Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 School Daze: by (c) Hamilton Joyce

   John Smalljohn stretched his legs and surveyed the scene in School's
Great Hall.  AS a Housemaster he sat in the front of the three rows of
Masters on the stage looking down at the four hundred or so schoolboys on
their ancient benches in the main body of the hall.  He could have worn his
England blazer (he had played wing-three-quarter for his country in the
1992 season) but as usual on School's grand occasions he preferred his
light blue blazer under the black gown and white furred hood of his old
university.  The front row, housemasters, heads of department, and senior
coaches, had wooden arm-chairs while the lesser staff had ordinary upright
chairs.

   The senior boys, sixteen and seventeen years old, mostly wore the
emblems of their sporting prowess, the rugby, cricket and other
multi-coloured blazers.  A few, more academic and less athletic, were in
the claret School blazer with its gold trim.  The juniors were in their
altogether less showy school uniform of white cotton shirt, claret tie, and
short grey trousers.  The new boys, exactly ninety of them, occupied the
front four rows.

   The readings and songs had been chosen by the Headmaster, Nigel
Fairweather, as he always did, and as ever they reflected the liberal
values of the School, the boys singing with great gusto Lennon's "All you
need is love..." led by two lads with electric guitars, and readings from
Martin Luther King and William Morris by an athletic youth and a really
cute second year boy

   Nigel Fairweather was rising to make his annual first-day-of-the-year
address.  He would start as usual for the benefit of the new boys,
explaining the ethos of the school, and how, back in the 1940s a great
headmaster, Sir Fullton Mellors, had reformed the School, changing it from
a traditional institution, heavily but hypocritically religious, full of
intolerance and bullying, and mostly barbarous, into the enlightened
secular society they were fortunate enough to belong to.  'You will find we
accept gratefully the diversity of our culture, with boys from many nations
and of many faiths and indeed of no faith at all.  Here we learn to bond,
Senior with Junior, boy with boy, mature man with boy: you will find
friendships here that will last a lifetime.  Some of you will find more:
you will find love.  And you will discover that great truth which so many
never learn, that love is not exclusive, that you can love many in this
life, yes even love more than one at the same time.  And above all you will
discover that love has two dimensions, the one spiritual and the other
physical, and that although physical love may exist without the spiritual,
to love with the heart and deny with the body is a great pain and
distress.' There was a stirring in the hall: many of the older boys would
be seeking eye contact with their own special friends, the younger boys who
currently filled their thoughts....and from time to time their beds!  Some
of the juniors were holding hands: there was no taboo here about touching,
even kissing, though not in the Great Hall!

   John Smalljohn allowed his attention to wander as he looked along the
rows of the new boys, identifying the ones he had chosen for his own House,
Plato.  The six School Houses were named after great thinkers, writers and
artists, all of them homosexual or at least bisexual....surely no
coincidence?  His House's great sporting rival was Marlowe, named for the
gay Elizabethan dramatist.  It was easy to see Hargreaves, blonde and very
cute, eager just like his brother had been four years earlier.  He was
Plato by right because of the family connection with the House.  The other
boys had to be chosen in the lottery of the selection process.  The six
Housemasters had sat round the table with the files and importantly the
photographs of the new boys, and had in turn each picked their recruits. 
He spotted Simon Boynton his first round draft, and Hassan
something-or-other his second round choice.  And there was Jonathan Powell
who had a French mother and English father and who had been educated so far
in France.  Sex with him would improve the master's French!  He stretched
his legs, aware that his trousers had tented at the thought, but not at all
worried by that.  His would not be the only erection as boys and masters
eyed each other.  Sex and sexual promise was always in the air at School,
but never more so than the first day of the new school year, when all
seemed possible, and probably was.

   The Headmaster was in full flow now, preaching his doctrine of freedom
with all the fervour of a true-believer, his long, pony-tailed hair
swinging as his enthusiasm grew.  John Smalljohn found himself remembering
how he had been infatuated by this charismatic man when, as a newboy
himself, he had first been "counselled" by him, then the Plato Housemaster.
He had been firm but gentle as he introduced the young Smalljohn to the
delights of male sex, and the man, now Housemaster himself, sometimes knelt
for the older man during school vacations, offering his mouth or bottom as
he had so willingly twenty years before....

   AS Housemaster he used the customary system for arranging "counselling"
sessions.  His own appartment adjoined the dormitary, of course, his living
quarters separated from it by his office.  Each afternoon on the connecting
door there would be a name of one of the boys, selected by him for
"counselling" that evening, and a blank space beneath in which any boy
could write his own name.  These were formal sessions, and although he was
a considerable athlete and his boys were very pretty and very willing, two
a night was all he could manage most of the time.  Boys could, of course,
talk to him informally at any convenient time.  He was popular and there
was always a second name pencilled there, sometimes from another House.

   He had written "J Powell 7pm" in the frame before leaving for Hall.

  
...........................................................................
..

   The rest of the afternoon was filled with the Staff Meeting at which the
Bursar summarised the healthy financial position of the School (it was a
charitable trust and not a business as such), and mentioned two major
bequests during the vacation, one of which would enable the swimming
facilities to be improved to Olympic standards.  The Assistant Headmaster
handed round the staff teaching timetables, and these were studied with
great attention as you may imagine.  Nigel Fairweather made some comments
about the need for this to remain a completely friendly place adored by
every single boy.  'As you are aware, our whole house of cards could come
tumbling down if only one boy were disloyal enough to inform the
authorities of our particular approach to ...  motivating ...  our boys. 
Though with the number of our alumni now in high positions we could
probably survive it is better not to risk.  Yes, decidedly!' Then there was
sherry, and chat about holidays, sport, cars, sex, and the usual things men
discuss, before all went their ways, eager to taste again the pleasures of
the flesh.

   He shaved carefully and showered long and enjoyably, hardly daring to
touch his cock, often at least half-hard.  He considered meeting young
Jonathan in his white towelling robe ("borrowed" from a Sheraton Hotel!),
after all he intended to be naked again soon.  But on balance he decided
best to dress, but casually.  At ten to seven he went to his office, tidied
the desk and plumped up the cushions on the old, red-satin covered settee.
A scratchy hand had written a name in the 9pm slot on his notice.  This was
a new one to him but he expected he would recognise the boy when he saw
him. Not Plato, of course.

   There was a tentative knock on the oak of his door.

   'Come!'

   You could see the boy had a French mother!  He was slight and had
mediterranean colouring, very dark wavy hair and full, sensual lips.  His
expression was timid, but his eyes had that dark laziness that betokened a
potential for passion.  Fairweather stood to shake hands formally with the
boy, towering over him, and ushering him over to the settee.  He stood in
front of the boy, who could scarcely miss the effect he had on the man,
whose grey cotton slacks were well-tented at the crotch already.

   Jonathan was still disorientated: apart from occasional visits to
grandparents this was his first real experience of a foreign country, and
the School was so large and imposing in its Gothic grandeur, so unlike the
modern, functional buildings he was used to think of as school.  Also he
felt shy in the presence of this giant of a man, though like everyone else
here his Housemaster seemed to be very kind and friendly.  As they shook
hands the man gave him a wonderful smile, and the boy even managed a timid
smile himself.  The man did not let go of his hand after the formal
handshake but used it to guide the boy to the settee where they sat down
together.  This was so pleasant and friendly, and Jonathan knew it would
have been impossibly informal in the more correct atmosphere of the French
school he had just left.

   'We have had your file, of course, Jonathan, but it does not tell us
anything really important about you.  Where shall I start?  Is this your
first time away from home?'

   'Apart from the summer camp last year, yes, sir.'

   John thought the boy looked utterly devastating, so serious and
concentrating, so shy and yet so beautiful.  He could have kissed him then
and there for being such a wonderful boy...  but did not, of course.  'It
will be perfectly normal for you to miss your home and your parents, but
believe me that will soon pass, as you make friends here at Brancombe, and
you will soon be regarding Plato House as your home-from-home.' Again that
delightful smile, that the boy was beginning to find very attractive.

   The conversation wandered through the family, social and school life the
boy had enjoyed in France, and touched on his sports....he was slightly
built but boxed a bit, and played football.  'You have the build of a
cricketer: many batsmen have had your build, my boy.' A massive, hairy hand
was lightly rested on the boy's thigh, and he found it comforting and
friendly that the man left it there, rough-palmed against the smoothness of
the boy's flesh.  The boy looked at the man's bare arm, muscular and hairy.
His legs too, in their shorts, were covered with lovely golden hairs.  He
would be as hairy as Jonathan's father, he thought, though his father's
were black and this man was like a great golden lion.
John Smalljohn had a technique for these first interviews, tried and
tested, and was gradually moving the conversation to more interesting and

potentially stimulating areas.

   'I met your father and mother, of course, when they visited last Spring
to check the School out.  They are an exceptionally attractive couple, and
you certainly take after them.'

   'I sometimes think I am more like my mother than my father.' The boy was
silent, and he thought of his mother.  A year ago, just after his
thirteenth birthday, he had seen her in her lingerie, black satin bra and
panties, a black garter belt, and seamed stockings.  She was going out to a
party with his father, and had left the bedroom door open as she changed.
She bent over to put on shiny black high heeled shoes, and the nylon
stretched tight over her rounded bottom and tight over hidden cunt lips. 
He had stood there enthralled, heart beating, and aware that his cock had
gone rock-hard.  He watched for thirty seconds, and then fled in case he
should be discovered, but the damage was done, and seconds later and three
times that night he masturbated to remembered and imagined images of his
mother, spurting "cream" for the very first time: until that day his
orgasms had been lovely, but dry.

   He re-focused his attention on his Housemaster, and realised he was
still speaking.  'One of the things I always like to establish is whether a
new boy has been given sensible information about sex.  Have you had such
classes in your French school?'

   The boy blushed very slightly, and altogether charmingly.  'Oh yes, sir.
Very thorough I should think.'

   'But you have no practical experience: no girl has invited you to make
love to her?'

   This time the blush was really deep and doubly charming.  'Oh no!  Oh
no, sir.'

   But the boy knew all about sex: his mind wandered again and in a series
of flashbacks he recalled his great guilty secret.  About a month after he
had started lusting after his mother he had watched his parents "doing it".
They had been to another dinner party and had made lots of noise coming in.
Jonathan guessed they were a bit drunk but turned over and tried to go back
to sleep.  Soon he was disturbed by strange grunting noises.  He got up and
crept out of his room: the door to his parents' bedroom had been left wide
open, and there on the bed, in a pool of light from the bedside lamps, his
father was fucking his mother.  She was kneeling, and the first exciting
impression was the lovely shape of her breasts, so firm and rounded with
nipples sharply defined.  Then it was his father's cock as he withdrew it
for a moment before plunging it back into her pussy.  Everything about his
father was angular and muscular, and his cock was like a dagger, the boy
thought.  His mother was soft and rounded, and she wiggled her hips
inviting her man to impale her again, smiling at him over her shoulder.  He
shoved it in once more and the grunts started again as she orgasmed. 
Jonathan had watched, guilty but his cock hard, as they paused to suck each
other and he was astounded to see his mother had neatly trimmed hair "down
there".  His cousin Albert's porn magazines had shown women to have
hairless, naked pussies.  She grunted again as she came, and then rolled
his father over on his back to suck and fondle that great meat-dagger.  Her
hands caressed him, combing through his mats of black body hair, and when
he came it squirted great white streamers over her face and dark, shining
hair.

   'Indeed?  Girls can be so mean with their bodies.  They delight in
tempting the boys with their bare legs and belly buttons, and tops that
show their breasts, but then refuse even the slightest caress.  It's
criminal really.  But we can always masturbate.  Do you wank, Jonathan?'
The hand gripped his thigh slightly tighter.  This time the blush was
really crimson and made him look very, very beautiful.  'Stupid question,
and I should know better than to ask it.  Of course you do.  All men jerk
off.  I do, you do, and it is really pleasant, especially with a friend. 
Have you masturbated with another boy?'

   The answer was another blush, as Jonathan remembered the visit last
month of his cousin Albert, a French boy about a couple of years older than
him.  Albert had a porn magazine, soft porn of naked girls, and they had
jerked off looking at it.  They had not touched each other, though.

   'I see you have!  good.  You will find plenty of that at Brancombe, and
more.'

   The memory of his mother and father had made the boy's cock stiffen
almost painfully, and he could see his Housemaster had a hard-on as well.
He found himself wondering what it would be like to be held tight by this
athlete, hugged and kissed.  The hand on his thigh was nice, comforting,
but there was an animal sexuality about the man that reminded the boy of
his father.  Like all teenage boys he secretly wanted to fuck his mother of
course, to put his cock into that womb from which he had sprung, and in his
case he had seen it, and seen his father fucking, not just that once, but
many times kneeling at the bedroom keyhole.  And at night in his solitary
bed sometimes he imagined he was his father fucking her.  But Freud only
had the half of it!  He also sometimes imagined himself as his mother in
the arms of the hairy, masculine brute, satisfying his father's lust with
his body, offering up his male pussy to the meat-dagger.  And it was when
he fantasised being fucked in the arse that he spurted the most cream!

   'Of course you are still too young to cum properly.  Your orgasms will
still be dry, and you will not spurt spunk for some months yet.'

   The boy was indignant: he had been creaming for over a year, since that
first time he had seen....  'But I do.  I come lots.  It squirts all over.
I do so!'

   And the man's hand was on his crotch, feeling a boy cock through
lightweight summer shorts.  'Well that I must see....' The hand gripped,
and then rubbed gently.  'To do it properly we need these off.' Without
asking he was undoing the buttons on the boys flies and lifted him slightly
to ease the shorts and underpants down, both together.  'Now that is really
very, very nice indeed.' He was grasping the naked cock now, and gently
stroked it.  'Very fine, and it is so seldom one sees a circumcised cock in
England nowadays.  Still common in France, they say.  Lovely!'

   Jonathan was in a daze!  He could hardly believe this great and
important man, his Housemaster no less, was jerking him off, and so
skillfully, so delightfully.  The man wanted his trousers off entirely and
was unlacing the brightly polished black shoes to get them over his ankles;
socks too, and he was naked from the waist down.  And suddenly there was
the man's cock, standing proud, sticking out from the front of his own
shorts.  The boy stared at it: it seemed almost bigger and more masculine
than his father's, and so much easier to see so close and with its golden
hair, unlike his father's mysterious black forest there.  It had a great
angry-looking red head, and a blue vein on the shaft.  It looked powerful,
mysterious, and very, very exciting.  Then, so suddenly as to be shocking,
the man was kissing him on his lips.  The memories of his fantasies came
rushing back and he was in the arms of his father, strong fingers cradling
his balls, reaching back towards his most secret place.  As the man's
tongue entered his mouth he came, a great spurt of boy cum splashing up
onto his crisp white cotton shirt.  He was embarrassed a second, but that
changed to further astonishment as he saw Mr Smalljohn lick his hand which
had captured some of the second spurt and later oozings.

   'I should have believed you, but that really is a surprisingly big cum
for a first-year boy.'

   'It was more than usual, sir.' The boy was looking hard at the adult
cock which just touched his own naked belly as they hugged each other.

   'You're allowed to touch it, Jonathan!' He smiled.  'That's if you would
like to!'

   "Like to?" He had dreamed of handling a cock like this, rubbing it as he
had seen his mother pleasure his father, slide his half-open fist down the
full length, feeling the wetness of the clear tear-drops of pre-cum that
welled from its flaring cock-head.  He reached and grasped it.  It felt
warm, soft to the touch and yet steely hard within.  It was so like his
own, smaller cock to feel and yet so different, so other.  He ran his hand
lightly up the shaft, and heard the man groan his pleasure, and knew that
he was not far from his own orgasm.  On an impulse he leaned up inviting a
second kiss, and as the boy jerked his first cock their mouths met again.
He slid his tongue into the man's mouth, as he had just learned a minute or
two before, was rewarded by a specially tight embrace, and then he knew the
man was coming, a great gusher of cum spurting up between them, wetting the
teacher's Leicester Tigers rugby shirt, and the second spurt spraying onto
the boy, wetting his own shirt again, joining this cum to the boy-cum that
had already soaked it.  The cock still twitched in his fingers, and he
could feel cum oozing out over his hand.  Like the Housemaster he then
licked at his hand, tentatively at first, but liking the silky texture of
the white cum, licking his hand clean.

   'That was lovely, my boy.  But let's get these soaked shirts off.  You
won't be the only boy washing cum-soaked clothes in the morning, of that
I'm sure.' He laughed, and then they were both naked.  'Come with me!' He
could easily have carried the boy across the threshold to the bedroom, and
had on occasions done this for boys, mimicing the action of the groom about
to deflower his virgin bride.  For this boy was a virgin, of that he was
sure.  But he was equally sure the boy would prefer to walk in front of him
the ten or so steps that separated him from his adult-hood.

   The room was masculine and simply furnished, just the bed, a low side
table, a low red-leather covered bench and a table and chair under the
window, but there was nothing spartan about the bed.  It was huge and low,
and covered with a black satin sheet as were the two pillows.  The boy lay
on the bed, unbidden, and when he looked up could see himself in a long,
wide mirror set in the ceiling.  Even he could see he was attractive, and
he opened his legs slightly watching himself, and seeing his erect cock
sway as he did so.  His teacher lay beside him, and the boy expected
another embrace, but instead the man asked him to turn over on his belly.
What followed was very sensuous for the boy, and showed him that sex
between men was not just a matter of cocks.  He felt the man's hands as
they massaged and caressed him, and the weight of his body, and his lips on
his back and his neck.

   Laying naked and slender on the black sheet the boy was a dream, a
blonde angel promising infinite delight.  His back was flawless, lightly
sun-tanned after the summer, just beginning to get that masculine
triangularity that would come as his shoulders developed, but still with
the softness, almost femininity of youth.  His tiny little bottom was milk
white, defined by the shape of swimming trunks, so small as to be speedos
he guessed.  He lay beside the boy and felt the smoothness and warmth of
that back, with not a mole and certainly not a red zit to mar its unbroken
beauty.  The boy wrigggled his arse as he felt hands caressing his
shoulders and back.  And then the hands were on his bottom, kneading it and
spreading the cheeks.  Smalljohn could see that so secret place, pink-brown
and folded like the petal of a flower.  He bent over and kissed the petals,
allowing his tongue to force its way into the boy's anus.

   Jonathan felt the roughness of the man's cheek on the softness of his
bottom crease and then a wonder of wonders as lips kissed his arsehole and
tongue licked at it.  He had seen his father lick his mother's pussy, but
never her arsehole.  It was astounding, yet it felt so good and especially
when the tip of the tongue penetrated him.  He giggled.

   'Is that good?'

   'It tickles, but it feels lovely.  Don't stop!' The licking had stopped
for a second as the man spoke, but now continued, hands caressing his
buttocks, hips and waist.

   After a few minutes of this pleasant foreplay Jonathan saw him reach for
a bottle on the side-table and drip some oil onto his hand.  He lay
alongside again and oil was transferred from his fingers to the boy's
bottom.  A finger penetrated where the tongue had just prepared the way. 
It felt new and strange, but not at all unpleasant.

   There were no protests, so Smalljohn pushed his finger in past the first
knuckle and started slowly and gently to masturbate the boy's anus,
inserting and removing that impudent index finger.  The hair at the back of
his neck was so fine as to be almost invisible and it just demanded to be
kissed and licked.  So as he finger-fucked the boy he caressed and licked
the back of his neck.  Still no protests and he had found the boy's
prostate, small as yet but there to be pressed and rubbed with the usual
effect.  He felt under the boy and found a cock as hard as anyone could
have wished.  Time now for more, and he inserted a second and then a third
finger, stretching the anal muscles, and rotating his fingers at the same
time masturbating the prostate.

   The boy knew what would happen next, and although a bit afraid, wanted
it.  He knew because he had seen his father fuck his mother in her bottom
hole two months before, the evening of France's national day, Bastille Day
July Fourteenth.  He had oiled her bottom, just as the teacher had oiled
his, and kneeling at the keyhole, Jonathan had a perfect side-on view of
the insertion and the fucking, so he was sure it was her anus and not her
cunt this time.  He also knew it was a special treat for his father because
once he was in her his mother had looked over her shoulder with a smile on
her face (she was kneeling) and said, "Make the most of it, Freddie.  Enjoy
it, because you won't get up there again till New Year's Eve." His father
had paused, fully up her, and replied, " and then it's a full two months
till my birthday!" Again that smile over her shoulder.  "Perhaps I should
get a strap-on so I can do you on my birthday and perhaps Valentine's Day
and our wedding anniversary." He started to fuck her again.  "If you would
like that we will, cherie .  It won't be the first time I've been fucked
there!" After a few minutes the couple had returned to a face-to-face
position, but still with the cock in "the other hole".

   Jonathan had often thought about this laying in bed at night, stroking
his eager cock.  His father had been fucked in the arse, and he had seen
his mother taking it.  How he wished his father would treat him as a girl,
take him in his arms and stick his great cock up him.  He was so jealous of
his mother, and always came with the thought of being penetrated and
fucked.

   Would it hurt though?  He was still small, he knew, and his
Housemaster's cock was so big with its great angry-looking helmet.  Yet his
mother was small too, and she smiled and laughed about it, though he had
noticed there was no grunting orgasm from her.  Those fingers in his bottom
felt all right, in fact a bit better than all right.  They felt good, and
there was a funny feeling in his arse and balls, and his cock was
ultra-hard.

   'I'm going to fuck you, Jonathan.  You need to learn that.'

   'I want that, sir, but will it hurt?'

   'Yes, for a bit.  But that will pass, and you will come to enjoy it a
lot.  I did, and all the boys here do.'

   Jonathan thought to himself, "Yes, and my mother and father".

   'If you want me to stop, tell me and I will.'

   He placed his knob over the boy's anus and applied a light pleasure,
gripping the boy's hips.  Jonathan thought this was nice, the feeling of
cock pressing on him, and wriggled his hips.  A little more pressure and
the knob popped in.

   The scream echoed round the campus.  In his study in Plato House next
door a Senior laughed.  "Welcome to Brancombe" he commented, but did not
halt one second in the slow, rhythmic fucking of the boy kneeling on the
carpet in front of him.

   Smalljohn was not too worried: it was not the first time such a scream
had been heard in this room and nor would it be the last.  He gripped the
boy's hips tighter and spread his buttocks with his thumbs.  The boy's anal
sphincter muscles had spasmed and his cock was gripped tight, so tight as
to be nearly painful for the fucker himself.  He knew that would pass: it
always did with these virgin boys.

   'That hurt.  Is all of it in me?'

   There was no answer to the desparate question, with a sob in the voice,
except to push harder and feel his full length slide up the boy until his
thighs rested on those creamy white buttocks.

   A second scream rang out, and over in Plato the younger boy, kneeling
and enjoying his first fuck of the new term, looked over his shoulder
grinning.  "I reckon that's the full length up him now.  You remember when
you took my cherry last year?'

   Taciturn, the elder boy muttered "Yup", and continued the long slow
sweeps of his fucking.

   Smalljohn let his cock rest there a moment, feeling it gripped again by
the involuntary muscle spasm of the boy's anus, but as soon as he felt that
pass he pulled slowly out as far as the rim of his knob, and then inserted
it again, starting to fuck slow and powerful.

   For a while Jonathan was in despair.  How could anyone like this?  How
could his mother laugh when his father's huge thing was up her bottom, and
how could his father be so relaxed about being fucked by a "strap-on"? 
Jonathan had only a hazy idea what that toy was, but could guess.  And
still his new Housemaster fucked him, gripping his hips hard and sliding
his weapon in and out.  After a few moments, however, the sharp pain
stopped, and there was a different feeling: especially while it was being
pulled out it felt ok.  Then Mr Smalljohn moved just a bit, and it started
to feel good with each thrust in as well, touching something up inside him
that made his cock twitch.  He felt under himself, kneeling, and found he
was hard again.  he had gone soft with fear earlier!  Now it was hard, and
he started to rub it slowly in rhythm with the slow thrusts and
withdrawals.

   Smalljohn could feel the boy relaxed now, and reaching beneath the
kneeling lad found a hard cock grasped by a small, soft hand.  Good! 
Another convert!  He could speed up a bit now, safely, without causing
protests, and so he did, fucking faster and harder.  He concentrated on the
boy's buttocks, olive-skinned and smooth, but not as tanned as his back,
the tan-lines of summer speedos showing clear.  He caressed and fondled
them as he fucked.

   Beneath him the boy was getting excited.  He was really "up for it" in
the vulgar phrase the schoolboys often used.  Descriptive phrase though! 
He could hear panting noises and little muttered words, mostly "oh yes!"
and "Jesus, yes!".  Then, as he fucked even faster and harder, crashing his
muscular thighs into those slender buttocks he heard the boy coming with
cries of "Daddy!  Oh yes!  Daddy", and it amused him to have so accessed
the boy's fantasies.  He came, his second of the day, and a good strong
one, pumping his spunk deep in that young bottom.  He reached underneath
again, and found the cock and the boy's hand were drenched too in cum.

   He almost collapsed over the boy, supported on his arms and kissing the
boy's smooth back, the back of his neck.  'You little angel, that was
delightful!'

   'It was nice for me too sir, after the first bit.....'

   A few minutes later, in the shower, the boy was hard again as his master
soaped him down.  There had been no signs of blood, so no damage had been
done in this deflowering, and the boy was bubbling with excitement the more
he thought about what had happened.  'And there are boys who will do me
like that?  Plenty of them??'

   'All of them, my boy!  You are very good looking.  You'll be fighting
them off.'

   'Look I'm hard again.'

   'Rinse the soap off and I'll do something about that!'

   There, under the needles of hot water, man knelt before boy and took his
penis into his mouth.  The boy leaned against the tiled wall as the feeling
of sensuality nearly overwhelmed him.  Again images of his mother sucking
his father's cock flashed through his mind, and he thought the warmth,
wetness, and suction of that mouth was so much better than masturbating,
even with baby oil.  He reached down and held the man's head between his
palms, loosely but enough to make sure the bobbing of the man's head to and
fro was in time with his own body's urgent need.  The man's hands slipped
round and cupped his buttocks, and then he felt a finger slide into his
arse.  There may still have been some cum amnd oil there, or perhaps not
all the soap had rinsed off.  Whatever, the man's finger slipped easily in,
and Jonathan now knew with certainty that he liked to feel something in his
arse.  More, he needed something in his arse.  An image of himself a cock
in his arse and his cock in a mouth flashed though his mind.  The mouth was
his teacher's, the cock his father's.  'Daddy!  yes!  Daddy!' He came and
Smalljohn felt the cum spurt in his mouth, warm and slippery, the first of
the new school term.

   Leter, the boy dressed again in his school uniform, but the Housemaster
in a thin paisley dressing gown, they kissed goodnight at the door between
the office and the dormitory.  'Thank you, sir.  I'm going to like it here
I think.....'

   Smalljohn inspected the notice on the door.  Under the "J Powell" in his
own hand, there was now the pencilled 'S.Carstairs' alongside the time 9pm.
He had twenty minutes to compose himself, and more to the point recover his
libido after the delightful session just completed.

   ........................................................

   On the dot of eight, punctual of course, three raps on his office door.
Smalljohn drained the end of the malt whiskey he had poured to fortify
himself and called out 'Come!'

   The door opened and, looking a bit shy, there was a blonde boy standing
looking very cute in his school uniform.  Smalljohn recognised him, not in
Plato House, and not a boy whose company he had so far enjoyed.  Would be
second year.  Fifteen, and with his looks sexually experienced.

   'Come in.  It's Simon, isn't it?  Sit down there.  That's right, and
I'll sit beside you.  We haven't spoken before, I think.'

   'No, sir.  I'm in Marlowe and I don't play rugby, so we wouldn't I
suppose.'

   'You are very good-looking, Simon.  I've often noticed you, and I expect
I'm not the only one eh?  You must be very popular with the boys, and with
my colleague Tremayne, eh?'

   'Lots of them fancy me, sir, but I was faithful to one boy last year.'

   'Good lord!  Who was the lucky lad?'

   'Jack Fairweather, sir.'

   'Ah!  I see.  You must be very proud of him then.' Fairweather was, or
soon would be, your archetypal alpha-male.  Clever (straight A's in math
and all the sciences), an athlete (county under eighteen rugby cap), very
handsome and rugged, wonderful body, and a tiger in bed.  He was now at
Cambridge University, Smalljohn's old college as it happened.  The school
was very proud of him.

   Tears appeared in the boy's eyes, and he was clearly trying to hold them
back.  Smalljohn placed an arm round his shoulder and pulled him close. 
The kindly gesture was too much for young Simon, the dam burst and he
dissolved in tears, weeping onto the man's shoulder.  'I love him so much,
sir, and now I won't see him at all until Christmas.  I so miss him, and
it's even worse now I'm back here: I keep remembering him everywhere I go
in School.'

   'My dear young boy....  I feel for you Simon.  But you must remember The
Headmaster's wise words this afternoon.  And you know, I'm sure Jack
Fairweather loved you, but he had room in his heart for other boys too.'
(And men, though Smalljohn did not add that he had sometimes enjoyed having
that magnificent athlete fuck him!).  You are right to love him, but you
will only make yourself miserable if you can't find room in your
heart....and your body too I may add.....for other loves as well.  And you
say there are other boys who desire you?'

   'Several, sir.'

   'Just think how miserable you are making those boys who long for you
just as you long for Jack.  What about them?  And, really, that's just what
you need to take your mind off your troubles.  Now blow your nose on this
and see if you can't be a bit more positive.' The boy wiped his eyes and
blew his nose on the huge red cotton handkerchief the man had produced from
his dressing gown pocket.  'There.  That's better.'

   Simon was aware the arm around his shoulder was holding him just a bit
tighter, and the paisley dressing gown was clinging to the teacher's body,
showing he was lean and muscular, and above all you could see the shape of
his cock, at least half-hard.  It looked by the shape as if it might be
cut, but perhaps the skin peeled back easily.....  His sobs had passed now.
He had come to see the Plato Housemaster partly to express his despair, but
also because at least subconsciously he was looking for sexual consolation
for his loss, and this man of all the staff was the nearest to Jack in
physique and appearance.  He could feel his own cock stirring into life.

   And that was even before the man held his face in one hand and placed a
kiss on his lips.  Simon could taste the whiskey on the man's breath, a
flavour he knew from his Uncle William who had first introduced him to sex.
He liked it, and unthinking, his tongue entered the man's mouth, licking
his teeth, and then deeper into his palate with all the passion of a
fifteen year old.  He was not surprised when a hand slipped inside his
shirt, between the buttons, and gently tweaked his nipple between finger
and thumb: this is what guys did when they kissed him, and he loved the
feel which communicated itself right down too his cock as if there was a
thread attaching them.  He sighed, and his legs stretched out as he relaxed
in the teacher's arms.  Still automatic and unthinking his own free hand
sought an opening in the man's dressing gown, which had a silky feel to the
cotton and clung to his body, showing it off, really, more than hiding it
decently.  And all the better for that.  The boy's hand slipped in and
rested on a hairy, furry almost, belly, flat and hard, athletic.

   Smalljohn never ceased to be surprised at how quickly the mood of a
teenage boy could change.  A couple of minutes ago he was weeping for a
lost lover, and now here he was sexed up, and ready to go!

   'So you have decided to follow Mr Fairweather's good advice, and with me
to start with?'

   'I'd like that, sir.'

   'Indeed!  I expect that's why you visited me in fact.  Well, let me get
you more comfortable.'

   Prctised fingers had unknotted the school tie and were undoing the
buttons on the crisp, white cotton shirt.  He pulled it from the waistband,
and off.  The boy was as delightful as any fifteen year old blonde, tanned
from the summer and hairless except for the finest of blonde hairs round
little rose-brown nipples.  They just demanded to be kissed, and he leaned
over to lick one, feeling it stiffen under his tongue to a hard nub, like a
seed of corn, and then the other one.  the boy groaned.

   'I love that, sir.'

   'I can see you do, Jonathan.  Now the rest.  Let's be seeing you!'

   Black polished shoes, grey socks, flannel shorts and finally the white
y-front underpants, tight and almost fluorescent against the tan of his
belly and thighs.  He lifted his arse, and after a brief squeeze of the
tantalising bulge, they were slipped off leaving him totally and gloriously
naked.  The summer had clearly been spent in speedos and his cute little
bottom was dazzling white.  It was the work of seconds for Smalljohn to
undo the bow on his dressing gown, and that joined the boy's clothes on the
carpet.

   Naked now,they embraced again.

   Smalljohn could not keep his eyes ...or his hands...  off the boy's
body. Like all the boys at the school, where the sports regime was
thorough, he was slim and for his age well-built.  Still with a childish
slenderness in his hips and legs, he was just beginning to get muscles in
his arms and shoulders.  He was very nearly hairless still, but had the
prettiest fringe of red-gold hair in a triangle at the base of his belly,
and his cock was a good one!  It was straight and about five inches,the
shaft white like his hips and buttocks.  He was circumcised, and had a
pretty helmet, pink-red and with a drop of precum resting in its eye.  As
they kissed Smalljohn reached down and grasped that urgent little cock.

   For his part Jonathan was pleased, finally, that his sexual abstinence
(unless you count jerking himself off, which doesn't count really) his
famine was about to come to an end.  And this guy had a body to die for.

   'Now what shall we do, Jonathan?  What did you most like doing with
Jack?'

   'He used to suck me off and then fuck me.  shall I show you how, sir.'

   'That would be good.'

   'You should sit in the armchair over there, sir.  We need the arms.'

   It was pleasant to have a boy take control like this.  He was used to
dominating his young charges, grooming and seducing them, but here was a
teen sexually experienced and knowing exactly what he wanted.  He crouched
over the man sitting comfortably on the upholstery and his cock waved
inches from the man's face.  Smalljohn leaned forward just a bit and licked
his balls, small and tight inside their hairless, prettily puckered and
very white sack.  The boy giggled as the tip of the tongue tickled, and
himself leaned in a bit so his knob touched the man's face.  Smalljohn
closed his lips around it.

   'You'll need to hold me: I'm balanced here.'

   Arms around the slender body, a hand on each firm, smooth arse cheek, he
pulled the boy to him so the shaft of his cock slid easily into his mouth,
and he licked up and down the front of it with his tongue, while sucking
with hollowed cheeks.  And now Jonathan was fucking his mouth.  Holding his
head between his hands, he was pulling out and shoving in with an unbroken
rhythm.  Smalljohn helped him by pushing with his hands on that lovely
bottom he would soon enjoy for himself.  His hand found its way into the
boys arse crease, spread it slightly and tap-tapped the anus with his index
finger.  This must have triggered the boy because his mouth was filled
suddenly with cum, smooth and silky, and Jonathan was murmuring 'Yes!  Oh
yes!  Yes!.

   Jonathan had been more excited than ever before, more even than the
first time Jack had fucked him.  This was a real man.  Jack had a good
body, but this was so very masculine, with much more body hair and larger,
harder muscles even than Jack.  The hands on his bottom had gripped it so
tight that it was almost painful, but so good, and he had held the man's
head between his hands as he shot in his mouth.  But now for the main
event: that cock looked as hard and strong as everything about his
Housemaster, and the boy knew it would fill his bottom-hole to perfection.
This was why he was here.....

   The little cock stayed hard in his mouth for a minute or two and he
allowed it to rest there, not sucking or licking in case it was one of
those that becomes sensitive.  But finally the boy pulled clear, and
wordlessly turned round to crouch over Smalljohn's lap.  The teacher just
sat back like a pasha in his hareem enjoying the passive role for a change
as his young lover spat in his hand, annointed Smalljohn's hard cock, and
lowered himself slowly onto it.

   Smalljohn was fascinated to watch the boy's face and especially his eyes
as the prick slowly filled his bottom.  You could see a fleeting moment of
discomfort there as the knob forced in past anal sphincter: then a smiling
look as his bottom slid down over the shaft: finally a look of glittering
excitement in his eyes as pleasure took over.  His "yes!" this time was
shouted rather than muttered as earlier.  Clearly Jack Fairweather had done
his work well, undertaking the sexual education of this boy and succeeding
in giving him a real appetite for cock.  The school, and probably men for
years to come owed that handsome sexual athlete a huge debt!  These
thoughts flitted through Smalljohn's mind as the boy started to bounce up
and down in his lap, skillful and rhythmic.

   He looked at the boy.  He was absolutely delicious, with his tanned
hairless chest and those little brown points of nipples.  His blonde hair
flopped over a smiling face as he moved, and a tiny bead of sweat appeared
on the boy's brow.  Smalljohn would have loved to lick it off, but could
not reach of course, and instead got his hands under the boy's arse,
helping him to lift himself each time, and enjoying the feel of young flesh
each time the boy fell to his thighs.  That little cock was still hard (oh
to be fifteen again!) and waved in front of the boy, between the two of
them.  Jonathan had been stroking Smalljohn's matted chest and belly hair,
but now he started wanking his cock with his right hand, while still
tweaking the man's nipples, half-hidden behind the blonde body-hair.

   Faster and faster, and sweat dropped now from the boy onto his teacher,
while his little hand flew faster and faster up and down his cock.  His
hands still half-supporting the boy, Smalljohn let one slip under and feel
the back of the boy's balls, where there is a hard place between the balls
sack and the anus, so well-plugged at the moment.  The boy groaned, and
Smalljohn managed to get his hand round the boys balls, holding them and
squeezing gently.

   'Oh!  Jesus!' The boy's cum splashed between them, some onto Smalljohn's
chest, but most onto the boy's, streaking the golden tan with white
strands. The boy laughed, but was still bouncing up and down.  Smalljohn
dabbled his fingers in some of the cum on the boy and licked them.  At that
moment he felt himself coming, and the boy could see that look in his face
he had seen so often on Jack Fairweather, somewhere between pain and anger
perhaps, but as he knew wholly of pleasure.  He thought he could feel the
man's hot cum well up deep inside his bottom, but, of course, he probably
imagined that.  It was nice, nonetheless, and the boy semed to be cured of
his depression!  They collapsed in each others' arms, kissing.

   Later, after a chaste shower taken together, no sex now, Smalljohn
poured himself another whiskey, a nightcap.  He had done well this first
night of the new school year.  One boy initiated and prepared for the life
of School, and another returned to the mainstream of School's "social
life": also he had enjoyed really good sex: yet again he blessed the good
fortune that offered him all these opportunities.

   ......................................................................

   A high point of the life of Plato House towards the end of each term was
"Grecians".  Smalljohn had posted the notice on his door instead of the
usual evening counselling: it took the traditional format, a list of four
names, his own and the head of each year, second, third and Senior.  First
year did not traditionally have a head, but four names from first year
would be placed alongside the left hand list.  He wrote in the first of
these, opposite "Smalljohn": it was Sallah Sarwa.

   By mid-day the frame was complete with three further names pencilled in.


   The head of each year was elected by the Plato boys in that year, but
mostly the candidates pretty well chose themselves: clever, good athletes,
charming, good looking, and sexually talented.  The head of Senior year was
also Head of House.  They were the pick of the boys, popular and talented,
and generous with their sexual favours.  They were the "Grecians".  The
four first year boys were to serve at the dinner, and to offer their bodies
willingly for the pleasure of the chosen.

   Five thirty, and Head of House Piers Rutland looked at the boys' work: a
large white damask tablecloth had been spread on the polished parquet block
floor, and round it four single matresses, covered with white satin sheets
and with scarlet satin cushions scattered about.  For they were to dine
classic-style laying propped on their elbows.  In front of each "couch" was
a drinking bowl, knife and platter.  Piers picked up one of the plates and
inspected it: it was a copy of a classical model, red glazed, with black
figures etched into it.  The boys giggled as they too had noticed the
images.  This one was of a very athletic man with a long, straight cock the
knob of which was in the mouth of a pretty little boy.  This was Piers
Rutland's seventh Grecian feast, one for each term and he could feel his
cock sirring in anticipation.  The four boys chosen for the evening had
done a good job laying it out, and the food and wine was all ready in Mr
Smalljohn'S kitchenette covered with cloths in case of flies.  He looked at
his chosen boy, Cecil Poncelet, and could feel his cock really stiffen now.
Cecil was English despite a French type name, and had that English blonde
beauty so desirable in a teenage boy.  Piers had identified the boy early
on in term as one of the sexiest of the new intake, and a happy, confident
lad too, but had saved him for the Grecian feast.  He had lusted after him
for several weeks now, and it was all he could do to keep his hands and
lips off the boy as he stood there whispering and giggling with his
friends. Only another hour or so!

   The boys were all excited, but fell silent when they saw the Head of
House was going to speak.  'That's everything, boys.  Thank you.  Now off
you go.  Remember to shower properly and clean inside your arses.  Douches
now!' One of the boys, Rupert Tremayne, nudged Sallah Sarwa standing beside
him and giggled.  'I expect you enjoy that, Rupert?'

   'I do if Sallah does it for me!'

   'Good!  But make sure he does it thoroughly.  And no perfume or borrowed
aftershave, now.  We never use it for Grecians.  Just the tunics, nothing
else.  Bare feet.  And meet by the door here at five to seven and all go
inside together and wait in the kitchen.  Let yourselves in as the door
will be unlocked.  What do you make the time, Ralph?'

   Ralph Huckerby looked at his watch.  'Five thirty six.'

   'All of you set your watches to that, please.'

   The Housemaster looked into his reception room and saw everything was
ready.  He still had forty minutes, just long enough for a good shower and
shave.  And then the Grecians would arrive.  He had been promising himself
the little Arab lad with skin like silk and this would be a memorable feast
he was sure.

   .................................

   Seven o'clock and you could hear excited whispers and boyish giggles
from the kitchenette.  The doorbell rang.

   'Come!'

   The three boys in their white tunics with that crenellated Greek motif
round the hem looked very tasty, the tunic leaving arms completely bare and
coming to mid-thigh.  Each was greeted by the Housemaster with a kiss. 
They lay each on his matress and cushions, each propped on one elbow in
classical stance.  Piers summoned the little boys.

   'Bring it in now!'

   Two of the boys were bearing large flat plates, again in that red and
black that promised provocative images when the food was cleared, and two
of the boys had large ewers, again the same ceramics.  Each boy knew from
the list on the door the day before which of the Grecians had selected him
as a plaything, at least to start off with.  Young Sallah was proud and
excited to have been selected by the Housemaster himself and intended to
enjoy every moment of this occasion.  He was especially happy when, as he
leaned to fill Smalljohn's drinking bowl he felt a strong hand stroke
upwards from his knee, over his thigh, and briefly caress his bottom
cheeks. He could feel his cock harden and make a nice little tent in his
white tunic.  He had looked at himself in the mirror in the showers, and
thought he looked great with his golden-brown arab skin-tone against the
white of that tunic.  He was in any case pleased with his body: enough boys
and men had already told him how good he looked naked!

   Two of the boys went back to get the remaining two plates of food, while
the drink-bearers waited as they had been instructed.

   The conversation started off serious and philosophical: after all the
excuse for this orgy was Plato's Symposium!

   Smalljohn, ever the teacher even at this moment, explained Plato's
theory of the cave and the shadows.  What we experienced in life was but a
relection of reality, the flickering shadows on a cave wall.  Reality
existed as the "ideal".  Pupils of Plato, Aristotle notably, had taken the
theory further, applying it to art.  When an artist painted a mountain
scene his finished work approached closer to that "idea" of a mountain than
the physical scene he had been looking at.  The boys listened politely. 
Piers and Horatio, third year Head, had heard it before, and the young boys
were more interested in looking at their soon-to-be lovers sprawled
elegantly on their cushions, and sometimes indulging in a grope of legs or
arse as one of the boys passed close to serve wine or food.  There was a
sexual tension in the air that no amount of philosophy could dispel, as
indeed there must have been at the original symposium....

   Piers took up the theme.  'So somewhere there is an ideal version of
young Cecil here, even more beautiful, with even silkier skin, and with and
even prettier cock.' The boy goggled as he felt a hand up under his tunic
and holding onto his hairless balls, almost too-tightly as they were
squeezed.'

   'Not just of Cecil, but the ideal of all young boys, the perfection.'

   'And when Robbie McPherson draws or paints one of his pictures of a boy,
that is getting closer to that "ideal".

   'Got it in one, Sallah!' Smalljohn was pleased.  Not only was sallah
beautiful, he was bright.This was going to be a very pleasant evening, as
usual.  He sat upright a moment, lifted the boy's tunic, and gave him a
kiss on one brown buttock.  'And here's another for you to think about. 
The Christians say man was made in god's image.  So, following the
argument, a painting of Cecil can bring us closer to a realisation of what
god looks like.  When the books of Plato and Aristotle were rediscovered at
the end of the middle ages, that is what philosophers who called themselves
neoplatonists argued.'

   The food was simple, but did not include the porridge that was the
mainstay of the ancient Greek diet.  There were however honey-cakes, bread,
cheese and olives, grapes, and white and sweet red wine.  Only the Grecians
ate (though no doubt the serving boys had kept some back in the kitchenette
and were secretly drinking some of the wine when going to refill ewers). 
The conversation stayed serious, but gradually took on sexual overtones. 
All present knew that soon naked boys would be pleasuring naked men!

   Piers it was who finally directed their talk to sexual matters.

   'And, of course, Greek athletes competed naked, completely naked.  You'd
like that eh, Cecil?' Again a hand up the boy's tunic, this time grasping a
nice, hard cock.  Flirting, the boy laughed and pulled away.  There's a dvd
in the House of your match for the Barbarians, sir.  That famous try in the
corner.'

   Smalljohn remembered perhaps the high-point of his playing career.  The
ball had been passed down the threequarter line as far as himself on the
wing, almost at the half-way line.  He had dummied the first defender, with
Gracechurch running beside him in support.  He broke the next tackle, who
made the mistake of going in high, and was off to the races.  Gracechurch
had been illegally blocked but the ref played advantage, and Smalljohn was
on his own.  He swerved round another tackler and dived for the corner,
with two heavyweights landing on top of him, but after he had touched down
for a try.

   'Imagine that winger running naked with the ball under his arm.  what a
sight!'

   'Been a bit painful at the end.  Grassburn on the cock, I mean.'

   Laughter at this.  'Perhaps the London Olympics should be naked, in the
true Olympic spirit.'

   'The spectators would enjoy that.'

   'And the athletes probably.'

   'No women, though.  The Greek Olympics were for men and boys only...'
That was Piers.  Smalljohn was sure the young man was wholly gay, and liked
him all the more for that.

   'Perhaps we should have a naked rugby match, staff against boys.'

   'Yes, and all the spectators naked too.'

   'There'd be lots of sex on the side-lines I should think...'

   'All the better....'

   'I'd like to see Mr smalljohn naked.  I bet I'm the only one here who
hasn't.' This from Sallah, who Smalljohn had saved up for this occasion.

   'And I've never seen you naked, either, young Sallah.' He sat up and
lifted the boy's tunic.  'Lovely!  Take it off for us.'

   The boy stood there naked, confident of the effect his body was having
on boys and men.

   'You too, sir.  It's only fair.'

   This was the signal for everyone to pull off their tunics, and in
seconds four couples were laying embaced around the debris of the meal.

   Sallah Sarwa, the young arab, felt strong arms around him and then lips
on his.  Mostly, in the dormitory, boys just came together for a quick fuck
and then parted with nearly no kissing and hardly any fondling.  A cock
would be stuck in his bottom or in his mouth, would pump cum into him, and
that would be that!  This was different.  The man was caressing him,
stroking his shoulders and arms, kissing him, and holding him tight.  He
could feel the man's cock hard against him, but there was no rush to
orgasm. this was nice.  Very nice!  He stroked the man's shoulder, feeling
the hard muscle there: even his shoulders were hairy!  So very masculine.
When Mr Smalljohn had removed his tunic and shown the boy his hard cock he
had realised that even the Seniors who had fucked him so far were not fully
grown.  Some of them had cocks as long as this, but none of them so broad.
He just knew it would feel good in his bottom, filling and stretching it as
never before.  He held that hairy frame even tighter and opened his mouth
wider.  The man's tongue was inside his mouth: he forced his own tongue
past it and into The Housemaster's.  This sort of kissing was very sexy he
decided, and he would make his sex partners do it in future.

   There was a squelching noise and he stole a look over his shoulder.  One
of the other Grecians was already fucking his boy, face to face, the boy
with his legs up over his senior's shoulders.  The long, slow strokes were
making that noise he had so often heard in the dorm!  Piers favourite,
Cecil, was kneeling over the Head of House, his cock in the youth's mouth,
while the other two boys were laying together arms and legs intertwined
like himself and Mr smalljohn; probably not fucking yet.  Mr Smalljohn
licked his ear and the tongue penetrated it like a little cock.  That was
new too, and sexy.  He was murmuring now, mouth close to the boy's ear, how
good-looking he was and how mauch the man had been looking forward to this,
saving the pleasure up.  Sallah felt proud: that was why he had not been
chosen before for "counselling": he was being saved as an ultimate
pleasure.

   The boy's skin was so smooth.  Not the first arab boy Smalljohn had
enjoyed, not by a long way!  But each time he marvelled at the silky
texture of their skin, and the extra muscle tone there was in their young
bodies.  White boys, however pretty and firm-bodied, always seemed coarser
somehow than these exotic beauties.  He smiled at himself, at an image of
the wine-connoisseur raising his glass to inspect its qualities.  Still. 
there was no doubt this one was a bit special.  He kissed him harder on the
lips, feeling the boy open his mouth for invasion by an eager tongue.  That
hard little cock pressed against him.  Would he suck him off first, or fuck
him and hope he did not come as he was being fucked?  Time to decide that
later!

   The room was filled with the sound of boys whispering and giggling, of
kissing and sucking, and behind all the little noises the rhythmic beat of
a long slow fuck the lucky recipient of which was uttering little squeaks
and panting noises.  The Housemaster was in no hurry to fully enjoy his
boy, although his cock was leaking precum and demanding instant sex.  He
stroked the boy's hairless chest and felt nipples harden into tiny points
under his palms.  He licked the boy's neck, where the skin was stretched
and smooth, and then traced a spiral with the tip of his tongue down over
the golden-brown, down to little brown nipples.  the boy whispered "Oh yes"
and held his head in place as he licked and sucked one and then the other
nipple.  That kissing, licking mouth down now to a pretty navel, and the
boy giggled as tongue licked around and in his belly button, tickling him.
Jonathan's belly was firm and hard, though still just a bit little-boy
rounded, and was smooth and brown, hairless except for that pretty triangle
of fine, black hair, not wiry or curly at all, at the base of his cock. 
The boy opened his legs slightly as tongue licked the inside of his thighs,
and an impudent hand cradled his hairless scrotum, gently squeezing his
balls.

   This was so unlike the rapid and selfish sex in the dorm!  Jonathan felt
that Mr Smalljohn was almost worshipping his slender body, licking, kissing
and caressing.  And now he was kissing his balls: no boy had done that yet.
It felt good, and better still when one ball was completely in the man's
mouth!  Then he felt the warmth and pressure of lips around his knob, and
it was as if all the foreplay had sensitized his cock more than ever
before, and the pleasure as his cock slid between the man's lips was almost
beyond tolerating.  He reached and grasped the man's head in his hands, the
wavy hair slipping through his fingers as the man started to bob up and
down on him.  He was too quick!  With almost panic he felt the orgasm
rising somewhere deep in his arse, in his balls too, and then the pleasure
in his cock as he came, spurting cum into a warm, wet, sucking mouth.  Two,
three times he squirted, and the man accepted all the cum gratefully,
swallowing, and finally allowing the cock, still hard, to rest quiet in his
mouth.

   'And now, we make love like the man and the boy on that great platter
you just brought in.'

   'I saw that in the kitchen when we were loading it up.  It's very fine.
And sexy, too, of course.'

   'We'll do it like that then, face to face.'

   'I'll like that.  Mostly you get fucked from behind, kneeling, in the
dorm and the showers.  Be nice to be able to watch...  and to play with my
own cock like the boy on the ceramic.'

   So now all four couples were fucking: Smalljohn noticed that Piers was
still fucking Cecil, still making that sexy fucking noise.  The other two
were fucking in the position he already knew most of the boys favoured,
from behind.  But he took the slender body of Sallah Sarwa in his arms, and
lifted the boy's legs bending them and slipping them one each side of his
head so when he leaned forward the boy's anus lifted and was easy to find.
He spat on his fingers and annointed that pretty arsehole, and then his
cock.  The boy had often been fucked and the adult knob penetrated easily,
no squeak, just a sigh of pleasant satisfaction from the boy, who had that
dreamy "fuck-me" look in his eyes.  The slightest pressure and the whole of
Smalljohn's cock was inserted.  As good as his word, Sallah jerked at his
cock while he was being fucked, and gave his master the satisfaction of
seeing another little fountain of cum squirt up between them and land in
ribbons of white across the boy's golden-brown belly and chest.  Smalljohn
had been controlling his passion, making the pleasure last, but this
visible proof of the boy's delight triggered him and he came, one spurt
with each of four deep, powerful thrusts.  He let he boys legs down so they
were laying, his cock still fully up the boy, in each others'arms, Sallah
licking and kissing his master's nipple and his master kissing and licking
neck and hair.

   Soon even Piers had finished, and with another draught of wine the
conversation started again.

   'What we have just enjoyed was very Greek, you know.  In their wonderful
society it was every grown man's duty to act as a mentor to a chosen boy,
teaching him the manly virtues of courage and loyalty, as well as the more
obvious social conventions.'

   'Taught the boy to enjoy sex too, of course.' That was Sallah again, who
was clearly in his element here, and not at all shy.

   'Certainly.  My word yes!  For the Greeks sex with a woman was a duty,
to do with producing more citizens and soldiers.  But for real love, and
also for the summits of sexual joy, they knew it was between two men, or
between a man and a boy.  They also held the self evident truth that the
man would avoid any shameful act, for fear of losing face with his
boy-lover.  So sex as we have just experienced it in our "Grecians" was
part of the real glue that held the fabric of society together.'

   'All ruined by the Christians!' That was Piers Rutland.  And there was a
silence while the boys digested the truth of this, interrupted finally by
Mr Smalljohn.

   'Send your boy over to me, Piers.

   'And you send me yours, Mr Smalljohn.'

   Both boys scrambled eagerly to their new partners, and the other two
couples used the opportunity to change partners.

   'I'm ever-so sore up there, sir.  Piers did me harder and longer than
anyone ever has.  it was nice.  But my bottom is aweful sore.'

   'Then we'll suck each other off, young Cecil.  I'll have you first: we
can't do a sixty nine as I'm so much taller.'

   Both were delightful but the contrast was extreme.  Where Sallah had
been lithe, brown-skinned, dark-haired, this lad was a true "English rose",
with his blonde wavy hair, and that delightful golden triangle of fine hair
at the base of his belly.  Suntanned nearly as dark as young sallah had
been, he still had a virginal-white bottom where the golden-brown sun-tan
gave way to the usually modestly covered arse, cock and balls.  White yes,
but virginal?  Hardly, after nearly a term in a School dedicated to
fucking, where the dormitory every night was full of the sounds of cocks
plumbing arses and lips kissing knobs.  Smalljohn ran his fingers through
those pretty, golden pubic curls and admired close-up the little-boy cock
standing so proud and handsome, shaft nearly white, and "cut" knob
delightful pink.  The master reckoned it at five inches, about usual for a
first year boy, though his arsehole by now would have been stretched and
capable of taking even the largest adult cock.  Well, he would leave that
sore bottom hole for this evening and enjoy instead the cock: but he
promised himself that young Cecil would have some "counselling" one evening
soon!

   The boy let out a long sigh as his cock sank into the warm wetness of an
eager mouth.  'I like that more than anything, sir.'

   No reply, of course, only hands grasping his hips, slipping beneath him
to fondle his buttocks, and that mouth slipping up and down his cock as the
man's head bobbed up and down.  The boy, experienced in having his cock
sucked, grasped Mr Smalljohn's head between two hands to make sure the
rhythm of the sucking was exactly right for his pleasure.  He looked down
at broad shoulders and muscular arms, and the sexy thick hair even on his
back.  None of the boys had body hair like that and this was a special
treat!  A finger had slipped into the crease of his bottom now, and despite
the soreness of his bottom it felt good when that probing index finger slid
up into him, using the oil and cum left there by the redoubtable Piers.  He
made the head bob faster now, and his own hips were rising and falling an
inch or two.  Smalljohn knew he was about to receive the boy's cum and
sucked harder, cheeks hollowed.  And then his mouth was filled with the
warm, silky juice, and the boy's hips were quiet again.  He gently sucked,
feeling the cock twitch in his mouth as more cum oozed out, the aftermath
of the boy's cum.

   'Me now, sir.'

   The boy knelt over his lover: it was strange and exciting to see so much
blond body hair.  He was heavier, more muscular than even the biggest boys
Cecil had enjoyed before, and so much more masculine with his cock rearing
up fom a forest of hair...  He stroked balls lrger than any he hd felt
before and licked the eye of the red.  flaring knob with the tip of his
tongue, removing a drop of precum that glittered there.

   'Stop teasing, boy.  Suck me!'

   This was a special occasion: He had looked forward to sucking Mr
Smalljohn's cock for ages.  He had seen it of course as the master often
showered with the pupils, and he had seen it erect.  Not surprising,
really, as what red-blooded man could fail to be excited by a dozen or more
naked and pubescent boys?  But now, at last, he was able to suck it and
stroke and caress that magnificent, powerful body.  He took the length into
his mouth, not gagging as it touched his palate and throat, and fluttered
his tongue up and down the shaft while sucking at it with hollowed cheeks,
just as Boris Simpson had taught him.  He knew how much pleasure Boris had
given him with these tongue caresses, and was confident Mr Smalljohn would
find thenm just as exciting.  And the groan the master uttered was all
pleasure, and none anguish!  Strong hands held the boy's head, and the
man's hips moved so he was shagging Cecil in the mouth.  With the boy
stroking his belly and balls, sometimes gently squeezing one ball and then
the other, it could not be long before the man unloaded in the boy's mouth.
Cecil swallowed every drop.

   ..............................................................

   Last day of term, and the House Cup final.  The weather was foul, windy
and raw, with spiteful little showers of mixed ice and rain every few
minutes.  The rugby field was a mud-bath, and towards the end of the first
half it was already difficult to make out the blue of Plato and the yellow
hoops of Marlowe.  Smalljohn would rather have been playing this bitter day
than running one touch-line, which was his task today.  Baskerville,
Marlowe's Housemaster was referee, and the other touchline was in the
charge of Maxwell Anderson, who should have been captaining Plato, but was
unfortunately injured.

   The scrum strained to find foothold in the slippery mud, and steam rose
from the pack into the winter air.  Smalljohn smiled, remembering how
pleasant it had been in his playing days to bind tight, arms around
team-mates' bums, his head squashed between muscular buttocks.  Lord it was
cold!

   Baskerville blew his whistle for half-time, and a lad brought out a
special plate of orange and lemon quarters just for the three officials,
who stood in a group near the centre of the pitch.  The two teams were
mostly laying or sitting down backs to the wind, with their mid-match
refreshments.  Smalljohn was amused by the look in Baskerville's eye as he
watched Anderson suck his lemon.  Anderson was from the West Indies, or
rather Bermuda, where his father was a wealthy hotelier and property
developer.  The boy, young man perhaps, was a considerable athlete, a
sprinter and like Smalljohn a rugby wing threequarter.  He may have been
fast, but he was massively built, with a neck like a bull , arms as massive
as most thighs, and thighs like tree trunks.  And, as Smalljohn knew very
well, a cock to match the rest of his physique, long, some said ten inches,
broad, black as the ace of spades, with a great purple helmet.  When you
had been fucked by Maxwell Anderson you knew you had had a cock up your
arse, and still knew the next day!

   Which was why Baskerville was eying the boy!  He had been told of the
lad's attributes, but not sampled them so far...

   'How's the cracked ribs, Maxwell?'

   'Not quite right yet, sir.'

   'You are joining Baskerville and me for your shower after the match:
better the officials shower together.  And Baskerville here is hoping
you'll service him, my boy.  We all know how gifted you are in that
respect. I hope the ribs won't get in the way?'

   'I don't fuck with my chest, sir.' The boy laughed, a deep adult laugh.

   'That's sorted then.  I look forward to it, Maxwell.  Now I'd better get
things moving again.  Too cold to hang about.' He blew his whistle and the
teams took up their positions for the second half.

   Probably Baskerville cut the second half short: it would make little
difference as Plato already had it won at twenty seven to nine, and the
weather was getting even worse as daylight was fading early.  In addition
Baskerville had something rather special to look forward to.

   They dumped their boots and shirts etc in a heap outside the showers,
and the shouts of the boys within the block could be heard.

   'Could you help me off with this shirt, please sir.  It's difficult with
these ribs.'

   'Delighted to, Maxwell, and I expect you could use some help soaping
down too?'

   'That would be great, Thanks, sir.'

   The officials had their own staff-shower separate from the communal
ones, and the two white men admired the black boy as they stood close
together under the hot needles of water.  Baskerville bent down to pick up
a bar of soap and felt strong hands grasp his buttocks.  He pushed back,
hoping, but the boy let go and laughed.  "Later.  Let's get clean first."

   Within moments all three were soapy, and all three had hard cocks.  As
good as his word, Baskerville started soaping the black boy's back, running
his hand over muscled shoulders, that athletic, triangular back, and down
to the focus of attention, the buttocks.  He slid a soapy hand between
ebony cheeks and massaged a hidden anus with his finger tips.  Smalljohn
had taken possession of the boys legs, cock and balls, keeping his hands
well away from the injured ribs.  So Maxwell had the luxury of two men
massaging his body, working him up with the unspoken promise of Mr
Baskerville's arse in a moment or two.

   Baskerville reached round and grasped the boy's cock.  He had a
momentary panic as he wondered if he could take a cock as big as this: it
was huge!  He could not close his hand around it, and even with his fist,
and Smalljohn's too, still the great, purple knob stood clear.  Lord!  He
wanted that cock.

   'Fuck me, Maxwell.  I need it!'

   'Why not go into the boys' shower and fuck in there.  Show them what a
spit-roast should be!' Smalljohn took his responsibilities as an educator
seriously, and here was an opportunity to show any doubters that an arse
could take anything!  Maxwell laughed, but was leading them to the door: it
was as if his cock was pointing the way!

   There was a sudden silence as the two men and Maxwell stood in the
doorway of the shower-block.  Thirty pairs of eyes looked in their
direction, a couple of boys halted momentarily in their fucking, and a
small group half of the boys standing, half of them kneeling, looked up
from the customary shower-cock-sucking for a moment.  The chatter soon
started up again, as did the rhythmic gobbling and shafting so briefly
interrupted.  Smalljohn felt his cock twitch at the sight of so much naked,
athletic teen-flesh, while the three of them pushed their way into the
centre of the milling throng, where the steam was thickest and the water
hottest.  Baskerville leaned forward, hands on his thighs, arse jutting
out, invitingly.  The black boy parted those muscular buttocks and wiped
his cock once or twice up and down in the crack.  He must have decided some
more lubricant was needed, as he bent and picked up a bar of yellow soap,
applying it to the naked and expectant anus.

   'Genly now!' Baskerville was suddenly nervous again at the size of the
boy, and had to force himself to push backwards as he felt the knob push,
delightfully, against his arsehole.  Momentarily the pain was quite fierce,
despite the times beyond number he had been fucked, but it passed and he
felt the length of the boy's cock slide into him till strong thighs rested
on his own equally strong buttocks.  And now his old friend Smalljohn was
about to complete the spit-roast: he had to lean forward a bit lower, and
then that cock was in his mouth, and starting to mouth-fuck him in time
with the slow rhythm of the black boy's fucking.

   Several boys gathered round to watch, just as they would for a
fist-fight between two boys in the quadrangle.  Smalljohn felt hands on his
buttocks, caressing and fondling, and a boy had his cupped hand cradling
the man's balls as he fucked Baskerville's mouth.

   The threesome, perfectly coordinated, began to speed up, and Smalljohn
could feel his colleague being pushed forward with each thrust from
Maxwell. Groans of pleasure were part-muffled by a mouthful of cock. 
Smalljohn knew it could not be long now, and a tousle-headed blonde boy had
managed to squat down beneath Baskerville and was sucking his cock too, so
it was a foursome now!  More and more boys crowded round, hands everywhere,
some kissing naked flesh, and some lucky ones getting to rub young cocks up
against hairy adult legs.

   Maxwell came first, crying out with pleasure as each final thrust
spurted a load deep inside his teacher's arse, and then the boy sucking
Baskerville gagged a moment on a mouthful of cum, and at that moment
Smalljohn shot his load.

   He pulled his cock from the man's mouth and looked down as a few last
drops of cum fell to the tiled floor.  Satisfied for now, he turned and
looked for the soap to complete his shower, and as he soaped his cock he
meditated on the good fortune that had guided his footsteps here.  Old
Butterworth, the Latin teacher, was eighty two and still had his daily boy!
Smalljohn smiled as he contemplated another fifty years of Paradise.......

   .........................................................