When I Were Nowt but a Lad

When I Were Nowt But a Lad 12

J. H. P. Cash, 367

When I Were Nowt But a Lad 12

Andy lay back across Robert's bed, propped up on his elbows.

"What do you reckon happens to the spunk when you swallow it?" he asked.

"Well, I don't suppose there's much risk of getting pregnant," I said. But I think I must have been slightly dazed by sucking off two boys within a few minutes, and the standard of our (formal) sex education was terrible, and so I did take a kind of sidelong glance at Robert for confirmation.

Robert laughed and said, "You divs! It just gets digested like anything else you eat. Full of protein, I think I heard. Good for your shag spots, too."

"Yeah," I said. "That's why I haven't got any spodes."

"That's crap!" said Andy, touching a little spot on the side of his nose.

"You stick to PhisoHex if you like!" I laughed. PhisoHex wash was then the only widely available treatment for teenage acne, and we had a nightly ritual at the dormitory washbasins which Charlie called "Worshipping the Great Lord PhisoHex". I think Clearasil became available shortly after this.

I had got up from my knees and slumped into Robert's armchair.

I looked at the two of them lying back across Robert's bed. Andy was not a hot sprog in the traditional, blond-haired, blue-eyed, pretty way at all, but he was strikingly attractive to me. His face was somewhat impish and the heavy, almost absurd hunk of wavy hair at his fringe made him look slighty wild and wanton. Robert also was not conventionally attractive in the rugged, Golden Boy, sporting-hero way that Big Boys were supposed to be, but I found him incredibly sexy. That was something that had grown with our relationship. And, I suppose, with my growing up a little. I felt a kind of awe looking at their nakedness.

"Are we going to bum him now?" Andy asked Robert.

"Shut it, you!" Robert laughed and gave him a sharp slap on the thigh. "You're the new bug here!"

"Yeah, I know... But are we?" grinned Andy.

In part at least, this session was intended to be part of a process by which I'd persuade Andy to become my "Little Boy". It didn't seem to be working out that way. And now the idea of that stiff little curved spike in my arsehole appealed hugely.

"Maybe I'll do you," Robert said to Andy.

"Nah. No way," said Andy. "That thing's not even getting anywhere near my bumhole."

"We'll see," said Robert. He reached for the jar of Vaseline sitting on the floor beside the bed and handed it to me.

"Show Andy how you get yourself ready for my cock," he told me.

I loved showing off my "dirty" side and having Andy, a relative novice, as an extra audience was great. I took the Vaseline and slid down in the armchair, draping my legs over the arms and exposing my arsehole to them. I'd been fucked often enough by this point for it to be easy for me now - not painless but manageable - but that depended on a generous use of lube. I worked a big glob of the gel into my hole.

Robert took the jar and told Andy to rub some Vaseline onto his cock. Andy was very tentative, adding only tiny dabs to Robert’s cock with a single finger until Robert told him to use his whole hand to coat it. Having done so, Andy held his Vaseline-smeared hand away from himself as if it was contaminated. Robert handed him a tissue to wipe it off, telling him to shift up the bed so that I could get onto it.

I lay on my back and pulled my legs up wide, offering myself to Robert. Andy sat on the edge of the bed by my head. I smiled up at him. The idea of him watching me get bummed was really exciting.

Andy put his hand on my tummy and rubbed cautiously. When he saw that I enjoyed his touch he ran his hand down over my stiffy and balls and stroked the backs of my thighs. This gesture seemed a little strange, but then he moved down the bed a little, below my raised knees, and leaned in to place a palm on either of my inner thighs. He pressed down, as if to expose my hole even more.

"Fuck!" he whispered. "You can take that thing in there?"

"Yeah, 'course."

Andy moved back to sit beside my head again.

"You really like it?" he asked a little anxiously.

When I grinned and reassured him he quickly leant in and kissed me on my cheek. I remember very clearly how embarrassed he looked having done that; and the wave of affection I felt for him. I remember feeling amazingly happy for no very focussed reason. I can easily, now, ascribe that feeling to all sorts of simple or complex origins, and have often done so in my remembering. But suffice it to say, here, that I simply felt a warm, secure, blissful happiness. I turned my face to try to kiss the only part of Andy I could reach, his hip, and found that he'd put his pyjama bottoms on again. I kissed his hip through the striped cotton anyway.

Robert moved in to put his dick into me. There was still a slight, sharp burst of pain as his cockhead went into my arsehole, but it passed in seconds. Robert waited until I relaxed and then pushed in further.

Andy moved and stood at the middle of the bed so that he could see Robert's dick slide into me. Robert was quickly right in and I was breathing slowly and deeply to help myself take his dick.

"Fuck!" whispered Andy again. He reached out and felt beneath my balls for the junction of my hole and Robert's dick. Robert pulled back a bit and Andy felt and looked.

"Fuck!" said Andy again, a little unimaginatively. "Man, that must hurt."

"Nah!" I said, lying a little. "It's good. Feels good.," I gasped out.

I envied Andy his view of Robert's cock in my arsehole and I felt down between my legs myself. It did indeed feel unlikely that I could be taking that thickness into me.

My dick usually softened during actual penetration, but it was now getting hard again. Andy started to wank it but I had to tell him to stop: I could have come so easily.

Robert took my ankles and pulled me to him a little, starting to fuck me with slow thrusts. I was now used to expressing my pleasure with gasps and moans and I knew that Robert enjoyed hearing me. He too liked to get a little more vocal than he'd been when we'd first started having sex the previous year. This was before we really got into "talking dirty" during sex, but Robert did punctuate his fucking with heavy grunts.

I remember turning my head to watch Andy watching us and seeing him standing there with his stiff cock sticking out from the flies of his pyjama bottoms as he jacked himself. I reached out to stroke it and Andy moved in closer to let me get at him comfortably. I pulled his pyjama cord and his pyjama bottoms fell so that I could reach round and stroke his bum. I wanted to suck his cock, but it would all have been too complicated as Robert was now leaning forward over me. Robert glanced over at Andy and saw that he was wanking himself again.

"Don't let yourself come, Andy," Robert said. "Not just yet."

I was so excited by having Andy, a Junior boy, watching me being fucked by my Big Boy. It made my surrender to Robert feel even more complete. I almost felt that I could spunk without even touching myself. Before I could, however, Robert started breathing more heavily and pushing down harder into me.

When Robert pulled out of me, Andy tried to get a quick look at my hole. Robert laughed and pushed my legs back a bit, telling Andy to have a good look.

"I thought it'd be all shitty," he commented. "What's it feel like?"

"Great," I said. "I really like spunk up my bum." I pressed a finger into my bumhole, enjoying the feel of Robert's stuff inside me.

Without really thinking, I said to Andy, "You can do me if you want."

"Dirty bugger!" sniggered Andy; but he looked at Robert as if for permission.

"Get stuck in, if he wants it," Robert shrugged, looking at me a little doubtfully.

"'S'okay. If you want," I confirmed, with much less enthusiasm than I actually felt.

Andy didn't need any more persuasion. Robert took a fingerful of Vaseline and moved to smear it onto Andy's cock.

"I can do that," said Andy, but Robert went ahead anyway, grinning at me as he rubbed the gel onto the lovely hard dick.

It was a very brief event, really, but the few minutes before Andy spunked in my bumhole were packed with confused but delightful feelings for me. Andy was clumsy, hasty and frankly selfish, looking down at his dick sliding in and out of me and barely glancing at my face. But he looked so good, concentrating and straining, his ridiculous, beautiful hair especially wild, that I could have swooned (if only I'd known quite how to) at the sight and at the feel of his very stiff cock in my hole.

As he got close to coming, Andy leaned forward close to my chest, with his hands gripping my shoulders and, finally, looked properly into my face. Briefly, we were both smiling: then he was coming, his face screwed up as he made tight little moans.

"Fuck!" he said, again, as he collapsed heavily onto me.

I looked up to find Robert beside the bed, wanking himself and looking as if he was about ready to spunk.

There was a small, but definitely purposeful, knock on the door.

Robert reached for his pyjama bottoms. Andy and I just looked at him. Perhaps I made a small attempt to scramble for the top sheet.

Guy pushed the door open.

Bemused relief all round.

The little homesick vicar's son stood there in his blue-and-red stripy pyjamas with his fair hair tousled and his eyes squinty in the light, his feet bare. Had he been dragging a teddy bear by the arm behind him, he could have stepped straight out of a story-book illustration.

"Fucking hell!" he said. "I don't fucking believe it!"

Robert could, I suppose, have blustered about Guy not having waited for permission before opening the door, but he tried a placatory approach: "Look, Guy, it's not... um, there's nothing..."

"Not this!" said Guy, indicating all three of us and our déshabillé with a slightly contemptuous sweep of his hand. "I can believe this only too easily.!" He pointed at me and said, "It's him!"

"Me?" I squeaked. I may have vaguely thought to myself, stumbling for a defence, that I was the one with all the spunk up his arse: they'd fucked me; how could I be the one to blame?

"You!" Guy insisted. "I don't fucking believe you! I mean, it all started out straightforwardly enough, but now we've had two three-ways and a tropical fuck scene like something out of From Here to Eternity within a few chapters. And you claim that this is genuine autobiography?"

Robert and Andy looked at me.

I drew my knees up on the bed and hugged them. I looked innocently at all three of the others and said casually, "Well, yeah. Yeah. I do."

"But it's getting more and more unbelievable every chapter! And the more detailed it gets, the more unbelievable it is! I think you're having us on," Guy said.

"Well," I allowed, "Memory is unreliable, you know. And I guess that the denser the memory the greater the unreliability."

"And the denser the unreliable narrator," Guy noted, pleased with himself.

"Um," said Andy, "what the fuck is going on here?"

Guy turned to him. "Don't worry yourself, luv. I don't suppose that news of post-modernism has yet reached the penny-arcade tycoons of England's Northern Riviera." Andy's Dad was, indeed, the owner of a chain of seaside penny-arcades.

"Fuck you, you pseud! I don't suppose many fucking Church of England vicars have a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud and an E-Type Jag either!"

Robert smiled at me and said, "You see, I told you it was a good idea to put them in a study together."

"Post-modernism my arse!" I mumbled scornfully. "Haven't you read Tristram Shandy?"

"Not just yet, no," said Guy sweetly, then turned to Andy again: "Don't you fuss your pretty little head, Andy," he soothed sarcastically. "If you can't keep up I'll give you some private tuition after class."

Then he turned back to me. "So what, exactly, are you claiming to be true and which bits are made up?"

"Oh, it's nothing like that at all!" I smirked. "Truth, fiction, fantasy, memory, memoir: how can we trace the boundaries between these anyway imprecise concepts?"

"Just answer the question, clever dick," said Robert, putting on his pyjama bottoms and settling himself into his armchair as if anticipating some lively entertainment.

I sighed. "It's all true..."

"But...?" said Guy.

"But, well..." I tried to work out how to put it. "OK, this is what it is: all these people existed..."

"Of course I fucking exist!" snorted Andy.

"... and all these things happened. But, see, some of these things I haven't thought about for decades and some of them I think about all the time. In either case, well, uncertainties arise and, um, let's just say that, well, it's sometimes more comfortable to allow uncertainties to resolve themselves into certainties."

"Which means, basically: you've made stuff up!" challenged Guy.

"Well, of course I've made some stuff up! You can't really expect me to remember verbatim everything everybody said over 35 years ago! Especially in the middle of fucking. But it's essentially true. I just accept that my memory about details is as faulty as anyone else's and that my understandings about what was going on then are inevitably informed, or deformed, by my experiences since."

"So... you made stuff up!" Guy insisted.

"No! But, you know, this is the adult me writing about when I was a kid."

"Yeah, well, "you" do sometimes seem too fucking clever for your own good," said Guy.

"I was too fucking clever for my own good. Look - I was 14 and taking my 'O' Levels."

"Yes. Such a promising start. What a disappointment now... writing sentimental stuff and nonsense like, 'He smelled and tasted wonderful. Wood smoke and sweat, the red soil of the forest...'" Guy sneered.

"But he did! That's exactly what he was like. You see, details like that I really do remember. Absolutely. And Bergamot, of course. After I'd been at him."

"But you are leaving stuff out, too," Guy said. "Not one mention of MGK, I notice."

We often referred to masters by their initials, which was how they used to authorise various chits, reports, notices, team lists and the like.

"Yes, well, MGK turned out to be a cunt: an emotionally crippled, manipulative bastard. I've decided to give him his very own circle of hell, quarantined from the rest of us. He will be paraded, don't you worry."

"Um, excuse me," said Andy, now sitting, his pyjama bottoms back on as well, in Robert's lap. "Could we just get back to the sex?"

"Oh, I don't know," I grumped. "I think I need a bit of a break. I think I'm going to stop and rest now for a little bit."

"You've had a break! This has just been a break!" objected Andy.

"No, I don't mean a break from the sex! I mean a break from writing. Quite apart from anything else, I'm going to run out of exclamation marks soon, if I'm not careful!"

"But if you don't go on we'll never know if you get to fuck me in recompense for failing to get Andy as your Little Boy," Guy pointed out.

"Yeah," laughed Robert. "I can't believe you let Andy top you when you were meant to be the Big Boy!"

"Did I get to do you, then?" I asked Guy, pointedly ignoring the smirks of Andy and Robert.

Guy smiled back at me as he moved towards the door: "We may never know..."

"Thank fuck he's gone," said Andy, sliding off Robert's lap and kneeling in front of him. "You wiped the stuff off, yeah?" he asked as he leant forward to take Robert's dick in his mouth.

“That's just been up my arse,” I thought, approvingly.

Andy was on his way to a clearer skin.

I started writing my sexual memoirs at the request of an online undergraduate friend who had been to an all-boys private day school at which there was little sex between the boys. He was keen to hear about "what went on at boarding school".

Thanks to all those who have emailed to say that they are enjoying these memoirs.

Email: spelchek@hushmail.com