Boys In Heat, page 14
Push me over edges you know I will never be able to jump the way I desire, cross when I tell you to cross over the conflict between what you want and what you think you should. We are good, lover, at both.
THE MANOR
Andrew Warburton
I
It was paradise in the Manor. I lived there before I knew anything about life, before I tasted my first sip of beer, my first slobbery penis, my first prick of the needle, the bitterness of a drug dissolving on my tongue. The Manor had polished tile floors, and walls that smelt of disinfectant, and air full of dust blown up by the vacuum cleaners and rags the caretaker would use every morning before we got up for breakfast. We all had leather-bound cases called tuck-boxes, full up with sweets and pictures of scantily clad women, and our desks were made of the oldest, knotted oak, so rough we had to write on paper supported by our books: those simple Latin sentences about love and war, agoras and atriums, Iulius and Iulia. We wore blazers of the deepest maroon, with white stripes at the collar and the sleeves, and a coat of arms above our left breast with the motto Aut disce aut discede—“learn or leave.”
They said the older boys lay on their backs at night and played with their penises till milk shot from the end. There must be something wrong with them, I said. That isn’t normal. Don’t tell me any more. I’d never experienced an orgasm, though I was seventeen years old. The closest thing to sex I’d experienced was watching Mr. Jones, the Games Master, during afternoon sport. I couldn’t keep my eyes off his big, arcing thighs, and the fat ass stuffed into his tight canvas shorts, which always made the matrons blush when they walked by. One day he called me to his office. I walked through the gloomy hall to the steps where they said the “gray lady” had fallen to her death outside the library door—past the dorms to a little room I’d never seen before. He was sitting behind his desk with a smile on his face, his forearms resting on a loose pile of papers, his dark hair glistening in the light from the window through which I saw a patchwork of fields.
“Come in and shut the door,” he said, his voice a lilting Welsh.
I did as he said. Before I sat down, I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the wall. I saw the light reflected off my shirt and the soft flesh at the open collar where a few dark hairs had appeared. Suddenly I was aware of how tightly my trousers were pulled around my groin and my ass, and I felt the dark eyes behind the desk crawling over me.
Mr. Jones stood and I saw his thighs bulging under the smart black trousers. His fingers were already at the zip, slowly pulling it down, pulling out his long fleshy penis. I’d never seen a man’s penis before. It made my friends’ and my own seem tiny. I’d never even seen my father’s except through the white satin shorts he wore when he went running—and that was just a squashed, misshapen bulge; large, but nothing to shout about.
This was like a truncheon.
He reached across the desk and put his big hand on the back of my head, pulling me toward him. I could feel the warmth of his skin, the mound of his palm and the hard bones in his fingers. “I want you to put it in your mouth and blow.”
I leant forward and put my mouth to the tip. It was sticky, very purple and full, as if it had been blown up with air. I brushed my tongue across it and kissed it. He shivered. It was velvety on my lips. I reached up and put one hand on his balls. The other I ran through the black, matted hairs on his stomach.
“Blow,” he said huskily, and I blew. It was strange what happened then. I blew and blew and the air from my mouth seemed to fill the inside of his penis. His breath came heavy and I blew even more and his penis became more and more swollen. His balls were silky, covered in soft hairs, and they too were swollen and they just kept getting bigger and bigger. The tip of his penis pushed past my lips, filling the whole of my mouth. It was almost too big to keep inside. My tongue was too small to fit around it and it kept slipping out of my mouth. Eventually I gave up trying. I held the wet tip to my lips and continued pushing the air from my lungs, up past my throat, into his penis. Soon it resembled one of those sausage-dog balloons that the magicians used to make at my friends’ birthday parties. His thighs and hips kept wriggling frantically in the air, circling as if he couldn’t bear it. And his breathing was deep, and loud grunts kept escaping from his lips.
“I’m cumming,” he said suddenly, and he tightened his hand on the back of my head and cried out, as if in pain. I didn’t understand. Who was he talking to? There was no one else there; nowhere to go. And then it came, and finally I understood. Liquid sprayed my mouth, unlike anything I’d ever tasted before. It had the color and consistency of milk, and the taste was disgusting, like the chipolatas we threw under the table at supper time rather than eat them. But he was wiping the tip across my lips, smearing the milky substance all over them. I grimaced. It was slippery and foul-tasting, but I had to drink it down. I licked my lips clean, swallowing it all—and gradually, as if it had been punctured and the air let out, his penis returned to its normal size.
“Good boy,” he said, putting it back inside his pants. “You may go.”
My legs trembled as I got up. I opened the door. I took one look at his soft dark hair, glistening, with the trees and the fields behind it, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore, his head was in his hands, so I went out into the corridor and shut the door behind me.
II
At the back of the Manor was a country garden surrounded by tall walls, with pear trees growing against the crumbling stone. We used to steal the pears, sink our teeth into the flesh and hide the carcasses in the bushes where no teachers would find them. There was a birdhouse too, where we’d watch the birds copulating in a patch of wasteland; there were badgers too, but they only came out at night, snorting like dogs as they mounted each other. And there was a quarry where we were forbidden to go, where purple heather grew among the rocks. And the valley we walked through to reach it was huge, the trees so tall they made patterns in the misty clouds, and the rocky stone walls were covered in moss and ivy.
I went there once with Bliss.
Bliss was the best footballer in school. He had deep brown eyes and full luscious lips and a shock of glossy, raven black hair through which he kept running his hands. He was a whiz with the ball and could keep one in the air for a whole five minutes at least, his white muscular legs flashing up and down through the drizzly rain. Every afternoon, when we came in from the wind and the muddy pitch, I followed him back to the changing rooms and watched him pull his jersey up over his head, the sweat and rain making it stick to his nipples for a moment before revealing the creamy, toned pectorals. Many a time I’d wanted to pull the tight, muddy shorts down around his thighs.
Now, hidden in the forbidden quarry, he pulled them down around his plump, white ass, and bending over, said, “I know you’ve been watching me. All the lads know it. Why don’t you eat my ass? I want you to.”
I bent down and put my face between the fleshy mounds. I pushed my tongue into his tightly puckered hole. I was blushing and quivering all over.
“Ooh,” he moaned, and he wriggled his feet forward so that his ass fell back, practically sitting on my face. He put his hands either side of his ass and pulled the cheeks apart, allowing my tongue more room to maneuver—and he wriggled down again and again, his hole tasting salty and stale.
Suddenly, he seemed to press down on his bowels and I felt a great shudder run through him. Then, with a reverberating clap, a fart exploded in my mouth. The sound echoed against the valley walls, followed by Bliss’s raucous laughter: “Did you really think I wanted you to eat my ass?”
I fell back against the ground and pushed myself up onto my elbows, waves of shock and shame coursing through me. I wiped at my lips. Bliss was standing above me—his majestic white thighs towering over me—holding his enormous penis in both hands. The thick veins rippled along the shaft as he worked his hands furiously up and down it. The purple head began to buck and bob in the air and his eyelids shut and he licked his lips. I could almost smell it, straining above me, and without warning, a jet of white exploded from the tip, and Bliss’s handsome face contorted. He shouted hoarsely, jerking his cock all over me. I shut my eyes but it was too late. Hot, stinking cum sprayed my face.
Bliss sniggered. He shook the last drop of cum from the end of his cock onto my face and pulled up his trousers. “That’s what happens to faggots who watch me in the changing room and think they can eat my ass like a goddamn girl.” His cock was still large, but it was flaccid now as he squashed it back inside his shorts. He cast one last derisory glance in my direction and walked back toward the school.
I lay among the stone and the heather, wiping his hot cum from my face.
III
Classics was always my forte. My favorite teacher was Jennings. I remember the circular structure of The Odyssey that he would scribble, each year, in blue chalk on the wall. It was Jennings’ personal theory and he was very proud of it. He would walk back and forth in front of it, tapping the board with a ruler. Then he’d plant his fat ass on the desk, displaying his muscular thighs.
The others were surprised by this display of his crotch. I could hear the sharp intake of breath as they spied the ample bulge.
I, on the other hand, was used to these displays of machismo.
I matched them one for one.
Thing was with Jennings and I, we could communicate in silence—I’d spread my legs under the desk and watch him watching with perverted glee. He would drop his pen and bend to pick it up, bringing his beautiful round ass level with my eyes. Then he’d smirk.
I’d put my palms on the insides of my thighs and slowly prise them apart.
I only sucked him off once. It was in his office. His was the biggest cock I’d seen so far.
He was sitting behind his desk, playing with the end of his thick black moustache, his eyes twinkling in that damned confident way that always made my blood boil. I planted myself in the armchair opposite him.
“What can I do for you?” he said.
“It’s Eliot. I’ve got a bit lost with the references.”
He chuckled, “You’re not the first.” He reached up to the bookshelf where he found a copy of Eliot, Selected Poems, and pulled it down. As he flicked through the slim volume I looked around at his office. I’d been here a couple of times before—mostly being ticked off for writing sloppy course-works—but I’d never really looked at it before. It was a bit stuffy in an academic sort of way and there were all sorts of posters hanging on the walls, advertising freak shows and circuses and pulpy magazines.
He was watching me now, his dark eyes absorbing mine, his handsome, chiseled face bearing a trace of five o’clock shadow. Sometimes, like now, I couldn’t even look at him without getting hard. I shifted my satchel across my lap.
“You like my stuff?” he asked.
“Yes, I love looking at people’s books.”
He smiled. I noticed the creases deepening either side of his mouth. He must be pushing forty, I thought, but his eyes were so bright they made him look younger.
“Look Jake, let’s stop pretending, shall we? I’m too old to be playing these kind of games. I know why you’re here.”
I leant back in my seat. “I’m sorry?”
His smile was maddening but he said nothing. He just kept looking at me, forcing me to guess what he was about to say. Then he stood up.
The first thing I noticed was the leather belt pulled taut around his hips. Then the big shiny buckle. My eyes strayed down to his bulging fly and I saw the outline of his cock straining through the fabric.
“Come on, boy. Don’t be shy. I know you’re begging for it.”
I spluttered, “What gives you that idea?”
“Come on Jake, I see it all the time. The way you watch me in class. To be honest it’s a bit embarrassing. If you want to suck my cock, you just have to ask.”
I blushed despite myself. My dick was beginning to stir. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
For a moment the doubt flickered in his eyes. Then he came round to the front of the desk and sat down in front of me, spreading his legs wide. His cock was hard, pressed along the length of his thigh, and his hands were warm as they slipped around my head, smoothing the hairs on the back of my neck. “I know you want it, baby.” He unzipped his fly and, without warning, thrust his cock between my lips, “Get that pretty mouth round my meat.”
I sucked his cock in long, delicious strokes. He purred like a giant cat, making small encouraging noises in his throat. He was very, very hard, but he fit my tongue perfectly, sliding along the walls of my mouth. His legs began to twitch and for a moment I thought he was going to cum, but then he pushed down on the back of my head, forcing my lips down the length of his shaft till they grazed the heavy balls. “That’s right, baby. All the way.” I spread my mouth as wide as it would go, but it wasn’t enough—I was going to gag. Panicked, I tried to jerk my head back and gulp for air, but he merely held my head in place, saying, “I like it when you choke on me, baby.” He thrust as hard as he possibly could, his hips pounding my lips. He was pumping my mouth as if it was some kind of sucking machine, or one of those blow-up dolls. He moaned, “I’m cumming, baby.”
Steadying myself against his thighs, I waited for the onslaught of jizz. The length of his cock continued to move wetly between my lips, but the head was bucking now against the roof of my mouth. Finally it exploded—all over my tongue—flooding my mouth with its bitterness. I swallowed in great, thirsty gulps. He whistled through his teeth.
“That’s a definite A-minus for technique,” he said, as I fell back on the floor.
“A-minus? Why A-minus?”
“Well, next time, suck the head a bit longer. You’re sure to get an A then….”
He chuckled deep in his throat and reached down to ruffle my hair.
IV
One day my maths teacher made me cry. I couldn’t do my equations. I kept staring out the window at the soccer players on the pitch—their fat cocks bouncing up and down in their shorts—imagining my mouth around them.
“Something interesting out there, Jake?” shouted Mr. Bowers. “Perhaps you’d like to go outside? You’re certainly not here with us.”
I felt my cheeks go bright scarlet as everyone in the room turned to face me. I looked down at the squiggly lines in the textbook in front of me. I didn’t have a clue what we were supposed to be doing.
In a flash Mr. Bowers was behind me, pinching my ear between his thumb and index finger, pulling back my head. I swallowed hard. “Listen boy, if you don’t concentrate you’ll never learn.”
“Yes, Mr. Bowers.”
“See me after class.”
After the others had left, I stood in front of Mr. Bowers’ desk, waiting for him to look up from his marking. He had neat black hair, Mr. Bowers, and a young man’s body (though he must have been about forty-five). His suit fitted nicely around his chest and broad shoulders.
“Ah yes,” he said finally, his blue eyes flashing up at me, “I’d forgotten about our little meeting. I’m going to teach you a lesson, Jake. A lesson I hope you won’t forget.”
He walked around the desk and stood beside me. I looked down at my feet, hoping this wouldn’t be too intense. He was so close now his big chest was almost touching mine. I took a deep breath and put my head to the side, away from him. But his stubble grazed my cheek. He pressed his large hand against the side of my face and slipped two fingers into my mouth. “I want you to suck my fingers, Jake—and while you’re doing it I want you to think about why it’s important you concentrate in class. You wouldn’t want me to write home to your mother, would you? Between you and me, Jake, I know she can’t easily afford our fees. You wouldn’t want her thinking it wasn’t worth it, would you?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t reply. My mouth was too full with his fingers. I sucked greedily—wanting to please him because I knew what he said was true.
“How about some extra flavor?” he said, removing his fingers from my mouth and thrusting them inside his pants. Rummaging around inside, he looked down at me, his lips twisting into a strange smile. What was he doing? Sticking a finger up his ass? When he brought his hand to my face again, it stank of sweat; there was something else too, underneath the sweat, something biting and stale. He covered my mouth with his hand and thrust the two fingers between my lips. They tasted foul this time. I almost gagged.
“That’s good,” he said, watching me, the length of his cock pressing into my stomach—harder all the time. Urgently, he undid his belt with one hand, and when his cock was free, he moved back and started jacking it off, his eyes flashing with excitement. “Fancy a bit of dick-sweat?” All at once he removed his fingers from my mouth and smeared the end of his cock all over them, all around the tip and under the foreskin. His fingers were moist when he brought them to my face. The fumes rose from them, reeking of cheese.
“Lick ’em.”
I shut my eyes and licked them, first quickly, as if lapping them—then in great strokes. I could taste the fruity juices of his cock.
“Oh, good boy, that’s good. In a minute I’ll have something even tastier for you!” The smell had gone now, his fingers were squeaky clean. And his cock had grown enormously. I was sure he was about to cum.
“Wait for it, boy! It’s almost here.” For a moment, he seemed to squat down—then he stood up straight, his face bright red, and he pulled the fingers from my mouth. Gasping, he caught the cum that came splashing from his cock and brought the dripping hand to my mouth. I looked on, wide-eyed, as he shoveled cum onto my tongue.
