I had retired to my rooms, the day’s work done, the boys safely in
their dorms doing their prep and under the supervision of those whose
duty it was to care for them as surrogate parents. With a pile of
marking looking at me accusingly, I poured myself a good double measure
of gin, dropped in a slice of lime and a splash of tonic, and retired
to the comfortable chair in my living room with the intention to look
up some thoroughly erotic literature of a kind quite unsuitable for
someone in my position.
A gentle knock at my door roused me from my reading, and, careful to
shut the lid of the computer so that it locked itself, I went to the
door to see who might be interrupting me at this hour. Standing on the
far side, in mufti wear of jeans and a t-shirt, trainers untied on his
feet, was Davis, one of the second year boys. I had for some time been
cultivating a friendship with the boy, as he showed quite an interest
in the physics I taught. That he was the very kind of gorgeous young
morsel I longed to bed was of little relevance to our friendship,
though it did little to discourage me from occasionally stepping over
the line and putting an arm around his shoulders in class as I
explained something to him. If the other boys noticed the extra
attention he received, they said nothing, at least not to me. He
clutched his physics textbook by his side and smiled up at me hopefully.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, Davis. What can I do for you?”
“Well, sir, I was hoping to ask you a question. Only, it might take a while, so can I come in?”
I should point out that whilst there was no actual prohibition against
me letting him into my rooms up until nine o’clock, it was extremely
unusual. However, confident that no-one had seen him enter, I stepped
back and beckoned him in. He went straight to the sofa in my living
room, where he had sat before whilst under extra tuition. I noticed
immediately that the textbook was discarded on the table without a
second thought. I moved to my chair and sat, careful to set down my
drink out of the boy’s sight – it didn’t do to let them see you
drinking, especially at seven in the evening.
“So, Davis, what was it you wanted to ask?”
For a moment, the boy sat seemingly paralysed, his eyes looking my way
but his mouth unable to work. Then he seemed to surmount whatever
hurdle it was that prevented him from speaking.
“Sir, you said a while ago that I could ask you about anything.”
“Yes, I remember. You asked whether that meant anything at all, and I
replied that yes, it meant anything. Would I be right in thinking you
have not come to ask me a physics question?”
His cheeks coloured and he glanced down. “Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“Well, I did say ‘anything’, and I meant it. What do you want to ask?”
Again he paused, seemingly uncertain whether or not now, at the last,
he could back out. But some internal resolution steeled him, and he
continued.
“Sir, it’s against the rules for boys to do stuff with other boys at school, right?”
“By stuff, I assume you don’t mean playing cricket, yes?” He nodded.
“Then, yes, the rules state that you should not be caught in activity
of a sexual nature with another boy. The penalty is suspension for the
first and second offence, expulsion for the third. Have you seen boys
engaged in such activity?”
He shook his head. “No, sir, not that. Do boys really get expelled for it?”
At this point I could either follow the party line and repeat the rules
to him, or I could be honest, and dispel some of his obvious
nervousness about the situation. I chose to be kind.
“Davis, not one boy has ever been expelled for it whilst I have been at
Hillview. And as far as I know, there was not a case for several years
before that.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh’. We don’t actually expel boys for doing what comes
naturally, Davis. If we catch them at it, we usually make sure they
know to cover up better next time.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, sir, at least sort of. But I have other questions.”
“Ok, then, fire away.”
“What if it was a master and one of the boys, sir? Would the boy get in
trouble? A master is much more serious than another boy.”
I suppressed a laugh at the logic, and also a wince at the degree to which the boy appeared institutionalised already.
“It is more serious, Davis, but in that case it would be the master who got punished.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because it would be an abuse of trust. I can ask you to do something
and unless you do it you are breaking the rules. You have to trust me
not to ask you to do something you really don’t want to do, like
playing those games. If I did ask you, you would feel compelled to
agree, yes?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“In which case I would be abusing your trust, Davis. I would be thrown
in jail for a long time if anyone found us playing those games.”
“But I wouldn’t get in trouble?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Let me ask you a question, now, Davis. Why did you want to know the
answers to these questions? Is a boy you know playing with a master?”
“Oh, no, sir. No, nothing like that. I was just curious.”
I could tell that he was keeping something from me, but it was hard to
tell what. I didn’t think he had lied in response to my last question.
“Don’t you think you should be getting back to prep now, Davis?” I
asked, and with a nod and a smile and a ‘thank you, sir’ he was gone.
***
Two days later, Davis was in my room once more, at roughly the same
time, and interrupting yet another refreshing G&T. The conversation
quickly picked up where it had left off the last time. Davis, it
appeared, was a young boy desperate for answers.
“What if the boy really wanted to do it?” he asked. “What if the master
didn’t have to tell the boy, the boy just did it because he wanted to?”
“Well, that’s no different in terms of the rules. The master would still get in lots of trouble if they were found out.”
“Even if the boy really wanted it, sir?”
“Even if the boy begged the master to play the games, Davis.”
“Is it really wrong, though? If a boy wanted to play with another boy
you said the school would ignore it. If he wanted to play with a
master, you said it was a problem because the master was making the boy
do something he didn’t want to do. But if he wanted to do it, why is it
a problem?”
To give him his due, he was a bright lad. He’s followed the argument to
its logical conclusion, one which many before him had reached, but few
at the tender age of thirteen.
“The rules are clear, Davis. But some people think they’re wrong, of
course. Some people think that if the boy really wanted it, it should
be allowed. The people who make the rules don’t think a boy your age
can make that decision properly.”
“But I could, sir, if I wanted to! It would be my choice to do it!”
He blushed a little, partly because of his outburst, and partly because
by the words he had used he had given himself away a little. He wanted
the answers for himself, because he was trying to reconcile his
feelings for a master. For some reason I let the devil in me ask the
next question.
“Which master is it, Davis?”
He turned and fled.
***
Three days later there was a note in a sealed envelope in my
pigeonhole. It had come internally, and the handwriting was not that of
any of my colleagues, and so I was intrigued as to who could have sent
it. I thanked my lucky stars when I finally did open it that I had not
done so in the staff room, because it read simply:
“It’s you, sir. And you can do whatever you want to me, I promise.
MD”
At least he had initialled it, rather than signing his name, thank God.
What do the Americans call that? Ah yes, ‘plausible deniability’. A
neat phrase. ‘MD’ could be anyone, but I knew it to be Matthew Davis,
and a cursory examination of his handwriting in a recent assignment
proved my hypothesis.
Jesus.
***
What do you do when you’re sent a love note by a thirteen year old boy
whose little body is something you have lusted after for some months?
Actually, love note is too soft and sentimental a pair of words to use.
I can’t think of the right phrase, but it’s not ‘love note’.
I loved my job, because each and every day I had the opportunity to be
around young boys going through the tumultuous roller-coaster ride that
is puberty, and my goodness that gets the blood boiling. For six years
I had managed to resist becoming involved with the boys. I knew that
some had lusted after me in their juvenile way, but never before had I
been so sorely tempted to shred the rule book and take advantage of the
situation. I had no fear that Matthew was going into this with his eyes
closed. He was smart enough to know what he wanted, and with the
internet available was informed enough to know what a physical
relationship meant. But there was still the fear of discovery, and the
loss of everything I had worked so hard for. Was he worth taking the
risk for? I still didn’t know the answer to that when I invited him in
to my rooms for a chat.
“Sit down, Matthew.”
He went straight to his normal place, and this time instead of taking
up my place in my armchair, I joined him on the sofa, a safe distance
away but still close enough to feel the slight tremors sent out by his
shaking, nervous body.
I pulled out the note and dropped it onto the table, watching his
cheeks colour as he realised what it was. Before I could speak to
reassure him, he had already gone on the defensive.
“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have written it. I didn’t mean it.”
He was nearly in tears, and the shaking had amplified until he could hardly control his words.
“Matthew,” I said, soothingly, laying a hand on his arm, “it’s OK. I’m not angry. You’re not in trouble.”
He managed a weak smile, but the shakes were still there, and he looked quickly away, back down to his feet.
“It’s dangerous to send me something like that, though. Not only could
I get in trouble, but if your classmates found out they would tease you
all the time about it.”
“I know, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Matthew, look at me.” He did so, eyes red rimmed, a tear on one cheek.
“Look, it’s not a problem, OK? It’s nice that you feel that way about
me, but we can’t do anything. I would feel wrong.”
I could see his world falling apart, but he managed to force a few words out.
“I thought you liked me like that, sir. I thought you liked me.”
Once again I was at the crossroads of empty rhetoric and the truth. God
knew I had fallen madly in love with the boy over the past few weeks,
and I desperately wanted to share that with him. But there was so much
to lose. I stood on the edge of the precipice. And then, with eyes wide
open and a heart full of hope, I leapt.
“I do, Matthew. I do like you. Like that.”
Hope springs eternal, they say, and in that moment the source of the Nile of hope was in Matthew’s eyes.
“Then it’s OK, we can be boyfriends?”
I hated to crush him, but I had to shake my head.
“It isn’t right, Matthew. I would be taking advantage of you.”
“But you wouldn’t! I want it, sir! I want you.”
Some men are utterly resolute. Some show steely determination not to
give in to temptation. I admire these men, but God knows I’m not one of
them. I looked at the boy, with his scruffy, dirty blonde hair, deep
blue eyes and rosy cheeks divided by the button nose of dreams, and I
crumbled pathetically.
“I want you, too, Matt.”
Our first kiss was better than I had dared to hope it might be. He was
so soft and compliant, his lips full and plump, his tongue lively in my
mouth, betraying if not experience then at least practise. I held him
close to me, arms around his ribcage, as we went at it like two
hormonal teenagers. Well, I suppose at least one of us was exactly
that, even if the other was a thirty-something-year-old man. Our
second, third and fourth kisses were pretty extraordinary, too, and by
the time we were half way to double figures we were lying full length
on the sofa, side by side, and my hands had begun to roam.
The fly of his jeans sat atop a raging hardness beneath, and the fact
that I could feel it gave me hope with regards its size. He pulled away
from the kiss and pushed me away when my hand alighted there, his own
fingers desperately fumbling with belt and zipper until with a massive
tug he pulled jeans and briefs down below his knees and kicked them
off. He plunged back into the kiss, wrapping arms around my neck to
hold me in place, while my lucky, lucky fingers found his hot, hard
flesh.
When I moved to kiss his neck he gasped and moaned at the sensations,
writhing beneath me. His reaction steeled my mind, and I knew that I
was going to fulfil a fantasy I had nurtured almost since I had met the
boy. Breaking our kiss, I slid to the floor by the sofa and readied
myself for the main event.
His boyhood was no longer nor thicker than my middle finger, and the
crease at its junction with his taut belly was home to but a smattering
of short, soft, light brown hairs, but to my eyes it was perfection
itself. It fitted the warm cavern of my mouth as if moulded for that
purpose and no other, and the sensations it gave him drove him to gasp
and buck beneath me as with my lips I unsheathed it and with my tongue
tormented its most sensitive part. He continued to writhe and moan
until with a short, sharp jerk of his hips and a throbbing of his organ
I was rewarded with three small, slimy, salty and utterly heavenly
droplets of his juvenile essence, which fizzed across my taste buds
like no claret ever could.
I nursed it to softness, using my lips once more to replace its
protective covering, and only then allowed it to glide from between my
lips to fall with a gentle bounce against the top of his thigh. I
glanced upwards to gauge his approval, and found his eyes still pressed
tightly shut from the agonising pleasure, and the small pink tip of his
tongue, so recently in my mouth, wetting lips made dry by his panting.
When his eyelids unglued and his bluer-than-blue pupils were revealed,
his glazed expression told me it would be some time before he came
fully back to the present.
I leaned in to kiss his soft, hot lips, an attempt at resuscitation, or
an expression of erotic intent, or perhaps a sign of my love for him.
As I pulled away, he smiled warmly up at me and then fell into a
blissful sleep.