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'It's just not cricket'. A trite little old phrase, utterly English, one which means that something isn't fair and above board, that someone isn't playing quite by the rules. I suppose my ambush of Tim Rowling was just that - 'not cricket'. I knew I was going to catch him red-handed, and red in the face, having gleaned the information from one of my prior conquests who was all too eager to inform me of the masturbatory and communal habits of his peers.

"He does it behind the scoreboards, you know," I'd been told. "No-one else ever goes up there, so when there's a match on he always has a dirty mag up there."

To me this kind of scoop was absolute gold-dust, and something to be acted on as soon as possible. The next home game was more than ten days away, but already the plan had begun to form in my mind. I say 'plan', but in truth it was nothing quite so complex as that. For each home cricket game, a boy would be required to sit out at the far boundary of the field and keep the scoreboard updated. The big, black board with white numbers was a common feature of cricket grounds nationwide, and ours was operated mechanically from a small hut behind, which also acted as its main support. Fortunately it was intended to be more for information than an actual record of the game, so it didn't matter if the score was displayed incorrectly. For that reason, a boy who didn't happen to be playing, but knew the game well enough to understand the umpires' signals, was usually drafted in to play the part. Typically this had meant a series of lads had taken the post, until a couple of months prior when young Timothy, a decent player himself, had broken a leg. Keen to be involved in the game still, he had quickly volunteered to be the scorekeeper, and, it seems, had taken advantage of his long periods of privacy alone on the boundary.

My plan was to take a wander during the match, and see if I could catch him at it. After that, I was hoping to play it by ear and see where it went. Few knew the area around the school as well as I did - as a cover for certain illicit activities I'd faked a love of ornithology, and could often be seen out and about with my binoculars. Few knew that I was usually on my way to a rendezvous with one of the boys in the woods which backed onto the school grounds. One of the benefits of my 'hobby' was that I had a key to all of the little green wooden doors which opened through the wall into the woodland beyond - the doors were a remnant of the days when Hillview had been a stately home, and the gamekeepers needed access to the grounds they used for pheasant and grouse. These wonderful old portals, with their big iron keys, were a simple way to disappear from one part of the school grounds and appear in another, and having been granted permission to copy one of the big old iron keys by the headmaster I could move around almost without detection.

Happily, there was a door almost directly behind the scoreboard, which itself sat on a raised, grass-covered bank which ran all of the way around the edge of the playing fields, ostensibly to hide the boundary wall in the days when the lord and lady of the manor would have preferred uninterrupted greenery as far as the eye could see. Its modern function, if I played my cards right, would be to shield my approach from the eyes of those playing in and watching the match, allowing me to approach the little hut unobserved.

Well that had been my plan, and with the fateful day upon me I strode out into the dew-laden, chilly morning of what promised to be a scorching hot English summer's day, the kind of day which lives long in the memory, and to which others are compared, almost always less favourably. Already the groundsman was out with the roller, flattening the pitch in readiness for the day's bowling, a good three hours before the first ball would be sent down. Cricket was a serious business at Hillview, a way of life for the summer months in the way that rugby occupied our minds in the winter. The whole school was a-buzz with each approaching match, and with little else to do at the weekends the matches always drew a large crowd of boys, who would watch from a set of raised wooden benches which sat either side of the pavilion. When those were full, boys would spill out onto the banks which ran around the field in a huge arc, like arms encircling it. I'd had many a pleasant encounter with a boy who managed to slip away from the crowd unseen and meet me at some predestined rendezvous while leather thudded against willow within earshot.

This morning I strolled out of the gates of the school and down to the local village, not far from the school, and bought a paper at the newsagent whose business was always brisk with the lads who went out in groups to spend their pocket money each Saturday. Already some of the keener boys were in the shop, and there was a chorus of high-pitched 'morning, sir' when I walked in. All were stocking up on provisions for the day's game, gleefully bouncing between sweets and comics, at a time when sweets and comics - and Airfix planes - were all that a young boy desired.

I walked back the long way, on a track which skirted the fields at the back of the school before cutting straight through the woodlands to what was affectionately nicknamed Skiver's Door after the practice of boys escaping lessons they couldn't stand through the traditional service entrance to the old estate. The gate was in sight when a sixth sense told me to slow down and tread softly. Just on the very edge of hearing there was the slightest of high pitched whispers, somewhere off to the left in the woods. I knew there was an old hide over there somewhere, and although there was no prohibition on boys leaving the grounds on a Saturday morning, I thought I would check it out anyway. Cat-like, on silent feet, imagining myself as some SAS warrior, I made my stealthy approach to the hut.

The whispering resolved itself into the quiet but high-pitched chatter of a couple of boys, emanating from the dark interior to the hut. It died away as I approached, but not apparently because they'd heard me. I crept up to the back of the hut, where cracks between the well-worn boards would permit me a view of the interior. Peering through I could see two boys kneeling on the dusty floor with a magazine each for company. It was instantly obvious the literature was something other than a comic, and my suspicions about their content was confirmed by the boys' clothing - one was kneeling with shorts and pants around his ankles, the other, more modestly, had his stiff little willy sticking out of the fly of his short trousers. Both were gently fondling themselves as they gawped at the images in front of them, and I would have put their ages at about ten or eleven, definitely very young to be enjoying that kind of activity. In fact, I realised, they really were very young, so much so that I wondered if they were in fact boys from the school, and with a start I realised I didn't recognise their faces at all. Of course I didn't know every boy in the school, but I'd at least recognise them, and it was clear these boys weren't pupils. They must have come up from the village somewhere, and probably found the old hide when they were playing around in the woods.

If they'd been Hillview boys I'd probably have gone about things differently, but since they were village lads I simply couldn't risk disturbing them, on the off-chance that word got around that one of the teachers from the school was roaming the woods outside the walls preying on young boys. So instead I watched them enjoy themselves, paying special attention to the boy whose shorts were around his ankles, as I had an unobstructed view of the alabaster skin of his midriff. As he frantically waggled the soft foreskin up and down over his head, never quite retracting the tight opening, I joined him in his pleasure, splashing my offering onto the soft leaf-mould at my feet as he squeaked in juvenile, unfulfilling orgasm. His friend soon followed, but was as reserved in ecstasy as he had been in its pursuit, and as soon as he had come down from his high I left them to it, making good my escape in case they left in a hurry.

With my day off to such a fantastic start, and the image of the young boy's almost painful ecstasy still etched on my mind, I had a spring in my step as I sauntered through Skiver's Door and into the school grounds. The morning was in full swing now, and boys wandered here and there in small groups, or alone, and found places for a quick game of football, or to read a book. I was greeted with smiles all round, some more knowing than others, and found my way to a quiet, out-of-the-way bench where I could read the paper in peace and wait for the hunt to begin.

Mid morning rolled around faster than I expected, and suddenly there was a rush of boys past me at my reading spot, all headed for the cricket pitch and chattering away excitedly. I should have been moving before now, I thought, but there was no hurry just yet - ten minutes before the teams would emerge from the pavilion. I left the paper on the bench, weighted down with a stone in case anyone else would care to read it and, patting the pocket of my blazer just to make sure I had the key to the door with me, I headed out.

It was easy to slip unobserved back through Skiver's Door and into the woods. I hugged the wall and began the walk around to where the door opened behind the scoreboard. My informant had told me young Tim's appetites were usually sated before the break for lunch, so I wanted to get there early. The walk would take me about five minutes, I reckoned, giving me ample time to be in place before he started getting 'comfortable'.

The door was set deep into the thick boundary wall, its green paint cracked and peeling, and its latch thick with rust. It was, I reflected, in need of serious refurbishment. The lock, though, I knew worked, as I had spent a happy half hour plying it with oil earlier in the week, giving the hinges the same treatment too. As expected, the door unlocked with a soft snick and swung outwards silently, and I was through.

The bottom of the ditch where it met the wall was overgrown with weeds, but I'd seen to it that these were mostly trampled down, and so it  was a relatively simple task to forge through them to the grass bank on the other side. The bank had been cut during the week, and the sweet smell of cut grass drifted up to assail my senses. With the sun high in the sky, the temperature rapidly climbing to the mid twenties and a gentle, warm breeze caressing my cheek it seemed the day's early promise would be fulfilled.

The scoreboard loomed high above me on the crest of the bank, the small, dark brown hut behind it sitting with the door open. As I watched, a boy emerged, shouting his goodbyes to Tim, who must have been installed in his place by now. The other lad (Simmons, I think it was, a good mate of Tim's) walked off without a backward glance, quickly disappearing over the other side of the bank and out of sight. I waited a few moments and then, on silent feet I climbed the steep bank to its summit, sticking in the deep shadow cast by the billboard-sized structure above me.

The hut has been creosoted earlier in the summer, and the evocative smell - now lost from England's gardens - mingled with the heady scent of the grass, evoking long-lost memories of fumbling, excited beginnings in the tree-house in Bobby Martin's garden. I stood and revelled in the moment for as long as I dared. The wood was smooth beneath my fingers as I flattened my palms against the slatted wall and sought a missing knot in the wood to use as an eyehole.

When I found one, the interior of the hut came into view, darkly shadowed with a shaft of golden light admitted by a thin window which ran across the entire frontage. Sunlight spilled onto the mechanism for the board, a rare luxury when even county level boards were still operated by hanging numbers manually. Tim sat with his back to me, the shaft of light cutting across his bared forearms, leaving the rest of him in darkness. He wore a tight t-shirt and a pair of satiny looking football shorts, typical boy wear for the mid 1980s, and his right leg stuck out at an angle, encased in plaster below the knee. The room was fairly bare, though there was a bottle of some horrendously coloured fizzy drink on the table in front of him, and his school bag on the floor by his feet.

I watched and waited, having a fairly good view of the match through the same window as Tim. I didn't have long to wait - the match was barely into the third over when, with a guilty glance around Tim leaned to the right and pushed the door shut. Reaching down, he fumbled in his school bag and came up with a large chemistry textbook, from which he extracted a carefully hidden sheaf of pictures. God alone knows where his got them, but they depicted some very pornographic stuff - well hung men were pictured taking full advantage of juicily breasted women in all sorts of ways. His right hand soon snaked into his lap, and the flexing of the muscles on what I could see of his forearm hinted at the activities hidden from my sight. The arm lifted, twisted and dropped - he had insinuated his hand into the waistband of shorts and (I assumed) pants, and began a smooth, slow rhythm.

Freedom is always better than constriction (unless you're into the kinkier side of bedroom sports), and Tim clearly agreed. He paused his ministrations long enough to awkwardly raise his hips and push shorts and underpants to mid thigh, and then, with his bottom on show beneath the high-riding hem of his t-shirt, sat back down to get down to some proper fondling. From my vantage point, although it was obvious what was going on I still couldn't actually see it - frustrating! - and without potentially exposing myself by moving to either end of the hut I couldn't find a more advantageous viewpoint. There was only one thing for it - I had to go in.

I didn't want to barge in and scare the boy with his pants down, because that would guarantee there was no chance of anything inappropriate occurring, and I so desperately wanted to be inappropriate with him. Instead I retreated a short way down the slope and feigned a minor coughing fit, loud enough that he would have no doubt someone was nearby. I reasoned that if he still had his pants down after ample warning that he deserved to be caught.

Sure enough, when I opened the door to the hut he was fully dressed again. I was greeted with a cheery 'hullo, sir!', though I could tell his heart wasn't in it. His beautiful pale cheeks were flushed crimson, either through excitement or embarrassment, or that painfully pleasurable mixture of both which comes with the threat of public exposure, and his excitement was insufficiently covered by the material of his shorts, no matter how much he leaned forwards over the controls in an attempt to hide it.

There was a spare chair in the corner of the room and I pulled it up, whilst making all sorts of noises about coming to keep him company, and about how boring it must be to be stuck out here on his own.

"Oh, it's not so bad, sir," he replied, a forced lightness in his voice.

"Really? What do you do when there's nothing much happening? Do you read or something? And what if you need the toilet!?"

We both laughed at that, and he dissolved into a fit of giggling when he told me he just went round the back of the hut and pissed down the bank, playing a game to see how far it went.

"I'll have to try that some time!" I replied, and he laughed again and blushed crimson.

"Well," he started, then hesitated.

"Go on," I urged, sensing this was worth chasing.

"Well, I need a wee now, sir. Want to see if you can beat me?"

That's how we ended up standing outside the back of the hut, facing down the slope, in a short break while the field was rearranged for the spin bowlers to take the attack. Neither of us made any attempt to hide the fact that we were looking at each other as much as where our streams landed. I took the opportunity to gaze long and hard at his willy, still engorged with blood, a pleasingly fat little sausage of four or so inches, though no longer fully expanded. It was ringed at its base by a scraggly tuft of new hair, barely visible, blonde against a white pubis. There was a gentle taper to the tip, where a long foreskin overhung the end by some way, spread slightly by the golden shaft which poured out through it. Fantastically delicate little blue veins criss-crossed just beneath the skin, only serving to highlight how smooth it was. Only my nervous excitement (which never went away, no matter how many boys I was with) could prevent my pleasure at the sight from becoming all too visible.

When we had regained our seats in the shed, I began to quiz Tim about how bored he must be out here on the boundary all day. He pointedly ignored my suggestive comments, concentrating hard on his job of correctly maintaining the scoreboard. While he was distracted I slipped a hand into his bag and found exactly what I was expecting to find - the bundle of dog-eared prints he had been using for his pleasure. The surface of one, where a thick stump of uncut manhood was displayed in all its glory, was marred by staining of some sort, and it didn't take much to imagine what might have caused it.

"Is this what keeps you happy all day, Tim?" I asked with a leer in my tone.

He whirled around with a stricken look on his face, knowing straight away to what I was referring.

"I... er... I..."

Pornography was strictly forbidden in the school, and he had been caught red-handed, and red-faced. I could see tears beginning to well in his eyes, knowing he was deep in trouble.

"Please, sir," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "I'll do anything. Just please don't tell, sir, please don't. Some of the boys said..."

Despite the obvious opening, I really wasn't going to get a kick out of it if he was only doing it to get out of punishment.

"It's ok, Tim, you don't have to do anything. I'm not going to tell on you."

The relief which flooded through him sapped him of all tension and his shoulders visibly sagged. I was disappointed, of course, but there wouldn't be any pleasure in it for me if there wasn't pleasure for him.

"Thanks, sir. I thought you might... you know, make me do things."

"Not if you don't want to, Tim."

"Oh. Sir? Um, can I keep them, sir? I'll do things if you let me keep them, sir."

"I thought you didn't want to do anything, Tim?"

"Well, it would be like saying thank you, sir, for being nice to me."

"I'll tell you what, Tim. Do you know what a blow job is?"

He nodded his head nervously, clearly thinking I was going to ask him to suck me off.

"If you want to say thank you to me, let me suck on your willy."

Once more his relief was palpable. He nodded eagerly, with a grin.

"OK, this is what we'll do. You keep scoring, but sit at the front of your chair. I'll go under the table and suck you. That sound good?"

He nodded again, and scooted forward. Luckily there was plenty of room beneath the table upon which the controls sat. It was musty under there, and the floor was dotted with little white stains, evidence of Tim's history of self-pleasure. The cast was awkward, covering calf to ankle on his right leg, but it didn't stop him lifting his backside so I could slide shorts and pants down and off.

His boyhood, already hard from anticipation, caught in the waistband of his shorts and slapped back against his tummy. There was something bizarrely sexy about this young boy wearing only a t-shirt and a plaster cast, and sporting a hardness which could only fairly be described as perfection. I leaned forward and grasped it with my fingertips, drawing it away from his tummy, feeling it harden against the pressure. The foreskin still covered the head - carefully, very gently in case it was tight, I rolled it back until with a pop his head emerged. The shiny purple knob stood upon the straining shaft of his quiveringly hard boy dick, an invitation which could not be refused.

He gasped and mewled in delight as the wet heat of my mouth closed over the head. It felt so right in my mouth, a warm, blunt, velvet presence which sat pleasantly on the tongue and only threatened to gag if I took it all the way to its lightly-downed root. I teased the tip with my tongue and was rewarded with a sudden gasp and a bulging of the shaft. He was so worked up that he was close already! Well, I've never been one to tease a boy in need of getting off, and this was to be no exception. I applied suction and started the bobbing motion guaranteed to make a boy cum.

He was holding his breath and letting it out in short sharp bursts, holding it, letting it out. Another sure sign of impending orgasm. Like many boys his age he teetered on the brink for longer than you might think, and then plunged headlong into his orgasm, giving a little high pitched groan as he unloaded one, two, three spurts of watery cum, splashing all over the inside of my mouth as his body shook with spasms. I revelled in the silky texture of it, and its sweet tang, tinged only slightly by salt. Another quick suck bought a pained buck of his hips and another little spurt.

By the time he helped me get his shorts back over his hips his dick was soft again, the foreskin once more overhanging, the fat little sausage no longer than my little finger. He wouldn't meet my eye, and I understood that post-orgasmic guilt had overtaken him. I knew the best thing I could do was to get out of there, and so I left him, red-faced and slightly uncomfortable, wondering if there would ever be more.