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.......

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