I was having a look through past programmes on my Smart TV. They keep them for four weeks or so in case you missed something. In the ITV section, and under 'Factual', I saw something about boarding schools that immediately caught my attention. A man who, as a boy, had certain experiences at his school, and had compiled a dossier of other boys who also had had the same, in various forms, at their schools. The issues were the lack of reporting of those kind of incidents , and the general cover-up by the schools concerned in order to protect their reputations. The 'witnesses', that is to say the now grown-up boys, gave compelling accounts of their experiences at their respective schools, because they involved individuals older than themselves. He also interviewed a former teacher who had had established a friendship with more than one boy at the school he was at; several in fact. This person asserted, and I quote :

'A thirteen-year-old boy is just as capable of seeking and conducting a meaningful friendship with a person older than he, as any other.'

That statement brought me up a bit sharpish. I paused the TV, sat down, and thought about what I had just read.

Let me take you back to the nineteen eighties, and to my prep school in Devon, a fair distance from my home at the time, which was in Haywards Heath in Sussex. I suspect that you're now thinking the worst……a host of young boys falling victim to all manner of abuses perpetrated by teachers. No, it was not like that. And I did say friendships, not abusive relationships. There's a bit of a difference.

I arrived as a ten-year-old new boy at the imposing Regency style stone-built country house set in its own extensive grounds. There's the tennis court, the outdoor swimming pool, a couple of rugger pitches, the cricket square, a rather mossy tennis court, and so on. The school's Headmaster is also the proprietor, which means he owns the place, and he can effectively do what he likes with it, and anyone in it apparently. There is no Governing Body that sits over his head. He can appoint unqualified staff which will save him money, and set his own curriculum. However, according to the law, he will get inspected from time to time, but by an organization that's essentially on his side . The inspectorate for independent schools will have an opportunity to speak to the pupils, with a member of staff present, of course, which might intimidate the children, thus encouraging them to be economical with the truth when it comes to some of the rather odd behaviour going on in the place.

The whole boarding school experience is something that one gets used to, in time, and it eventually gets to be quite fun. As my parents pointed out as they abandoned me to my fate that first afternoon, I would 'soon get into the swing of it'. By and large that was true. I did.

A year or two at the school goes by and I'm growing up in different ways. At twelve and a half, I'm doing things that I wasn't doing when I was a bewildered new kid on the block aged ten, having been pushed into a frightening situation. Now I'm a confident boy close to the top of a small tree, about to enter puberty. At the time, I cannot claim to have understood these changes, but I knew they were going on. Body comparisons are being made amongst the boys more or less every day, mostly in the dormitory. That's a good place because it involves being in a state of undress at least twice a day, and not necessarily waiting for 'lights out', to compare our developing bodies. One boy's excited pride and joy is put up against another, literally. Boys want to feel other boys' parts, at least we did. Things are felt for size and weight. It's all a matter of comparison. On that score I fare quite well. At rest I am well adrift, but when I'm up for it, so to speak, I do a lot better, surprisingly, and close to dorm champion. It never seemed a competition though, and the boy with 'not much to show' was never derided in any way. Boys can be very kind that way, surprisingly, and very unkind in just about every other way when the mood takes them. The disparity between my ups and downs always surprised my peers, as it arose from something pretty paltry……a tiddler as things like mine were commonly called, or more unkindly, a 'mini-peen'. My transformation from tiddler to impressive was a source of interest to my room-mates it seemed, so I was often the victim of a 'rasping'. This involved being held down by the other boys on a bed [it didn't matter whose], one's shorts being unceremoniously lowered, underpants left up, shirt and jumper lifted clear of the tummy, and then tickled aggressively around the ribs. Knowing full well what was coming, and enjoying the attention of any boy, my body responded accordingly. At this point it was shorts and pants down to reveal my slender circumcised tool fully up and raring to go. There was nothing I could do to prevent it. They would all have a go for few seconds, until the inevitable came to pass in fairly short order; less than two minutes usually. I'm sure I was a regular victim because the boys knew I was going to respond so easily to this crude form of bondage. They were always entertained by witnessing another boy's orgasm. I can't deny that I enjoyed these occasional experiences on a boy, particularly one I admired for one reason or another. It was all about sexual power I suppose, thinking back. Extraordinarily erotic without doubt. The order of 'play' was always the same, because the boys knew which ones, or rather which one individual had the best effect on me, and he would go last. I could hold back until it was his turn. He had a very deft hand and dealt with me with the utmost sensitivity, somehow knowing exactly what worked for me, and provided it in handfuls. I always closed my eyes throughout the process, and I knew exactly who it was 'on me' at any one time. Usually it was a maximum of four boys involved. There was a boy called 'Inky' Malbury, so called as he was dispraxic, his fingers covered in blue Parker ink as a rule, but despite his clumsiness, I could always recognize the delicate sensitivity of his fingers. It would tip me over the edge quickly. The feeling he gave me was distinctive and irresistible. He had a natural talent for it, a fact that I'd heard from an older friend who had once benefited from his skills after games in the changing room. The boys would melt away leaving me to breathlessly reorganize myself, both physically and emotionally. Other boys, in their turn it seemed, underwent the same ordeal, with me as an enthusiastic participant in the ruthlessly erotic game. None of us ever, as far as I was aware, thought it anything other than good fun. I sometimes wondered if girls did the same sort of thing at their boarding schools? I rather doubt it, but perhaps they did. In fact they must have done; must do, just as boys are doing it as I write this, somewhere or other in the world.

The last time it happened, this ritualistic humiliation, Inky was selected to do the whole operation himself while the others watched. It took about five minutes and I knew it was going to be him as the other three boys had discussed it. It was the first time anyone had touched me with their lips, and their tongue. Goodness knows where he learnt that trick. The boys had dared Inky to do it that way, albeit partially. It gave me a taste for the idea, something incredibly taboo at the time. I think it must have given Inky a taste too, along the way, although most of the final result ended up on my just washed grey jumper, something highly undesirable as the evidence was always tricky to get rid of quickly, and its nature, where it had come from, was very obvious to those that recognized it. Once dried, it left a whitish and very recognizable residue. The other three boys left, quietly giggling at my difficulty and their cleverness at selecting Inky to do the deed. I was left with Inky, and his blue eyes looking at me sympathetically through his round glasses, one lens cracked, and the left-hand hinge mended up with a little pink sticking plaster. He could never claim to be one of the pretty boys we had around the place, but there was something very endearing about him. I wondered why he hadn't disappeared out of the room along with the others, until I realised why he was still with me. I already had a suspicion that he liked the cut of my jib, so to speak, as he sat on the edge of the bed, legs I suspected deliberately held apart showing me a goodly length of upper thigh. I had seen him erect in the shower one morning and admired him for it, although it was a little mini, but otherwise perfectly formed. I happen to like the smaller boys, ugly 'donkey dicks' being of very little interest to me. I knew that older minibeasts could produce just as well as the average monster, and……well, that's all I'm going to say on the subject. I'm sure that Inky's performance on me had given him expectations.

'Ok. There's just one thing. Would you mind dreadfully if I kiss you first? Just one on your cheek?'

Kissing for me is the greatest of pleasures, often leading to more. He leant forward and I touched him very lightly on his cheek. I wanted to tell him that whatever was about to happen was about genuine affection. He obviously wanted me to play with him. That's fine, but I could never do that with any boy without a preliminary gesture of friendship. That would be just too cold. I'm sure he appreciated the gesture because he turns his head towards me, removing his specs, and plants one directly on my mouth, withdraws quickly and looks at me open mouthed, expecting some sort of adverse reaction. Certainly not Inky.

'Thanks Inky. That was lovely. You can come again. By the way, you look nice without your glasses. Did you know?'

He smiles for the first time, and looks down at the front of his rather roomy short grey trousers. I can't see anything unusual. There's no sign of an erect Inky.

He opens his legs again, this time even wider giving me a view straight up the middle. His pants are quite loose and a little bit of smooth skinny beige coloured pecker protrudes from one side. That's nice.

There's room for my hand as I slide it up the outside of Inky's leg and as far up as I can get. I go past the thick seam of his capacious underpants and find the outside of one buttock and give it the sliding hand treatment. Withdrawing and heading for the middle, it's all there, resting quietly inside his pants; thankfully the modern kind, and regulation white. Better be or it's all over Rover. Anyway, colours and patterns are considered very tasteless in this place. So it's all soft and pleasant to the touch as I gently feel around his nethers. Lovely. His little niblicks feel relaxed and warm, and as I knew, bijou. I change tack and withdraw slightly, getting my fingers inside his pants and up and back around his hip bone, and underneath one buttock. As I expected it's beautifully firm.

Inky undoes his snake belt and the metal clip that holds his short trousers together, and pulls the two corners apart, lifting his bottom up slightly so I can lower them to mid-thigh. This is good. White and quite loose fitting on his spare frame. He's on the edge of the bed, hands either side of his body, looking down, with me kneeling in between his legs, wide apart. Ok, time to reveal.

He's warm to my touch as I play with everything other than his soft penis, one hand underneath him and a couple of fingers perilously close, but definitely not in contact. Bottoms are taboo, more for health reasons than anything else I have always assumed, unless previously agreed, but I'm chancing this one, without being in any way intrusive. If it was me, I'd be getting anxious that something is being ignored, but that's very much part of my game. Teasy boy that I am. I lower my head and plant the lightest touch with my mouth on the underside of Inky's penis, now at last beginning to swell nicely. As I have said, no world beater but a typical but perfect uncircumcised example which wouldn't have reached halfway along a six-inch ruler. I look up as Inky looks down.

The boy nods. Good. I don't care how long this takes, and if we're discovered, we'll be gone by tomorrow morning. But some things are worth the risk.

This is indeed a delightful experience, not my first this way I should add, but there's nothing to match the sensations gained for both of us. The tip of a tongue moved in the right way and in exactly the right place works wonders. Now he's completely ready and with his foreskin moved out of the way with two fingers either side of his hardness, I've managed to expose his sensitivity fully. But my conscience is pricking me, so to speak. Inky. Should you be indulging in such behaviour? Is this a first for you? And to what extent am I responsible?

So I stopped, looked up and saw his face. But the boy takes my head over my ears in both of his hands and sends me a message I can't ignore. I'm thinking that there's no better way to discover the essential facts about a boy's private parts than this. Every last detail can be sought out and its effects understood.

I couldn't make him come which surprised and disappointed me. Why not I wondered? That would have so nice. Thus there was nothing to receive, if that were possible sadly, from Inky Malbury. Nothing I could keep alive to linger as long as possible to keep the memory with me all the way until tea time. He may be one of those boys who are getting interested in what they think is sex, but don't orgasm. I have always thought that was the whole point of it. I shall have to have further words about all this with Inky. Anyway I don't want him to get like me. He's far too nice. After about five minutes we give up. What was up is now down. Shame.

All done up again, I kiss him on his cheek again. He smiles. I doubt if I'll ever have much to do with Inky, but we are friends now. I think that's a very human arrangement. He's now on my 'worth loving' list. It's quite a long list.

The gang of three had had their wicked way with me again. The third time if memory serves, and the last. Despite my squirming and protestations, they knew I'd enjoy the occasion, and they knew it wouldn't take long before I showed them what I was capable of. With both of my hands held, I couldn't have moved my jumper up my tummy leaving bare skin, easily tended to, but at the time, during those moments, one tends not to think about consequences. As soon as I felt Inky's fingers on me, that was it. I felt that familiar rising inside me and the process had started and wasn't going to stop until my body had expelled all that it could muster. I shut my eyes and turned my head sideways at the first muscular expulsion. Wham it goes. I could feel it hard right inside my bottom, and all the way through, and up it comes to the very tip, or whatever you might call it; and out. Wonderful. It must have to travel a fair distance to reach the outside world, that stuff. The feeling is so special as every boy that indulges, knows so well. Inky sees it through to the end, and beyond, about fifteen seconds of pure joy in his fingers. Then, as one always does, I look down to see the situation, curious as to how I'd performed for those rogues, those blackguards, now departed amid general giggling, [apart from Inky]. So there it all was. The only way to deal with the jumper is go to the bathroom and sponge off the front with your flannel, and then get as much of the still-warm water out by pressing it hard between a towel, or a dry flannel, several times, and then waiting ages for it to dry out of sight in an airing cupboard. So, on a chilly November day, I'm in my tatty spare. No problem, as they say. Felling an ounce of responsibility, Inky stays with me looking like he wants to help with my predicament. I didn't know it then, but there is a very convenient way to achieve what he did, but with an alternative method which would have avoided all this difficulty. Dream on!

Height wise, I've gone from four feet six inches when I started at the school, to a lofty five feet exactly. In terms of hair other than what's on my head, which happens to be the colour of a pale mouse, I have achieved nothing. When I feel around places, there's no hair there, or under my armpits, and still nothing either side of my tiddly bits. So that's the physical stuff. The psycho stuff is an entirely different matter. I'm not sure when I started to fiddle in earnest……..a couple of years before probably, around the age of ten and a bit. I was shown how to do this efficiently by an older boy by a couple of years who I knew had taken a fancy to me. I was very flattered by the attention he showed me every day, by way of brief conversations when we passed in a corridor, or when we got changed for games. His excuse was 'You look lonely Tom. Would you like some company? Away from everybody?'

I remember just nodding. I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but his encouraging tone was enough for me to follow him.

'We could go somewhere private if you want?' He says turning his head sideways as I walk to the side and just behind him.

He was one of those popular boys everybody tended to like. Nice looking too. So I found myself attracted to him, as you do. This handsome seemed to be offering me his undivided attention, so who was I to turn that down? Anyway, I thought him a good person to talk to. I was flattered that he gave me any of his time at all. We ended up looking out of a window in the library. We weren't thinking about the view. I had one hand in my pocket as we gazed speechless out of the large 'gothick' style Victorian window, feeling my bits, and as I check where his hands are, he's clearly doing the same.

We arranged a time when the House would be quiet upstairs. Out of bounds at that time, but perfectly possible to talk privately.

'Wait here, and follow me up in two minutes.' He says, with a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I watched him nonchalantly sidle out of the large common room and leave by the huge heavy mahogany door in the corner. I waited a couple of minutes before I made my own way through that door, along the corridor and up the next flight of stairs up to the top floor where all the rooms are, my fingers still pleasantly occupied in my left hand pocket.

He was already in his room with had just the two beds in it. We sat together on his. He's one of those naturally kind creatures. Not especially handsome, but a boy one can respond to easily. He's easy to be with. Besides, I'm ready for someone new. But what……..exactly?

We talked for a few minutes and gradually the conversation got around to girls, and the fact that there weren't any in the place and how much he wanted to 'get to know one properly'. Then he put his hand on my leg just above my knee. He started to gently rub it whilst moving it further up, very slowly.

'I know, but we can't see any here. But there's you Tom. You're really lovely. Do you know that? You're so sweet. We could pretend…….couldn't we? I'm a boy and you're a girl. Would you mind pretending? It's only pretending. That's all.'

I nodded, still not knowing quite what he was driving at. But I was rapidly getting the idea. His hand got closer to my groin by the second. It felt good and I was becoming aroused. He had his other hand in his pocket right in the middle, doubtless covering himself. Then he began to explain.

I think his idea was to expose ourselves together; to have a proper look at each other. He was obviously interested in me and other younger boys probably, although there had been no after-lights-out discussion about him.

On the edge of the bed now, I lean back, supporting myself on my arms behind me. Standing between my legs, he undoes my short trousers exposing my stiffness still inside my pants. He pauses for a moment, looking down admiringly, his fingers just inside the waistband.

With both hands he pulls at the waist band to reveal me. I watch as he reveals himself now. I think most of us are interested in what other boys look like, hard like he is. As I suspected, a couple of years makes a difference.

He takes my hand and places it on his considerably larger penis than mine. It feels hot and very hard. We lay ourselves lengthways on the bed, our pants now halfway down our thighs. I had my left hand on his penis covering about half of it. With two fingers and his thumb he began very gently rubbing it up and down near the head part. I moved my fist higher and did the same for him, my eyes fixed on the head of his penis, half expecting a rush of sperm to emerge at any moment. I had heard about all that, no doubt exaggerated. We'd been at it for a couple of minutes. I hadn't felt much change, but……..

'You'd better stop now Simon.' He says a little breathlessly, but I thought without too much comviction.

'You don't know why do you?' He says holding my hand preventing any further movement.

I had no intention of stopping, and in my experience, limited as it was, I knew boys never meant that. They say no, but mean yes.

I'm sure he just wanted to take his attraction to me a stage further. It was me rather than him that caused matters to go further than he possibly intended. I found out later that the older brethren had been given warnings concerning the younger boys, so if anything 'like that' came to pass, it was almost always because the younger boy had encouraged the elder. He put his arm around my shoulder and just looked at my groin which seemed to fascinate him, as I continued the process of pleasuring him to a completion. The whole thing was over quite quickly for him, rather shocking me in the process. I'd never seen anything on that scale before. He was much more advanced than I was and I found out exactly what happens, and all the consequences. I remember looking at it immediately afterwards, and my hand. I had no idea it was like that, and how exciting it all was.

'There's a hanky in my right-hand pocket Tom.' The boy tells me, holding his shirt and jumper up above his tummy. I had noticed the puddle in his navel, and elsewhere.

Before I left him there, he asked if would allow him to kiss me. I agreed. I could think of nothing else for the rest of the day, or night. It was the kiss more than anything. I remember his arm around me pulling me very hard into him. Such a sweet gesture. He was just craving affection; and to have it returned, poor boy. You can't blame him for that. There must be a lot of mid to late pubescent boys playing with other boys their own age, but this one wanted me. I had been selected. Picked out from the rest as a chosen one. I was deeply flattered.

I think he was rather overwhelmed with guilt afterwards, and embarrassed by the consequences and the practicalities that had to be attended to. He had produced what I thought to be a very large quantity of sperm. I don't suppose it was at all. That was our dormitory word for it. All of us seem fascinated with sperm, mainly because most can't get it probably. Some of it had gone a long way. On his cheek. I just watched, still very erect but now in my underpants, and responsible for the poor lad's predicament. The next day he took me aside and apologized profusely for what he called his 'lapse'.

He looked very frightened. I told him that reporting his behaviour was the last thing I would ever have contemplated. He looked slightly down at me. I think he was almost in tears. I would have repeated the incident gladly, and as often as he wanted me to. Any time dear boy.

Now, just one term away from leaving this place for the 'big' school, I'm a regular visitor to my private parts and the pleasures they always provide, along with just about everybody else in our room. Puberty has become a reality for some of us, but there are a couple of slow coaches who despite their best efforts [and noisy ones] to join that exclusive club, still can't make the grade. I know this because we are subject to quality, and quantity, control. Sex, as something nice to think about, has risen to the top of our collective agenda. I like it, and I indulge every morning and every night, occasionally even three times with very little time in between, as little as ten minutes usually. None of us make any secret of it, and some of us collaborate on the grounds that it's more fun when someone does it for you, but if it involves someone else, then always in private, apart from the ritual 'rasping'. Bottoms don't usually feature, apart from the soothing palms of boys that appreciate and admire those rounded forms held tightly within the smiling boy's short trousers. I'm leaning nonchalantly, a little provocatively perhaps, against a window ledge, staring almost mindlessly out on the playing fields. A boy joins me.

An investigating palm on my bottom. A good five minute's worth too, and it's got me going nicely elsewhere. His other hand comes around the front. He gives me a gentle squeeze. Nice. I'm up for it.

Any mention of 'pants' make us giggle. Most of us wear the modern style of underpants that only required a yank down at the front in order to pop willy out to pee, but other boys are still cursed with the old-fashioned Y-Front type, or some other variation, equally inconvenient, cumbersome, and downright ugly. They are the nearest a boy can get to girls' knickers and we love them.

One rather pretty boy [who I quite fancy as it happens] with a 'beauty spot' on his cheek, refers to his pristine brief underwear as his 'panties', a term the rest of us heartily disapprove of. It's the kind of word a pansy, a queerish sort of boy quite unlike the rest of us of course , uses. Pretty effeminate boys, a bit like me I suppose, are known as 'flowers'. This is what the big boys say about the flowers they like:

They dream of wearing girls' panties to school and being masturbated by good looking young male teachers who they 'suck up' to. They make the hole in their trouser pocket bigger so they can get their hand right through and fiddle more easily. They like to come in their pants in lessons without anyone else knowing they have; apart from the boy in the next desk who knows perfectly well what he's been doing. They have crushes on teachers and prefects, or even that sexy blond boy gardener who looks up from his hoeing and stares at him as he walks past. They like boys who are good at games [although they are not], and wear tight white shorts that show everything. They secretly 'borrow' underpants from boys they fancy, often much younger boys, and use them. Dream on lads. Sex, in one form or another, is on our minds each and every day.

Philip is my best friend. Just a friend too. We haven't done anything naughty. He's like me in lots of ways. But unlike me, he has to endure the ignominy of the Y-Front curse. What an insult to clad such a beautiful body in such a garment that de-sexualizes him so alarmingly. One morning I let him try one of my little numbers on as I have a surfeit. My mother said you can't have too many and I agree. You can't. Philip was jealous of what I've got so I said he could. Philip got very excited as he pulled them up into position, the evidence being only too obvious, hard and long, and like me, sans a prepuce. I'm sure that if I asked him for a favour when I'm less busy, he would grant it. He's heavily into drama and has a mum who is an actress and has been in films. He looks like he has makeup on his face sometimes, but I think it's just his natural colouring. He has longish wavy blond hair and plays with it a lot. He says he's going to be in a film soon but no one believes him.

In the meantime, that rather nice boy in the sexy shorts I granted a favour to the other day, is back in contact. He wandered over to me during break yesterday.

'Fine thanks.' I reply, chewing the last vestiges of my 'spanish' liquorice, and very aware of my blackened tongue and mouth.

Yes you were, very selfish. You got what you wanted, and then promptly lost interest in me. Selfish boy.

We went back to the same place at a time when we knew we wouldn't be disturbed. It was all about me this time. He told me to lie back across his bed with my legs over the edge just touching the floor. I had an idea of what was coming. It's a wonderful ritual of the methodical undoing with the boy kneeling between my knees, the exposure of the under layer, and then the feeling of enclosure within the wet and warm. The teasing as we walk hand in hand towards the threshold, and then onto the brink, the threshold, and finally as I emerge into the bright light, the beginning of that point of no return. That moment when the mouth opens wider for more air, and the lights start flashing, and suddenly, inexorably, I'm flying; and for a few moments, in love.

'Oh, that's alright then. I was a bit worried for a moment. It's very strong for you isn't it. That must be very nice.'

We looked at each other for ages. He's such a nice boy. A really good sort. I like him. I like him a lot. Is this what love feels like?

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Sanctus

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 1