Just for a change, we woke late the next morning. We must both have been tired. There was no other reason, that time. I looked into his sleepy eyes as I woke, and reflected the gentle smile I found there. We embraced again, and I thought how lucky I was to have found him all those years ago. Our faces were very close, and each of us were busy examining the window to the soul of the other, and somehow knowing and loving what we saw there. His arms traced patterns on my back, and I felt this warmth pressing against my belly. Subtly his expression changed, and a look of longing, almost of hunger came into his eyes. I'd seen it before and knew what it meant. Sure enough the hand transferred themselves to my chest, and my nipples, then continued southward to run like combs through the curly hair at the base of my belly. That I should have a reasonable pelt of hair just there he found fascinating, and to my temporary frustration spent ages at this unusual coiffure. At last one hand went onwards and was soon joined by the other when it found so much more interesting things to play with, everything I have was cradled in both of his moving hands.
My own hands found their own toys of excitement too, and by the little moans of delight that escaped from each of us from time to time the enjoyment was mutual. We both started turning in the bed at the same time, trying to bring the items we were playing with into sight and nearer to even greater pleasure. I got there first, and, although I knew that my own erection was slippery with fluid was surprised to see just how much my young love was producing. I thought my hands were wet, and when I could see, all of his genital area was shining.
Almost simultaneously our mouths enveloped each other, and the vibration of his moan as I started with my tongue was like electricity. I cleaned up everywhere I could, to his obvious delight, for a very short time after I had started again to concentrate on the main event, so to speak, there was a long moan from my own middle which may have been my name being called, and his hot seed started to hit the back of my mouth. And I knew that I was ready too, and could feel my own orgasm starting in that indescribable way deep inside me. I too gave a muffled shout of exultation and warning, and started pumping my offering into his mouth, time after time; I had got used to a twice daily routine over the last week, and missing out the previous night had enabled my body to do more than just catch up. I doubted if he could take it all, not knowing at the time how little semen is actually ejaculated in a normal orgasm. It certainly felt like a lot.
We lay there, recovering, in the same position. As normality started to return I once again realised how lucky I was. All through school I had known nobody in this way, this way of sharing everything. Except Mark. I imagined then that just as I had looked forward to a homosexual future life without love, with mounting frustrations as attractive members of my own sex were snapped up by members of the opposite one whose mutual love they sought, so there would be countless others who were in the same position. And how many of them would ever find their James?
I was startled out of my reverie by a light touch on my scrotum, and looked down with surprise. But he was intent on his subject. He was just tracing with his fingertips round each testicle, round the outside of the scrotum, up its dividing ridge, and over the roundness of each of the bulges which are so sensitive. He seemed not to realise that this was affecting me. In fact he was just curious about the shape, the build, the movement of them, completely unaware of the effect he was having on me. Until, that is, the penis rose further and stretched itself once more up my belly. Then he looked up at me and, to my surprise, blushed.
"Sorry."
"Why?"
"It didn't seem right."
"Why?"
"Dunno. It was just something I wanted to do. But we've just…er…"
"Brought each other to an orgasm. Shown our love for each other. Shown how much we trust each other."
"Yeahhh. That sounds nice."
"It is. Was it nice?"
"Yeahh……you know it was."
"Then why worry about what I might think when you explore me? When you touch me?"
"I didn't think you'd want me to, so soon after."
"Did I ask you to stop?"
"No, but…"
"If I did anything you didn't want you'd stop me, wouldn't you."
"Maybe."
"It's a two way thing. It's mutual respect."
"But you're older."
"And does that make it right for me to do things to you that you don't want?"
"'Spose not."
"Then you've answered your own question."
He thought.
"But if you're older than me, how can you respect me? It's meant to be younger people who respect their elders."
"I'll ignore the fact that when we're together we're the same age. If what you say was literally true, parents would be able to make slaves of their children."
I let that sink in.
"It's the respect and the love they have for them that makes it impossible for that to happen."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. And if you ever lose your respect for others you'll go off the rails and start being unpopular."
"Ooer."
I could tell by the expression on his face that it was all getting too heavy. It was for me too. So I put out my arms, grabbed his sides and squeezed, tickling him hard. He gave a gasp and curled into a ball like a nine year old.
And that's how things started all over again.
An hour and a half later, when we had once again recovered, we had a shower. Singular. And of course we washed each other. And I was surprised to feel his hand penetrate into my bottom and wash thoroughly between the cheeks — the very thing he had objected to that first time on the canals. As I'd already washed him I couldn't try doing the same.
Walking round the flat that morning it was like being with a different person from the rather reserved, almost shy and reluctant, boy who had come home with me the previous night. He really explored, and I felt that he was making himself at home properly. We had completely regained the attitude that we had enjoyed on the canals too. The previous night we had been a nineteen year old and a fourteen year old, the latter being worried about being invited into an older man's bed for the first time. This morning we were again the two sixteen-and-a-half year olds who were completely at one with each other. It was wonderful.
I was wondering what we could do with the half day that was left to us once we had got up and showered, when from the hallway I heard him call.
"What's that, Martin?"
"What?"
I hadn't shut the cupboard in the hall, and he was staring into it, looking up. I ducked down and followed his gaze to a roof hatch. Why I'd never seen it before, I don't know.
"Is it to the attic?" he asked. I gaped at him. I'd lived there for two weeks before the holiday and it had never even occurred to me that the top floor of the block would have access to the roof space. Obviously the estate agents hadn't included it in their blurb either. And I was the one who was meant to have a brain good enough for University. Mind you, it was well hidden, that trap door.
"Must be," I said as casually as I could. He looked at me sharply. The grin unzipped.
"You haven't the faintest, have you?"
"No," I said honestly, with a self-deprecating grin. "I never realised there'd be a loft."
"Well? Are we going exploring?"
"Well…yes. I suppose so. Why not?"
I got a chair. He climbed onto it and gave the hatch a hearty push. Nothing happened.
"Stuck," he said as he lowered his hands. "You tr……"
As his hands let go there was a click and the hatch dropped down on its hinge, hitting him on the head.
"Ow…bugger!" He half fell, half stepped off he chair onto my foot. And for a moment or two we were each saying rude words and nursing the affected parts of ourselves. Then the funny side of it hit us, and we were laughing at each other.
I climbed onto the chair, and found the loft ladder, extended it to the floor and then hesitated.
"Torch. Must have one somewhere."
"Mine's still in my bag."
"We'll need it."
He rushed off. I suppose as it was his torch it was only fair he should be first up there. He almost flung himself at the ladder and his head vanished. The torch beam swung round like a lighthouse.
"Wow…"
Then there was another click, and electric light flooded the space.
"Wow, Martin. Come and look at this." And his feet vanished up the ladder and I could hear him walking around. I followed. And gasped as I could see what he meant.
The loft extended over the entire floor area of the flat. It was, to me, vast, like a room in a stately home. But what we were both so excited about was that around the outside of this floor-boarded and roof-boarded area was a wide shelf. At a few points around the perimeter the shelf widened further, and at two points there were other shelves which connected the two sides.
It had been built for a model railway. On a big scale. And what was the thing that I hadn't brought from home because there was no room and I thought I'd at last outgrown it and wouldn't want other Uni. types to see it?
A model railway.
James knew what it was for, too. He looked at me with his eyes shining.
"I'll bring my stuff down. We can put it all up here."
"It'll need to fit in with mine, then."
"You've got a model railway?"
"Certainly have."
"Oh, wow."
After a detailed examination and having made drawings of what was there we went down to the lounge where we exchanged information about what each had got. Some of his was nearer toy train standard than mine, but he was quite excited by the prospect of building things properly. I suggested we should go to an exhibition where we could get some ideas, and he jumped at the idea. The rest of the afternoon was spent happily talking about track plans and stations and signalling, and at times the discussions got quite heated. At the end of it when we could go no further in theory we realised we could hardly see each other, and the afternoon had turned to evening. We'd had no exercise all day, so I suggested a swim at the local baths which I knew were open for a Sunday evening session.
"No swimming things," he said in a disappointed tone.
"Shorts? Or borrow mine."
"I've got those old shorts," he said. I remembered how they scarcely covered him, and what would happen with nothing underneath when they were wet. I mentioned it.
"Would anybody mind?"
"Wouldn't you?"
"Well, I'd be covered."
"Yes, but probably visible through the cloth."
"Oh, don't worry about it. I won't get out of the water."
So we did. It was OK all the time he remembered, but when he got out at one point to chase me round the poolside — which earnt him a whistle from the lifeguard — everything became very obvious. He seemed unconcerned, though. When he got out again to take a dive in, I saw a middle aged man, another swimmer, watching him intently. All went well until he had taken the dive, when he bobbed up and down in the water with an agitated expression on his face. I swam to him.
"What's up."
"Shorts came down. Can't reach," he gurgled. I supported him while he retrieved them and reinstated them round his waist.
"Do they show much?" he asked.
"Yes," I said simply.
"Oh."
As we swam it was obvious that the man was either keeping close to us or was watching from the side every move we made. James noticed it too and mentioned it to me.
"Shall I play a game with him?"
"What?"
"Watch."
He crossed to the side and started to haul himself out of the water near the man. The shorts dropped down his body a little, exposing the top of his cleft. What the front was showing I couldn't see. But the man's eyes never left him. He stood on the side, and slowly, as sensuously as he knew how, pulled up his shorts. Then he went up to the man whose eyes were glued to James' middle, and spoke to him. The man looked confused, but said something back. James then jumped back in to the water doing a 'bomb', soaked the man, and swam back to my side.
"He's one of us," he said quietly. "He could hardly speak, and his eyes were boring through my trunks."
"What did you say to him?"
"I just asked him the time. When he could speak he sounded pleasant enough."
The man stayed in the pool until we left, then followed us into the showers, where James and I shared. The stranger was almost having apoplexy by the time we had unashamedly washed each other's back, although we didn't dare do any more. We collected our clothes and, out of sight of the attendants but so the man could see us, went into the same cubicle. He walked past and looked in over the door, and gave a sort of whimper, much to our amusement, then walked off.
"You could have a really good night with him." I hoped I was joking.
"Nah," said my friend. "I don't like older men."
And we both went off into fits of laughter.
The trouble was that he was waiting for us when we came out, and even followed us to the fish and chip restaurant where we had decided to have a meal. But he didn't follow us in, so we never did discover what he was like.
The rest of the evening was spent looking over the plans we'd sort of made for the railway, refining them, talking about the next day and the places we'd go. Gradually we seemed to draw closer together, although we'd not been referring to the railway plans at all at the time. At last he made an inflammatory comment — I can't remember what it was — and the obvious way for me to get back at him was to tickle him. So I did. Unmercifully, my hands pulling up his shirt so I could get to his so-sensitive sides.
He rolled up, at the same time trying to get to any part of me that might be ticklish while trying to keep his arms flat against his sides to prevent me from doing the same. He didn't have much chance. He lay in a ball, like a hedgehog, giggling and trying to roll free. At last he made it, and uncurled, panting and still giggling. I made another dive for him, but he dodged, and finally managed to do the same to me. Now I'm still ticklish to this day, so at the time I was at just as much a disadvantage as him.
But at last I dislodged him, and sat in the time honoured schoolboy victor way, on his chest with my hands pinning his upper arms to the floor. He tried all the tricks he knew, and finally hit on a solution that would probably only be acceptable between the two of us. He shook free and grabbed my crotch.
In the midst of our fighting my mind went back to that last night on the canals when he'd stood there as if a helpless waif and asked me to strip him, and I had. I wondered what he'd do, given the chance, so I let go of him and stopped struggling, leaving his hand in mid-grab, as it were. He was a bit surprised, but I was looking at his face at the time in a half serious, half 'come on, then' way, and it seemed to work. He wriggled out from under me, still with his hand circling a bunch of trousering containing my genitals. But gently.
And slowly, as I knelt there, he eased my shirt out from my waistband and over my head, then released the belt of my trousers, looking into my eyes to check that it was OK as he did so. But instead of taking them off he eased down the zip and slowly slid his hand inside my underpants until he was once again clutching at my genitals, though even more carefully now. He roved about all over them, and slowly — well, not too slowly — my body reacted and made movement inside my clothing that much more difficult for him. He withdrew his hand, to my temporary disappointment. He moved behind me and undid my shoes, pulled them off, and the socks after them. I was wearing only trousers and underpants now, and they were exposing more of me than normal.
"Stand up." The voice was positive, yet somehow thick. It sounded as if he was emotional about what he was doing, affected by my being partially undressed whilst he was still fully clothed. I complied, he joined me, and I could see from the state of his trousers that he was indeed just as affected as me. He eased my trousers off, then stood back looking at me. I looked back, wondering what to expect, aware that not only was I distending the front of my underwear but that the cloth was looking decidedly damp in front.
He smiled, and in one swift movement my pants were round my ankles.
"Just like on the beach on the island," he said triumphantly. "But your prick didn't nearly hit me in the face then."
I grinned back, despite feeling that a moment of love had been allowed to pass. But gradually as I remained silent his wide grin mellowed to that beautiful half smile of his, as his eyes continued looking me up and down. Then he stepped closer and looked up at me.
"Will you come to bed with me?"
We decided, the next day, when at last we had hauled ourselves out of bed and from each other's attentions, that the model railway would be a really excellent way to justify his frequent visits. The day was spent visiting and shopping in town, and my heart sank as I knew he'd have to get on a train soon. The time came, and I found myself trying not to be too emotional on the platform. I wanted to kiss him, to tell him I loved him, to tell him to hurry back the next weekend, but there were people all round us and it wasn't possible. Eventually the train pulled out, with him waving and yelling that he'd phone when he got in, and I was left feeling really down, as if the lights had all been turned off.
I stumbled, more than walked, back to the flat, and went up into the loft, the bare loft, that would one day soon be alive to the sound of his voice and laughter as he worked with me on the railway. I didn't feel like eating. In fact I felt almost as bad as I had when Mark and I had separated after the Amberdale holiday. I'd arranged to meet him afterwards too, just as I had James. And the more I thought, the worse it got. When at last the phone rang I gave a sudden start, realised who it would be and almost fell over my feet trying to get to the phone.
It was him. Cheerful, safe and tired. Phoning, he said, from the station. "I've just phoned Dad and he's coming to get me," he said. "So I thought I'd call you too so they couldn't overhear what we say. I just wanted to thank you."
"What for?"
"Having me."
"I'd have thought I should thank you for coming."
"Oh, we both did that, many times over the weekend."
"Dirty sod."
"I know. And I enjoyed every one. I wish you were up here."
And that brought tears to me. "So do I," I said chokily. "More than you know."
"Have you been to bed yet?"
"No. It's only eight thirty."
"Oh."
"Why?"
"Nothing."
"Go on."
"No. It doesn't matter. Look, I'll phone again from home so they can hear me say thanks. My money's going now. 'Bye."
"'Bye. And…I love you." But the click had come just before I got those words in.
I went into the bedroom and looked around. Nothing untoward. Then I pulled back the bedclothes and there it was.
Those briefest of brief, stained, Tanga underpants, unpleasant to anyone except us. And a note.
'You're the best thing that ever happened to me. Thanks. I love you.' Then a big space and underneath: 'As these were in your bag I thought you might like to keep them. Mum wouldn't understand if I asked her to wash them. Could you? See you next week. I'll phone. James.'
My eyes grew misty and hot. I held the cloth and the paper to my chest.
Ten minutes after, the phone rang again. Peter.
"I hear he had a good time with you. He's full of this model railway thing. Do you really want him down?"
"Yes…oh yes! He's good fun, and it'll be something else to add to life."
"Well, if you're sure. We'd like him up here sometimes, but if you really want him down there there's a few suitable trains, and at last we can afford it, I suppose. You won't want him next week, I suppose?"
"If he wants to come, yes."
"He does. He's pestering me already and we've only just got in. He wants to tell you he's safe home and to say thanks, anyway."
"OK, Peter. And thanks to you and Doreen for making the holiday so special for us."
He was quite formal when he got on the phone, but unbent after a bit. At last I told him I'd found his message and hoped he'd be careful of his reply when I said: "It meant a lot to me. I love you too, because you're the best thing that happened to me."
There was a pause, and he whispered so they couldn't hear. "Even over Mark?"
My turn to pause, although I was certain of the answer. "Even over Mark. You are just…so right for me."
"That's nice. Thank you, Martin. See you next week. Oh…" He paused. "How am I going to get all my railway stuff to your place? There's too much to go on the train."
"Would it go in my car? Or Peter's?"
"Yes. Why, would you come up for it?"
"If you want. In fact I could come up over the week, sleep at your place if they'd let me, and go back the following day."
There was a short, breathless pause. Then:
"Yeahhhh! Hold on, I'll ask."
There was a muffled conversation in the background that went on for some time. I was starting to wonder what the problem was. Then he said breathlessly "Hang on, I'm giving you back to Dad."
I waited. "Hallo Martin", said Peter, "Has that worthless son of mine been persuading you to make a journey all the way up here just to fetch a few bits of railway? He really does take too much for granted, you know."
I laughed, happier again at the thought of seeing him so soon. "Not really, Peter, we're probably as nuts over trains as each other, even model ones. And you should see the size of this loft! We could open it up to the public."
He laughed too. "Well, I know I keep on warning you about James and his assumption that everyone wants to be with him, especially you,…" Music to my ears, that bit. "…but you must really enjoy his company to be happy to accept him so frequently. By all means come up here to get his stuff, and what I suggest is that you leave it till Friday, then you can take him back with you on Saturday. It'll mean sleeping in his room I'm afraid, because we're still renting until we can find a suitable place to buy, and it's small. But then you're used to that!"
Magic. Absolute magic. He gave me the address and directions, and then put James on again.
"Great! I'll see you on Friday, then. What time will you be here?"
"Any time."
"I get home from school at half past four."
"Will there be anyone in before that?"
"Yes, Mum's here."
"I'll see you there, then."
"Yeahh…great. I'm looking forward to it already."
"So'm I. More than you realise."
He chuckled. "Oh, I think I do. Anyway, I'd better go now."
"Yeah. I'll see you on Friday. Leave me half the bed."
"It'll be a tight squeeze…oh. I won't say any more. See you."
"'Bye. Look after yourself."
And that was that. I felt a bit deflated again after he'd rung off, but happier again when I realised that I'd see him sooner than I had thought. The confirmation that he definitely wanted me there was good to have, too.
When I arrived at the house an hour early on Friday I felt like a nervous schoolboy meeting his loved one's parents for the first time. What I had set out to do was to dump off my bag and surprise him by collecting him from school. But I hadn't taken into account that Doreen would want to chat, something that occurred to me only as I arrived. She was so grateful to me for making James's holiday so special that I and my doings were all he wanted to talk about, that it was ages before I could tell her my plan. When at last I got a word in she agreed it'd be a good surprise and gave me directions.
The juniors were coming out when I arrived, and there were some which looked almost as he had done at nine years old. Mischievous. Fun. Happy. But not one had The Grin. At last a bell rang loudly. There was a lull, and the noise of a mixture of broken and unbroken voices at high decibels approached. I watched carefully.
Streams of boys of widely varying ages walked past. They all looked the same. I didn't know if I'd recognise him in a cap. The thought hadn't crossed my mind until then as it was ages since I'd had to wear one to school. Face after face swam past, and scanning every one was difficult. Then at last two boys emerged from the gate, one younger than the other. The younger one was looking up at the elder who was talking, looking straight ahead. Then the younger one spoke and at last The Grin unzipped on the older face and I knew it was him. And the younger one's face, dazzled by the sudden smile, lit up too, and I thought back five years.
They were about to pass the car, so I sounded the horn. They jumped and looked at me, annoyed. Then one of them did one of the best theatrical double-takes I'd seen and jumped in the air, then rushed to the car and wrenched open the door, ignoring his companion completely.
I thought for a minute he was going to kiss me, but he stopped himself in time, and fired questions at me instead. I interrupted him. "Don't forget your friend."
"What? Oh yes. Oy, Graham. This is Martin, the friend I was telling you about."
I hoped he hadn't said too much.
"Hallo, Sir."
"Sir……" I spluttered. "I've never been called that in my life! Martin's my name."
"Oh…sorry."
"OK. Good to meet a friend of James'."
He had nothing to say to this.
"I'll see you on Monday," said James to him.
"Yeahh. 'Kay. Bye." He sounded very sad.
"Can't we give him a lift?" I asked James quietly.
"You sure? Hey, Gray…"
The boy looked round at the sudden shout, almost fearfully, I thought.
"Martin says do you want a lift."
The face lit up, just as it had done when James had smiled at him. "Yeah, please."
We'd joined the end of a queue of traffic, and a few yards down the road we passed a group of four older boys hanging round on one of the corners. They peered into the car, and two of them shouted something and started making rude gestures. The penny dropped.
"School bullies?" I asked tersely.
They both nodded. "They get me every day unless I'm with James," Graham explained.
Now, I hate confrontation, and I'm not very brave, but I didn't see why I, as a fairly broad built nineteen year old with a car should let four fifteen year olds get away with bullying like that. So I squealed the car to a halt, flung it into reverse, and backed towards them at a rate of knots. There was another squeal as I stopped. They stepped back, looking surprised. I got out, and they started backing away.
"Running away, cowards? Scared someone bigger and older than you might hurt you? Come back here." I surprised even myself at the tone. They continued backing off, then turned and ran. I watched them out of sight, then got back into the car.
"We're going to find them," I said calmly.
"No, don't," said Graham. "They'll get me worse on Monday."
"Not after what we're going to do when we get you home," I said.
I turned the car, and drove down the road they'd vanished into. They were still walking down it some yards away. Once more I dew up, this time opposite them. They looked over casually as I opened the door. There was a word spoken, and they started to run.
We followed them for some while, until they all turned up a footpath. This time I didn't stop, but told the others to give me directions to James's home. There, after explaining everything to Doreen, who gave the worried Graham a drink, I wrote out four letters, all the same, addressed to each of the four boys. It said in essence that I was a friend of Graham's, hated bullies and bullying, and had friends much older than either him or them who lived locally. Which was true: Peter and Doreen were both older than them, and lived locally. In future, therefore, they would be held responsible by me for Graham's freedom from bullying from anyone inside or outside the school, and that further action would be taken if I even suspected that they were not taking this duty seriously. I also said that a copy of the letter was going to the headmaster and to Graham's parents who would also keep a watch on things.
Now this sounds very clever. I wish the idea had been mine. But it's exactly what was done at my own school when I was being bulled. It had worked for me, and it would work for Graham against these cowards. When I had done it all and explained it, he just looked at me.
Like a grateful puppy. As did James. I felt wonderful.
He only lived up the road, so a lift wasn't necessary. As he said goodbye on the doorstep he shyly put out his hand to shake mine, and I felt a rush of affection for him. So I gripped his shoulder. "Always think to yourself 'I'm not a doormat.' Then people won't try and walk over you."
When he'd gone, and James and I were alone in the hall, he hugged me so tightly it hurt.
"Come and see our bedroom," he said.
They had made him put out a camp bed for me, despite his protestations that we were OK in his single bed. "What's acceptable on the canals, and with a double bed for the two of you, isn't acceptable here and in only a single. You'd be pressed up against each other all night," went the argument. I have to admit that I could feel my body stirring as I realised what she'd said, and he told me afterwards that his was reacting as well. It would have been lovely to tell her that it was precisely that contact we were looking forward to .
We were limited on our physical enjoyment of each other that night because his parents slept in the next room, and I learnt from overhearing the rather nice things Doreen was saying to Peter about our rescue of Graham that the walls were quite thin. I got into the camp bed and rolled about a bit, then stood, naked as usual, over his recumbent form in its single bed. He grinned up at me.
"What's the matter?" I asked, but quietly. "Don't you want me in there?"
Without another word he pushed himself over to one side to give me room. I struggled my way next to him. She was right. We would have to sleep pressed up against each other all night. She never said anything about having to have our arms around each other, though. We rubbed our bodies together for some time, and the inevitable stiffness would have to accompany each of us to sleep. "Just wait until tomorrow night," he whispered as we kissed each other before settling down to sleep.
Or to try to sleep. He seemed to be all right, but the inability to move, no matter how good and lovely the reason, made sleep difficult for me, and easily interrupted when it came. He only had to breathe a bit heavier, or make a movement, and I was awake. So I was a bit jaded in the morning. And stiff. Stiff muscles, that is, from lying in one position almost all night. He, on the other hand, had slept like a log. I escaped from the bed at about half past six and got into the little camp bed, where I slept soundly until nine.