Sanctus

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 10

Friday 06.32 The wakeup call.

'Bare legs again Robin? It's a warm morning. Why are you bothering with a dressing gown?'

'Pyjamas are too hot.'

What? No 'sir' this morning?

'I agree. I've no use for them. Why don't you take it off? The dressing gown.'

'I've not much underneath.'

'That's ok. Hang it on the hook on the door. Go on now.'

The boy does precisely that, and then turns towards Tom and stands quite still and upright, hands to his sides. Tom, sitting up in his bed looks at the boy, his tummy having just somersaulted at the sight he now beholds. Just as the evidence he saw in the dinner queue suggested, the boy cuts an alluring figure, standing as he is now, showing off rather, in his underwear, as if awaiting some kind of judgement. Is this good enough for you Tom?

It should be. For Thomas Davenport it is indeed a handsome sight, and Robin De'Ath knows it. It's a pose alright.

The boy flicks his lengthy streaky blond hair back and then tidies it with his hand. Another little habit the boys have noticed and, needless to say, commented unkindly on.

'That's better isn't it Robin? A bit cooler now?' Tom says with a smile.

The boy smiles back and nods, teeth showing.

'Would you like to sit for a while?'

The boy nods again, taking a deep breath. Tom looks down at the boy, amidships, to take stock of what he not thus far seen. The brief garment is a comfortable fit, but snug enough to reveal the forms within, clearly.

'Where?' Asks the boy moving forwards.

'Your usual place……or on the end of the bed if you prefer? I can move my feet.'

The boy climbs onto the far end of the three-foot wide single bed and sits cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees.

'That doesn't look very comfortable?'

'Not very. Can I stretch out a bit?'

'Not that way around. There's just about enough room for two here. Do you want to?'

The pretty long-haired boy turns himself around so he's lying on his side, and next to Tom. But he's perilously close to the edge, as they both know.

'I'm falling off Tom!' The boys says, laughing. 'Help me!'

So Tom does by putting his arm underneath Robin's shoulder and his arm, whilst shuffling a little further across the bed towards the wall.

'How's that now?'

'Ok thanks. There's not enough room here. Can I lean my head on you?'

'Of course.'

The boy's head is now resting on Tom's shoulder, his hair partly over Tom's face. The older boy uses his fingers the push the hair away and make it tidy over Robin's head, like a human comb. The boy responds by placing his hand on Tom's bare chest. Tom's hand begins to play with the boy's hair, his fingers running through it from the top of his head all the way down and around his neck, again and again. The boy's eyes shut as he enjoys the sensations Tom's fingers are giving him. Then the boy moves his left leg up and over Tom's, and his body a little closer and tighter into Tom's. The arm that holds him securely tightens further so they are now lying tightly together. Two hearts are beating fast. All this togetherness was coming. Both boys knew it was, sooner or later.

'You ok?' Asks Tom, turning his face towards Robin.

'Yeah. Thanks.'

'Why?'

'For what you've done for me.'

'Things are better now I hope?'

'Yes. Loads better. Can we lie like this tomorrow?'

'Yes, if you want to.'

The boy moves his face nearer Tom's and his hand higher towards Tom's neck. Tom can feel his warm breath on his cheek. He tightens his grip on the boy's shoulder pulling him closer still. He draws a long breath, dragging perfumed air through the boy's hair. An aphrodisiac if ever there was one. All this was coming.

The boy shifts his position once more, wriggling his way ever nearer and beginning to embarrass Thomas Davenport.

Tom's hand feels the warmth of the skin on Robin's back, just a little lower now. He's wondering how low he dare go. Some boys enjoy being touched and young Robin is one of them, but Tom is careful to keep the palm of his hand no further than the waistband of Robin's underpants, or for brief moments, a little lower, playfully hooking finger tips around the wide seams with momentary intrusions. Tom's been in trouble before. There's considerable danger looming.

The time passes so quickly. It's almost five past seven already.

'I think you had better go now Rob.' Insists Tom, mindful of his history, moving the boy's body away from his. Although the boy looked like he may have slipped into sleep, he certainly hadn't, any more that Tom could have had. They'd been under a single sheet all this time. When Robin slipped off the bed there was no hiding place for his mood. The evidence of Tom's mood was concealed under the sheet. When Tom looked at the boy as he stretched up to unhook his dressing gown, he was very satisfied with what he saw. Very. The effect he has on the grateful boy. There's an understanding between them, one that didn't need words from the beginning. Each boy has a knowledge of the other, not spoken of.

Saturday morning, about 06.40

'Sorry I'm late Tom.' Says the boy, smiling in that coy way of his. He's acutely self-aware. He stands for a few moments, a toss of the head and fingers adjusting his hair again.

'Stay like that Robin, just for a moment please. You look nice this morning.'

The boy's dressing gown cord is not secured perhaps as it should be. There's a gap as he stands in classic pose, hands held behind his back, and then he walks over towards Tom's bed, but Tom is not in it. Tom, bare chested, is sitting on the edge, having hastily donned pyjama bottoms, still untied at the top, his hands to his sides on the bed. Tom looks down to check nothing is visible. Well, if you look carefully? The boy who has just entered the room shouldn't see. The boy walks up to him and stands between Tom's knees. Too late.

'Oh. What am I supposed to do now Robin?'

'You said you wanted to see me this morning. So here I am.'

'See you?'

'Yes.' Robin says.

'I have seen you. I can see you now.'

'Not properly. I thought you wanted to.'

'I would like to. The complete you . That's not just your physical presence, but what goes on in that little head of yours too.'

'Do you like me?' Robin asks, seeking affirmation.

'Yes I do. You know I do. What have you been up to this morning then? You're later than usual, What have you been doing? Anything?'

'Do you like all of me? I haven't done anything. Apart from the loo. I've been there.'

'Good. So here you are then? A hair wash last night? Looks like it. You look lovely; as usual. And, yes, I do like you. Very much.'

The boy smiles as he looks down and watches Tom's eyes, a foot below his. Tom does look, admiring another very lovely form of a boy through the gap at the front of his gown. He's seen a few in this place, but none better than this one. Very handsome indeed. The boy smiles again and turns and walks over to the door and slips his dressing gown off his shoulders and hangs it on the hook. Tom notices how nicely the boy walks across the floor on the balls of his feet. Big feet. Swimmer's feet, and hands too. The boy stands in profile now, showing himself. All very deliberate. The tummy drawn in, middle bits pushed slightly forward, and again, fingers pushed through hair, pushed behind ears, away from face, and then as he turns towards Tom, a little touch with the back of his fingers. He'd looked at the alluring shadow between the boy's buttocks, nothing more than that, and imagined for a brief moment the impossible. What it would be like. Tom knows full well what sex is, at its limits. By the time you reach the age of seventeen, and you find yourself curious, you find out about such things. He's had adult conversations with Terry Goodwin, all to do with certain events ages ago with Philip. Private conversations. Terry could understand Tom's difficulties because, although he never said anything about all that to Tom, he had been there himself. Tom had been given warnings in no uncertain terms.

The boy walks slowly back to him, and stands just where he was pressing himself between Tom's knees, his hands together, palms flat against the tops of his thighs, drawing attention to himself, certainly. He's showing Tom. Asking really.

Tom can see clearly the tiny hairs in the dim warm light. They are everywhere. Tiny reflective pale hairs, in, and around everywhere, adorning the perfectly smooth and pale skin.

'Tom. Will you play with me? Please?'

No more than a foot away now, Tom forms his lips to blow a tube of cool air towards the focus of both boys' attention at this moment. The boy's body, feeling the draught of air, reacts accordingly, much to Robin's amusement.

'That feels funny when you do that. Do it again.'

So Tom does it again and watches the effect. There is an effect.

The boy carefully places the fingers of his hand on Tom's thigh.

Tom looks over the body, perfectly nude. To him the word nude is so much softer than the word naked . It has connotations of beauty, not just another body with no clothes on. He would never touch the boy, not now. Terry's words of warning are still in his consciousness. But looking and seeing is another matter. The boys know perfectly well what's right and what's wrong, but is that so wrong? And if so, why is it? What if two boys really love each other? Why should that be so wrong? Who says it's wrong anyway?

'If you must play with private parts, play with your own, not someone else's please Tom. No more errors. The next one will probably be fatal.'

So said Terry Goodwin, the queer assistant Housemaster and friend to Thomas Davenport. Trouble must be averted.

Polyklitus, the father of Classical Greek sculpture, was renowned for incorporating mathematical proportions and symmetry into his sculptures of the male nude. He wrote a treatise titled The Kanon , in which he discussed sculpting the perfect male figure using geometry. The men depicted in Polyklitus's style are posed in contrapposto . The contrapposto style is recognizable by the balance of the statue's weight on one foot, and for the asymmetrical line of the hips and shoulders. Polyklitus's revolutionary use of geometry in depicting the human form created the ideal male figure. Male nudes seemed to be suspended in movement, filled with life. The naturalistic poses reflected the musculature and power of the male body.

Tom had read all this, over and over. He's studying Ancient Greek Culture, and Ancient History generally. The way a boy should hold himself in order to look beautiful. The boy in Greek art. The boy in English Art. The History of Art and Culture. That's his thing and he'll do well when it comes to the Advanced Level papers, soon to be addressed. And the question concerning pederasty? He'd read everything he could find on the subject. Maybe they will be a question on it in the Ancient History paper? I'd be a bit doubtful about that.

'So will you Tom?'

'What?'

'Play with me?' The boy asks, with that open mouthed pleading look he's cultivated.

The boy starts his little performance, presumably to encourage Tom to do what he wants. Play with him. He jigs about this way and that, still with his palms where they were, the tidy little object dancing to it's own tune now, visibly swelling.

'Show me those hands Robin.'

The boys obeys, his little dancing movements stopped, and holds them out for Tom, palms upwards.

'Swimmers hands, those. And your feet too. Perfect for the job.'

Robin isn't appreciating Tom's diversionary tactics. At least it stopped him jiggling about in that purile pseudo erotic way. The boy's penis hangs nicely now, larger than it was. Tom swallows an excess of saliva he hadn't noticed building up in his mouth, and swallows again, and breathes deeply.

'I'm off swimming now Rob. I want you to come too.'

Robin looks back at him, open mouthed. It took a few seconds, but he's agreed. At the last group timings, Robin was sixth fastest. That's nowhere near this boy's potential, and with the right regime inflicted upon him, he's destined to do a lot better than that.

Tom's relieved. That was a close run thing that he would have regretted for goodness knows how long. An open invitation from a very beautiful boy, rejected. Goodness me. That wouldn't have happened five years ago, but then it was different. Kids fooling about. Friendships cemented with physicality. He knows he probably could have done anything with Robin, very easily. They have every opportunity to do it. That's the problem in these places. You can, or rather could, if you want to. So what's Tom going to do in the future? He's been thinking about for sure.

Earlier that day, Saturday. About 06.10

Robin had been half awake for a while, no doubt subconsciously excited by another early trip to Thomas Davenport's room. Yesterday morning he was allowed in his new friends bed, but not naked. It was just for a couple of minutes, just a lark. He wanted a better, more comprehensive 'looking over' than he got. This morning he thought he might get Tom to take one or two liberties with him, or he with Tom. Spare a thought for Robin. He's at that age. He's desperate to show Tom what he can do. Fine, but in the swimming pool please, not in the bigger boy's bed.

He needs to pee badly, but as his mother said one morning getting him dressed, that 'when it's like that' you can't. The cord of his pyjamas was undone last night so he could get at things easily, and as he swings his legs off the bed, things naturally fall down. He looks and feels the heat in his tingling penis, gives the middle part a squeeze, whilst working his fingers up to the skin clad tip, and inspects. Nothing. He's seen another boy do that and get something interesting. More disappointment for him. He looks around the still semi-dark room and sees Ned lying on his side in the bed in the corner and his elbow moving. There's a moment isn't there, when a boy like Ned discovers certain things about his body, and then there's no stopping him. Ned's the only boy in their dorm who can't produce even one drop of what the boys crudely refer to as 'cum', much to the delicate flower's great chagrin. He's small for his age in every respect, but bright as a button. He, technically, should be in the year below, but finds himself in the year above his age group. A bit of a boffin, as the other boys call clever boys. Ned is always in need of a haircut which elicits lots of admiring hair ruffling from the others who see him fondly as some sort of cute mascot. He's rising twelve now but wears boy's pants with 'Boys Age 9' on the label that don't look tight on his slender frame. Looking at him you'd struggle to see that he actually is a boy in those things. Robin has glanced admiringly at these sleek pastel-coloured numbers when he's been alone in the room and checked out the linen cupboard. He picks out a pair, about three down in the pile, and puts the garment to his nose but can't detect any essential essence of Ned but only that lovely freshly laundered perfume. Still, just knowing where they will fit around Ned's compact little bump and rump gives him an odd tingling sensation in his nether regions. He's like that . Things like this excite him, especially when they fit snugly in between Ned's thighs and wedged between those firm rounded globes. He watches the boy dressing in the mornings. The other boys too, but Ned is special. An object of desire certainly. Someone to share your bed with for sure. If that ever came to pass.

On his way to the bathroom he surreptitiously collects a pale blue pair from Ned's pile. Ned was sent with far more than he needed, but mummy didn't want to take any chances of her little boy having an accident and nothing left in the cupboard to put on. Good grief woman! Everything else in there is regulation white, but Ned is a special case. Matron lets him get away with it, and other things too, the cheeky bright eyed little ratbag. Matron's cute little pet. Maybe one day you'll produce the goods for the others to look at and stick a finger tip in. Robin certainly wasn't the first to be all 'grown up' in that way. But now, three months on, things are working fine. Remarkably well in fact. He'd love to tell Thomas Davenport all about it, even give him a demonstration, but Tom might well kick his butt through the door if he mooted such a thing. No, far too risky; at the moment.

Robin is poised over the lavatory bowl, waiting for things to subside. When they do some thirty seconds later, he discharges the usual amount, and with his prepuce pulled back as far as it wants to go, stops to examine himself for a few seconds. He's had a little irritation on occasions so he has been given a tube of moisturizing [and lubricating it turns out] gel in his bedside cabinet that makes the skin slide to and fro very nicely, to be applied as circumstances dictate . He washes his hands properly, picks up the pale blue 'knicker things' [the other boys call them] he left on the shelf. He checks, prepuce back one more time, to make sure there are no more traces of urine escaping from his tingling and now slightly re-swollen penis. Pulled up now and feeling inordinately tight, Robin observes the effect in the mirror. He turns around for a rear view this time, something he often does when no one is looking, noting how the elastic causes indentations in his bottom. Something else for Tom to tell him off for, and get his fingers into. Dream on boy.

But Tom is dreaming.

At six twenty, Tom is still asleep which has not been the case all week. The boy hangs up the dressing gown on one of the two hooks on the door as usual, and is naked save for Ned's generous donation. Tom is lying on his right side so Robin finds sufficient room [just] behind the larger body he's now pressed into, his nose neatly lodge at the base of Tom's neck. He begins to blow his warm breath into the soft skin. All he has to do now is wait.

Tom has been half awake for a few minutes contemplating Robin's arrival. Deep thoughts of a deeply satisfying nature you might say. He can't turn over, not in the state he's in. He's seventeen and to all intents and purposes, fully formed now, and definitely fully functional. If the boy was allowed to lay and hand on him, he couldn't do a thing about it. It would be like a green light to the boy.

It's not just the warm breath now, it what he's sure must be the tip of a tongue stroking his skin.

Then it was the boy's mouth and tongue combined. So erotic and unbelievably beautiful, all centred within a few square inches of Tom's shoulder.

'Stop Robin; please.' He pleads, feeling Robin's hand touch his thigh. Anticipating further torture and temptation that morning Tom is not naked, and as Robin is, sporting a minimal layer of protection.

It was a kiss from Robin's mouth, undeniably from his mouth on the flesh of his body, several in fact, and the flat of the boy's tongue, drawn up, and around in little patterns on the warmly receiving skin.

Time to face the music Tom?

Splash went the body as it parted effortlessly the water in the indoor pool, heated. There's a haze of moisture hanging low over the surface of the green tinged deep end with the large round clock about, the seconds ticking away. The boy is faster this morning due in part to more efficient tumble turns. Three seconds faster in fact. The boy smiles when Tom, his timekeeper, tells him the good news. There's a warm shower waiting now and hands all over his body. He'll enjoy the lovely warm cascading water and they can stay in for as long as they want. At ten minutes to seven there's no one else around. Then the walk back to the House to dress…….and cute little Edward Barfoot to look at.