unprotected. I know I came very hard inside her. What is done is done. I have to say that I'm afraid. All the things you know, all the dangers, all the inhibitions…..they just flee away in the face of sexual activity. The feeling takes hold and it gets better and better until you can't stop. Nature takes over in her never ending persuasive attempts to make us reproduce. The strange thing is that neither of us really cared about the possible consequences. Although Jane was slightly shocked to see an excess of my semen mingling with her pubic hair, and around and inside her vulva, she seemed positively amused at my capabilities, but hopefully not surprised. I'm sure there was some of the stuff where she couldn't see it. I was breathless as the end came nearer. Jane is not a tall woman and my mouth was hard against her head. My thoughts as the warm semen flowed through the head of my penis on its way to possible life creation, were not, shamefully, entirely about her. Anyway, enough of all that. Then it was her turn. What a pleasure that was for both of us, as I gently bring her slippery and hardened little bud to fruition through a pleasing mixture of body fluids. Some of the best sex is inevitably messy.
Mathew and James arrived at breakfast in the dining area of the hotel looking like they had just come out of the shower. They were both rather quiet, so I'm wondering if there's been some sort of a problem. I look at Jane, and she has obviously had a similar thought.
'Hello boys. Everything ok?'
We get a reasonably chirpy 'Hi Mum…Hi Dad' responses, and yesses to the second part of the question. End of story I suppose, but……something has happened. I didn't find out exactly what for another three months.
I like David enough, the artist who included James and Mathew in his painting of the dunes. I thought he'd be home from Art College for the Christmas holiday, and I was correct. I telephoned him one morning. The experience he had given me that day at Watchbell Sreet was one that I would quite like to repeat. It was an experience I knew I had had the next morning. He'd given me a right royal seeing to, to put it crudely, using some impressive weaponry. When David fucks something, it stays fucked. Walking around Rye the next morning, I wondered if anyone would notice. I imagined myself to be walking oddly, but I almost certainly wasn't. I guess it's all in the imagination….you think you are, but you're not. Strange, and quite funny really.
I invited David to dinner by a handwritten letter. I even used a first class stamp, which I never normally do. On the appointed evening, I told him I'd like to buy another painting. He asked me if I wanted something similar to the last one, or if I had another idea he could have a go at. I told him I had a photo of James dangling a crabbing line from a jetty on Whitstable beach in the summer. Jane and I are sitting watching him and some other kids, when his line gets tangled. A nice man who is overseeing another lad offers to untangle his line for him. I catch James standing as he does, very artistically, watching the man trying to untangle the line. It's a perfect pose as James stands watching, clad just in his yellow brief swimming knickers with his hands behind his back. It's a side on view, so there won't be any genitalia in view if I decide to have him painted nude, but I'm not sure yet. Jane will obviously see the picture, and I don't want to take the risk of upsetting her, or draw unnecessary attention to the fact that I find her son a suitable subject for my admiration, which I do.
David and I discuss the project over pre-dinner drinks. He asks me if I have any other images of James.
'Do you mean nude studies?' I enquire.
'Yes' is the answer. I tell David that the only nude studies I have of him are quick sketches made by me. That isn't sufficient for him apparently. I get the impression he would like to see images of nude boys…..not just James, but of any boy around his age, or younger, and that alarms me.
We have a simple dinner, shepherds pie, and I tell him I'll let him know about the painting, but I know and he probably does too by now, that I will never contact him again. Getting soundly fucked by David, or rather not getting soundly fucked by David, is the reality now. Boys of a certain age are beautiful creatures to behold, and I mean every part of them, but they are not there to be shared with others in any way, or abused. There's more than enough hatred, wickedness, and cruelty in this world. We surely don't need any more. You will say that's a fine one coming from you, mister. In a way you're perfectly right, but I do know where the line is. What you think in your head is one thing…….
Mathew is, or evidence suggests that he is doing reasonably well with his GCSE's. He needs to do well in his exams next year if he's to progress into the sixth form at Canterbury. It's not cheap, but I can afford it, just, although if he announced that he'd like to transfer to the grammar in Ashford, I wouldn't stand in his way. The girls' education is free, apart from their very natty uniform and a few extras like trips to the Science Museum in London, or the Tate Gallery, and so on. The trips out are one of the best part of school life as far as I was concerned, and all I can remember, as those events stood out like a patch of red in a sea of grey. Most of it was endless hours of complacent grammar school teachers pontificating to their bored pupils about the real world out there . I doubt if many of them had much experience of the real world. Funnily enough, it was on one of those school trips that I had my first meaningful romantic experience. He wasn't pretty, or even good looking really, but he was nice, if my English teacher will forgive me using that word. Yes, he was a really nice boy. We were sharing a room on a history trip to Paris. We had three nights of fun in bed. On the first night he asked me if I would get into bed with him, because he felt cold. I said I would be glad to. I lay there next to him for a short while, wondering what would happen next. Plucking up courage, I asked him if there was anything he wanted me to do. He asked me to cuddle him, which I did. It was wonderful….really liberating, and I'm know we both became emotional…….but not much because we were boys. Boys don't get emotional. After that he asked me if we could 'play willies', as he put it. He held mine as I held his. I remember it all perfectly. I held him around his shoulders as I 'rubbed him up' as we used to call it in the dormitory. It was all so wonderfully innocent, although our parents wouldn't have thought so. When he's finished, he does me while I watch his fingers and thumb do an expert job. We did it twice in the next half hour……twice each. I'd recently started to produce small quantities of semen, which he greatly appreciated because he couldn't. It was his one fault as far as I was concerned. We fell asleep in each other's arms. He was such a sweet boy. I often think of him even now, and wonder what he's up to. It was about that time when I noticed that some boys penises were actually harder than others when erect, not that I felt that many you must understand. Having said that, I am prepared to admit that my behaviour did occasionally border on the tartish. There you are, I've admitted it.
Yes, James' education. He seems to have found his feet now, and has become nicely rounded off by the social mix that he finds himself in. The corners of his slightly 'cut glass' accent have been rounded off into a tasteful common or garden 'tumbler' now. He seems to get on well with everyone in his class, and has predictably identified with the music department. He's not a dummy with the football, but his music commitments prevent any significant involvement with sport. Mathew however has always considered his games as a priority. So far so good then.
A cold spring has followed winter in Rye, but with the arrival of March, there is hope! April follows, and at the beginning of May, we have James' birthday. He's fourteen now, and growing in all sorts of ways. With his mother Jane's career going from strength to strength, James is with me for at least a couple of nights a week, and about every other weekend. He has a complete set of clothes here, which includes enough non-school kit. He's well aware of how much I enjoy his presence at Watchbell Street, especially when he consents to join me in bed on weekend mornings. It's a great time to mull things over and just talk about anything and everything. As I said, he's changing very gradually. It's all the usual things…….the croaky voice, growth spurt, and odd things like a lengthening head……and hair in places he didn't have before. He's had two new pairs of school trousers this year by my reckoning. I know exactly what's happening to him in the physical sense, as he has abandoned the family bathroom in favour of my shower. He's always accepted and encouraged my 'observation' of him. Maybe it's his way of rewarding me for my generosity, as he makes no attempt to cover his modesty around the house or in my room after showering. I lie on the bed chatting as he dries himself, stretching his lengthening body this way and that. Things are definitely moving, and sadly his boyhood is gradually drifting away.
It was one Sunday morning. About six, James comes into my room. I'm already awake.
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
