Parrafan

The Grazed Elbow and Other Calamities

Chapter 1
The Grazed Elbow

It started innocently enough. Looking back, the only 'innocent' was me. At the time, I was on lunchtime yard patrol, keeping a general eye on the student population as they played their games of handball, runacross and touch footy. There were two teachers on duty, in accordance with school policy, and the two of us walked our separate patrol areas at either end of the lunchtime playground, a roughly rectangular block about a hectare in size. This other teacher (who taught a Grade Two class, mostly seven year olds) and I were frequently assigned on the same day. So much so that we had become accustomed to keeping in touch with each other by means of a system of hand signals that we had devised between us.

There were only ten minutes remaining of the lunch period. All lunches had been eaten, rubbish had been binned and games well under way. I casually meandered towards a game of keepaway between some Grade Sixes [11/12 yo] that was showing signs of becoming much too vigorous when one of my own Grade Five [10/11 yo] boys came alongside me and caught my eye. He was holding his right forearm with his left hand, and pointing his right elbow at me. The elbow in question had lost a small patch of skin, about the size of a book of matches, and the resulting contusion was slowly beginning to ooze blood.

"Ouch!" I exclaimed, when I saw it. It was one of those wounds that every boy has had, at least once, and it was the kind of wound that generates a stab of sympathy pain in any onlookers. But as Terry wasn't crying, I guessed the injury was so recent that the wound was still numb. Since I would not have associated this particular boy with the sort of rough and tumble game that frquently generates this type of injury, I immediately suspected that he was the victim of a bit of bullying.

"What happened, Terry?" I enquired, as I took hold of the hurt arm and carefully manipulated it to check for broken bones.

"I was reading my book and walking at the same time and I tripped," he explained, in quite a matter-of-fact tone.

"Oh!," I responded. That seemed probable, knowing Terry as I did. No evidence of bullying here, just his typical daydreaming. "Where's your book now?"

"Peter is minding it for me," he answered, nodding his head in the general direction of the seats where the less athletic boys sit during luch period.

I waved to my colleague the signal that means 'Cover for me' and walked Terry back to our homeroom. I knew the school nurse had already left for the day (she only works mornings) so I decided to administer First Aid myself, rather than take Terry to the Admin office to be tended to by one of our ancillary staff. He was one of my homeroom boys, after all.

I hold a current certificate in First Aid, as do all classroom teachers at the school. I keep a small first aid kit in the bottom drawer of my desk – no drugs, only creams, lotions and bandages – so when we reached our classroom I escorted Terry to the front of the room (to my desk) and began swabbing the wound with an antiseptic wipe.

I noticed a curious thing at that point. I have had to perform this kind of duty many times in my fifteen-year teaching career, and invariably I find that the patient will carefully watch the progress of the operation as keenly as a jeweller's apprentice. Not Terry. He kept his eyes on mine the whole time. It was as though the injury was incidental. It was a bit distracting, really. Instead of paying attention to my attempt at dressing his wound, Terry gazed straight into my eyes. Oh well, I thought, takes all kinds. Terry always had been a bit different to the other kids, or so I had noticed in the two months since he had been in my homeroom.

The instinct that told me Terry was a bit different from the other boys should have warned me about what was to happen, but it didn't. Funny how instinct is often confused with hindsight, isn't it? After I finished my ministrations, Terry took his first look at my handiwork, then pointed the elbow in my face and said "Sir, Mummy kisses it better for me when I hurt myself."

Now I knew enough about kids to know that I had to kiss it immediately, to avoid one of those embarassing pauses that always makes your next action seem rather forced and unnatural. So I quickly replied "Sure," and bent over to give the crepe bandage a little peck. "How's that?" I said jovially, trying to maintain a caring yet masculine attitude.

"Thank you, Sir," Terry answered, a bit dreamily, as he took advantage of me still being seated and partially bent over, to wrap both his arms around my neck and plant a kiss on my cheek. I was too surprised to do anything, so I just sat there like a dummy, mute, but Terry had already removed his arms and turned away from me, skipping towards the door. I was still sitting there in shock a minute later when the bell sounded to mark the end of lunch period.

Chapter 2
The Swollen Nipples

As a sensible precaution, any non-trivial contacts between teacher and student had to be recorded in a logbook kept in the Admin office. So I was happy to trot down to the office later in the afternoon to make my entry in the book. "Treated a grazed R elbow belonging to T Gillings, 13/4/02, R Pazko" was all I wrote, and I thought it sufficient. Looking back, maybe I should have mentioned the kiss (his, not mine).

The next morning Terry was the first student to arrive in the homeroom. That was not so unusual, as the more academically inclined students frequently arrived early so they could catch up on their reading of latest Harry Potter or Darren Shan books (or whatever was popular at the time). What was unusual was Terry's next action. He walked straight up to my desk (I was preparing an arithmetic quiz at the time) and stated "Sir, is it normal for a boy's nipples to be swollen?"

I look back on that day and think «What if I had said 'Yes Terry, it's normal, now go sit down'.» Or maybe I should have suggested that if he was worried he could visit the school nurse at 9 o'clock. It's easy to be wise in hindsight, isn't it? What actually happened was that I looked straight at his school shirt (it was an automatic reaction, I swear), only to see two small nubs sticking up from his chest through the soft cotton. Terry somehow interpreted that as a signal that he should show me the offending nipples, and before I could stop him, he reached down and grabbed the bottom of his shirt and whipped the light cotton garment up and over his head, dropping it on my desk.

Terry was now naked from the waist up, standing in front of me, swollen nipples pointing straight out at me.

"Sir, I asked Mummy, and she said I should ask you," Terry explained. He might have been asking about the number of legs an insect should have, or whether the class would be studying Geography this afternoon, he was so casual about it. I stared at the prepubescent chest with a mixture of wonder and terror. All I need is for another student or teacher to walk in right now, and my goose is cooked, I thought.

A quick glance towards the door reassured me that no-one was in the immediate area, so I said the first stupid thing to Terry that popped into my head.

"Uh, do they feel tender?"

Terry looked at me quizzically and said "I dunno, I haven't felt them." Saying that, he pushed his scrawny chest towards me even further, and before I could think even one rational thought, my fingers had gravitated towards the puffy nipples and began to squeeze them, gently stroking and rubbing them in a manner guaranteed to make them even more swollen than they already were.

"That feels good, Sir," Terry breathed. I couldn't believe that I was giving this boy what I called in my youth a 'tit job'.

"Um, Terry, it's pretty normal for a boy your age to experience some swelling of the nipples," I stammered. "It just means that your body is maturing. Have you talked to your mother about this?" I vaguely recalled hearing that his father had disappeared years ago.

"Sir, she said to talk to you about it," Terry replied. "Why do boys have nipples anyway?"

I silently cursed his mother for dropping me in it. "Well, it's normal for a boy's nipples to do this sometimes, and I shouldn't worry about it if I were you," I said in what I hoped was a neutral, re-assuring tone.

"As for why boys have nipples, well I suppose the short answer is, when you were being formed inside your mother's 3; er 3; inside your mother, you were a mammal before you were a male. All mammals have nipples, no matter what sex we are."

I stopped groping his tits and reached for his shirt, hoping to get it back on him before any more of his classmates arrived. After I pulled the shirt over his head, I tried to settle the bottom of the shirt on his waist and hips. This left me open to Terry's hug, which he immediately applied, much as he had done yesterday. This time, his kiss was planted on my lips, only lightly, but still a 'lip kiss'. I froze. Terry just strolled back to his desk as though nothing had happened.

I spent the rest of the day trying to avoid any interaction with Terry, in a vain attempt to get those puffy, stiff, squeezable, suckable, pointy boy nipples out of my mind.

Chapter 3
The Tummy Ache

"Sir, I have a tummy ache," Terry announced to me, one hand lying on the allegedly aching tummy, his other hand on the corner of my desk to steady himself.

"Do you want me to drive you home so you can tell you Mum about it?" I asked in a feeble attempt to deflect his question.

"Sir, she won't be home until seven," Terry countered. "Anyway, she would want me to ask you about it. She's always telling me to ask you about personal stuff."

That's just great, I thought. I put a heap of energy over the last fifteen years of my teaching career into keeping all of my students at arm's length for my own safety, and one skinny, winsome, intelligent, sexy boy succeeds in worming his way under my defences inside two days. It's just not fair. Before I could formulate an answer to Terry's assertion about his mother, he pulled his shirt over his head. Not only that, but he stuck his thumbs under the waistband of the front of his shorts and dragged them down about six inches [15 cm], revealing a hairless lower belly.

I thought about bolting for the door, but Terry positioned himself in front of me in such a way as to make that course of action even more undignified than it sounds.

"Sir, it sort of hurts here," Terry muttered, flopping his hand vaguely in the area of his lower intestine. And I do mean **lower**.

I sighed and gestured for him to move a bit closer. I knew when I was beaten. Placing one hand on his lower back (to steady him, I assure you!), I turned him sideways and rested my other hand on his flat stomach. I then gazed fixedly into the middle distance, as though I was listening for the far-off wail of a police car siren, and began lightly pressing Terry's alabaster abdomen with the pads of my fingers. I perfomed a 'sweep' of the allegedly painful area, covering the whole magnificent torso in much the same way I thought an inexperienced gynaecologist might prod his first pregnant patient's belly.

As I moved my fingertips over the translucent, warm, soft yet resilient skin, I asked him from time to time "Does this hurt?" "How about here?" and so on. I had to call forth from the furthest recesses of my memory all the phrases I could remember from playing Doctor with a neighbour boy when I was twelve years old (neighbour boy was 10 as I recall). Terry's answers were non-commital at best, so I was unable to diagnose anything more specific than tummy-ache, which brought us back to where we started. I told Terry as much, then rubbed his tummy a bit (for luck, like a Buddha?), pulled his shorts back up to his navel and reached for his shirt. I had somehow forgotten about the previous shirt incident, but clearly Terry hadn't, as he again took advantage of my distraction in settling his shirt-tails to wrap his arms around my neck and kiss me. On the lips. Again.

This time it was a bit more than a peck. It was more like a smooch. Though not quite a slobber. He held onto me a bit longer as well, and looked into my eyes just as he finished the kiss. I am sure he saw the 'rabbit in the headlights' look in my eyes. Thankfully, he quickly relinquished his hold on me (and took his arms from around my neck too). I had graduated from startled rabbit and was now doing my beached fish impression at this stage.

"Thanks, Sir," he called out over his shoulder as he darted back to his desk, collected his schoolbag and scooted out through the door.

Chapter 4
One Bigger Than the Other

"Bit jumpy, Russ?" he inquired as I clutched my heart and my breathing returned to normal.

"Uh, yeah," I replied. "What's up?"

"One of your kids is at the side door. Um, skinny, dark brown hair, freckles, Gillon or something, I think his name is," he replied.

"It's Gillings, Terry Gillings, and thanks," I answered, hauling myself out of my chair. I met Terry at the door and waved at him to follow me to our classroom. He fell in behind me obediently as we trudged the thirty five metres to our room. His compliant attitude made me even more nervous, if that was possible. I had the feeling of impending disaster that a Christmas turkey must have around December 22nd.

We arrived at our homeroom and I led the way to my desk. Terry followed behind me. He had been silent the whole time, but I sensed it was a silence full of foreboding.

"Sir," he began, "Is it normal for a boy to have one testicle bigger than the other?" He looked me in the face with a demeanor as open as any I have ever seen on a boy. "I asked my Mummy, but she said 3;"

"To ask me," I finished for him. I had heard this refrain often enough that by now I could sing it without the manuscript.

"Well is it normal Sir?" he asked again, and before I could stop him he had grabbed the sides of his school shorts and dragged them to his knees, where they continued on their downward journey and dropped to puddle around his ankles.

Terry did not appear to have included underpants in his school uniform today. I noticed little things like that in a boy. My first instinct was to insist that he pull his shorts back up again, but all of the sensitivity training that the Education Department puts teachers through made me hesitate. Would that traumatise him, make him think that I was repulsed by his naked body? Before I could rationalise any further, he had shuffled forward to within a handspace of me and pushed his hips forward. His modestly sized (but well-proportioned) wedding tackle jiggled at me as I made a snap decision – to save my teaching career.

"Terry," I said as gently and calmly as I could. "Can I pull your shorts up first, then we can talk?" As I reached down for the skimpy garment, I kept up what I thought was a reassuring patter.

"The fact is," I continued, "I don't need to look at your testicles to know the answer to this one. Anyway, I wouldn't want one of your classmates coming in the room just now, and seeing your bare bottom. He might think I'm giving you a spanking for being naughty."

Terry gave me a look that suggested that might not be such an undesirable outcome, but allowed me to pull up his shorts. As I got them past his knees, I felt his body sway to accommodate the raising of the shorts up all the way, in that enchanting way that only a boy's body does. I tucked his shirt in for him as he continued to gaze at my face.

I put my hands on his hips (once he was fully clothed), as I had seen a parent once do when addressing his wayward offspring.

"Terry," I began, "I want you to know that I will always try to answer your questions, but I don't always have to see the part of the body you are asking about. Is that okay with you?"

He nodded his head and smiled in reply.

"It's okay that you showed me, but I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed if another boy came in and 3; um 3; saw you. Alright?"

Terry nodded again, and smiled as if to say that he got it all the first time, and it's no big deal.

"Terry, How many boys in our class have got blue eyes?" I asked, waiting patiently as he mentally totted up.

"About a dozen, I think, Sir," he replied carefully, sensing that this was some kind of test. Terry liked to do well on his tests.

"Good answer," I countered. "Now, is it normal to have blue eyes?"

"Yes, I suppose so Sir," he replied slowly.

"Hmm. And how many boys have hazel or brown eyes?" I continued.

"Well, there's 22 in the class Sir, so I guess around 10, including me," he answered. I think he sensed where this interrogation was leading.

"And is it normal to have hazel or brown eyes, may I ask?"

"Um, I suppose so Sir," he replied, rather sheepishly.

I pressed home my argument. "So, a boy can have blue eyes, or hazel eyes, or brown eyes, but still have 'normal' eyes, would you agree?

"Yes Sir," he said softly.

"The same goes for a boy's 3; er 3; testicles. The left one can be a little bit bigger than the right, or vice versa, or they can be both the same size, and it's all normal. Okay?"

"Um, yes Sir, I guess so. But what if one was as big as a 3; uh 3; a golf ball, and the other one was as small as 3; um 3;"

"A peanut?" I volunteered.

"Yeah, Sir, a peanut, exactly," he smiled triumphantly.

"Well," I mused, giving his hips a little swivel as I did so, "that would be abnormal, but I have a little confession to make."

Terry raised his eyebrows to indicate I should continue.

"When you pulled your shorts down before, I couldn't help myself, I glanced at your private parts. I hope you don't mind. But I can assure you, your testicles look normal to me."

"But Sir, you have to 3; I mean 3; can you tell just by looking at them?" Terry replied, a look of concern on his face.

"Ah, I can see you are worried. Would you feel more reassured if I gave 3; uh, them 3; a 3; um, a touching, I mean, a physical examination. Not just a visual examination, I mean. For the sake of thoroughness." I watched his face closely.

"Oh, yes Sir, I think it is important to be thorough in cases such as these." Terry's earnest reply assuaged my fears that I was taking an unwelcome advantage of him. He began to pull his shorts down again, but as my hands were still on his hips I was able to stop him easily.

"Terry," I explained, "You don't have to take your shorts down again. I can easily do the examination through the material (**especially as you have no undies on**, I thought). Will that be okay? That way we won't get c- er, that way, you won't be embarrassed if anyone comes in the classroom. Just shut your eyes and relax."

The boy's eyelashes fluttered down to the closed position as I turned his body to face the blackboard, with his back to the doorway.

"Are you ready, Terry?" I asked softly, my hand already on his thigh just below the hem of his school shorts. My other hand rested just on the top of his little round bottom, to balance him.

"Yes, Sir," he breathed almost inaudibly.

"Okay, here goes." My hand slowly crept above the hem of his shorts, then groped inwards towards his crotch, where it struck it's first obstacle. Terry's legs were together like a soldier at attention.

"Uh, Terry, just move your legs apart a bit, would you." The little fellow almost did the splits in his eagerness to accommodate my meandering hand. My fingertips moved further up until I encountered the material of his crotch.

"Okay, here is the left one," I murmured as I gently palpated his family jewels. "It feels fine. Does it hurt, Terry."

"No Sir it's fine," he whispered, eyes still lightly closed.

I only had to move my fingertips a finger's width to find his right testicle. I decided to be a bit more forward with Terry, partly to see what he would let me do, partly just out of curiosity about his intriguing and enticing body. I felt around for the right testicle for a few moments, then stopped.

"Terry, I can't quite seem to find your right testicle. Can you pull your shorts leg up for me?" Without opening his eyes, the boy's right hand went to the hem of his right side trouserleg and pulled it up and across roughly, as far as it would go. Naturally, without any undies on, all of his genitals were exposed by this action. His little penis lay on top of his scrotum, so I edged it out of the way with my thumb, and grasped Terry's right testicle with two fingers and thumb. I must say, I was surprised that Terry did not have an erection by this time. I remember clearly that when I was eleven, if my nuts were being fondled, even by the ugliest, most hateful monster, I would have been as stiff as a walking stick. I rolled the marble-sized gonad around in my fingertips as Terry breathed in deeply, letting his breath out in a sigh.

"Seems okay to me Terry. They both seem okay," I advised, as I returned to his left nut for a final fondle. I reluctantly let his scrotum go and pulled his shorts leg back down to its proper position.

"Are you satisified now, Terry? Your balls are normal, or as normal as anyone else's."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir." He opened his arms, and with his legs still wide apart, he simply let himself overbalance and fall forward into his now customary embrace. I got a smooch as well, on the lips again. I was ready for it so I didn't freeze up this time. Instead, I gave him a cuddle in return, even holding the back of his head for a few seconds while he kissed me. If anyone came to the door, well, to hell with it.

Chapter 5
A Grain of Sand

"Oh, Sir, thank you for getting back to me. Terry has been on my back for ages about this and I keep letting it slide," she gushed.

"Uh, Mrs Gillings, the name's Russ Pazko, it's only the pupils that have to call me Sir," I rebuked her gently. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, at our home I hear nothing but 'Sir this' and 'Sir that' almost every waking hour, so I think of you as Sir also. Silly of me I know. Terry's got quite a crush on you, you know." I could almost see her smirking over the phone. There is a certain sort of person who simply revels in causing discomfort to others, and I immediately suspected Terry's mum to be a member of that clan.

"Um, I think it's natural, and quite a compliment really, for a boy to think highly of his teacher," I suggested, trying to deflect what I thought was an implied criticism.

"Oh, come on now Sir, don't get all defensive on me, I only meant it in the nicest way. I think it's quite sweet, really. You know you're the first male teacher Terry has had since he started school. He's got no daddy, or any uncles, poor little tyke. He absolutely dotes on you Sir," Mrs Gillings repeated.

"Uh, well, thank you for the background info, Mrs Gillings, but was there something in particular I can do for you?" I persisted.

"Oh yes, that's right. Terry told me that teachers at your school are permitted to have an occasional meal with the families of students, but that the request must come from the parents, not the boys themselves. A very sensible precaution Sir, I must say. Terry has been nagging me for almost a month now to invite you to dinner at our house. Is Friday good for you, Sir?"

Mrs Gillings seemed to have jumped straight over 'Would you like to come?' and gone right on ahead to fixing a night. I felt both trapped and relieved. Dinners with students' families are almost always no-wins for the teacher, but good PR for the school. The parents always have the wrong motives and usually turn it into a lecture night for the poor kid. But in this case, the instigator seemed to be the boy himself. But since I had her on the phone, I thought I'd best defuse the other issue into the bargain.

"Well, thank you Mrs Gillings, I'd be delighted to join you and Terry on Friday. Is six o'clock a good time?" Before she could come back with another 500 word answer to a simple question, I jumped in again. "Actually I'm glad you rang, because there's something I've been meaning to ask you about. Terry has been coming to me lately with a number of 3; well, I guess the best way to describe them is 'delicate' matters, and I just wanted to make sure that 3; er 3; I guess I wanted to be certain that you were happy for me to be dealing with them." Phew! That felt better off my chest.

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that!," Mrs Gillings enthused. "I think Terry's getting near that age, you know, that age when a boy starts to get inquisitive about 3; well, about **boy** things, I'm sure you follow me. Well, I was an only child myself, you see, no brothers of my own, so when a little boy starts to ask about such things I really don't have a clue about, I suppose I took the easy way out and told him to ask you. In fact, I suppose you must think I'm dreadful for putting this on to you, but when Terry asked me last night about his 3; er, his 3; um 3; his boy parts, and whether they were the right size or some such thing, I made it very clear to him that I wanted all such inquiries directed to you. I hope he didn't embarass you too much?" she asked solicitously.

'She finally drew a breath,' I thought, but what I said was "No, he didn't embarass me, and I can advise that I have answered that particular question for him satifactorily. He's not really a shy or overly modest boy, is he?" I enquired carefully.

"Oh, tell me about it! During the hot weather he gets around the house with little or nothing on. He visits the toilet and doesn't worry about closing the door. After his evening bath he walks back to his bedroom, which is at the other end of the house, without a stitch on! Yet he doesn't seem to play with himself constantly, like I heard most little boys did."

Isn't it a universal rule, that mothers think nothing of their children's privacy when gossiping with other adults? I had to find a way to finish this call gracefully. "Um, thanks Mrs Gillings, I guess we can discuss Terry in more depth on Friday. I shall see you then. Bye," I rang off.

Terry had no more health crises during the week. In fact, his behaviour was unremarkable. I half expected him to become my shadow, following me around like a needy puppy, but he stuck to his own routine. He was respectful in class, he didn't take any advantage over the other boys out of hosting his teacher to dinner, or put on airs as though he was beyond correction. Quite amazing, really, such social maturity in one so young, and it only served to make him all the more appealing to me.

By the time Friday arrived, I was quite looking forward to dinner at Chez Gillings. I brought a chilled bottle of Chablis with me, because it goes with everything, and everyone likes white wine.The biggest danger for teachers at events such as these is that they will turn into an ambush – that is, your host will have invited half a dozen other people to 'round out' the dinner party, and you end up having to defend the whole teaching profession against the silly nonsense spouted by a bunch of creeps whose only proven child-related talent is the ability to either get pregnant or get someone else pregnant.

But I was pleasantly surprised. Dinner with Mrs Gillings and Terry turned out to be exactly that, and nothing more. Terry wore a pair of boxer shorts and a tee shirt. Mrs Gillings immediately told me that she insisted he wear something, so I wouldn't be "scandalised and never come back," to use her words. After inviting me to sit on the couch in the family room, she retreated to the kitchen, to continue fixing the meal. Terry sat with me on the couch, then called to his mother.

"Mummy, can I ask Sir now, please?" he enquired, rather politely I thought.

"Oh yes, dear, that's right," Mrs Gillings called from the kitchen. "Uh, Sir, Terry has another one of **those** questions for you. Would you be so good as to help him with it – dinner will be another ten minutes yet."

Terry scampered up to my end of the couch and climbed into my lap like a docile house cat. He then lay across me, his bottom in my lap, feet down the couch, head on the armrest, arms by his sides, and explained his latest problem.

"Sir, when your foreskin hurts underneath, what does that mean?"

I was, I admit, somewhat terrified by the question, not least because Mrs Gillings was easily in earshot. I tried to formulate some words when Terry said "Look!" and pulled the boxers down. He flexed his torso to lift his bottom clear of my lap so as to get the boxers down easily. He then lifted the bottom of his tee shirt up to his neck, making him naked from knees to ribcage. He reached for his little soft penis and held it between thumb and index finger, giving a little grimace when he touched it. I nearly jumped a foot in the air when I heard Mrs Gillings' voice right behind me say "Could you do something for the little fellow, Sir, I don't know hardly anything about his 3; uh 3; boy parts. He told me about it last night, and he wanted to ask you today at school, but I told him, No Terry, I told him, you leave Sir to have a nice peaceful day, not wagging you boy part in his face at school, and you can ask him about it before dinner, I says to him. It's not an infection or anything is it Sir? It looks a bit red to me, but I don't really know. Terry, take your fingers away from it and let Sir have a proper look." With that, Mrs Gillings bustled back to the kitchen.

When my heart rate had slowed down a little, I realised that I had been given open slather to inspect Terry's nude body, so I decided to take charge. I took Terry's little penis in my fingers and felt around it gently with the pads of my fingers. Again I wondered at the fact that he was not stiffening up. I also felt a tiny bump behind the ridge of his glans, under the foreskin. At first I thought it might be a little pimple, given Terry's proximity to puberty. Terry winced when I touched it, but did not cry out or shrink away from me. Not a pimple, I realised, but some foreign body underneath the foreskin, caught behind the ridge.

"Can you roll your foreskin back, Terry?" I asked him. He shook his head No, then said "I never tried, Sir." Amazing. An eleven year old boy who has never tried to retract his foreskin. He maybe doesn't even know what it look like underneath, I thought.

"I'll do it for you, if that's okay." I slowly pulled the delicate skin down the stalk of his penis, a tricky task when it is flaccid. I felt the back of the couch bump a bit and heard Mrs Gillings breathe behind me. She had left the kitchen (again) and come to watch proceedings. Lucky for Terry his foreskin was not one of those tight ones. It retracted easily all the way past the ridge, and I immediately saw the culprit. A grain of sand had somehow found its way under there. It had rubbed the tender skin and probably would have caused a minor infection had it been left unchecked. It occured to me to wonder why Mrs Gillings didn't simply take Terry to the local family doctor for matters such as this.

I picked up the offending crystal of silica and held it up triumphantly for Terry and Mrs Gillings to see. Both smiled at me, then Terry bent upwards to hug me. Right in front of his mum he planted a kiss on my right cheek, then glanced at her before giving me another on the left. 'How European,' I thought briefly, but while I was distracted with my own thought, Terry smooched me on the lips, making a loud smacking noise as he did so.

"That's Terry's way of saying thanks, Sir. He really is very fond of you," Mrs Gillings said as she returned to the kitchen, picking up plates and bringing them to the table. Terry jumped up, boxers still around his knees, and called to his mum, "Mummy, now that Sir has seen everything, can I leave these off," indicating his shorts and shirt. Mrs Gillings looked to me (for approval?) but I wasn't going to buy into this one, so I just shrugged.

"Alright," she said, trying to sound disappointed but not even coming close. "Take them to your room and wash your hands for dinner."

Mrs Gillings took advantage of Terry's absence to fill in some more family background. She related that even though she permitted Terry to call her 'Mummy', she was in fact his grandmother. Terry's natural mother was Mrs Gillings' daughter. 'The Slut' she called her, and it was clear that her daughter had wounded Mrs Gillings deeply. Apparently 'the Slut' had begun sneaking out of the house at thirteen, was already sleeping around at fourteen, gave birth to Terry at fifteen, and died choking on her own vomit in a filthy dosshouse at sixteen with another drunken teen. Mrs Gillings regarded that as the best thing 'the Slut' could have done for Terry.

"He's had a terrible start to life, poor little dear. And he's so obliging, so helpful around the house, I hardly have to say a single cross word to him. He has some funny ideas, like this nudity thing, but he's such an innocent boy I just haven't got the heart to tell him to cover up."

Terry returned to the table, naked and unashamed, and pulled his chair around next to mine. The three of us spent a delightful remainder of the evening; it was one of the most pleasant PR dinners I can recall. Actually I could not remember much detail of the conversation because Mrs Gillings kept topping up my glass of Chablis. She only had a tiny amount and Terry of course drank fruit juice. At the end of the evening, Mrs Gillings made a further dinner date for the following Friday. She also suggested that I was welcome to bring some overnight things if I wanted to avoid the risk of driving home intoxicated, and sleep in the spare bedroom. I instantly understood, despite my slight intoxication, that this offer was exactly what it appeared to be at face value. Mrs Gillings was old enough to be my mother, and was definitely not lusting after my body. She just wanted me to stay alive. Terry, however, was another matter.

Chapter 6
An Unscratchable Itch

"How are you, friend Terry?" I began. Earlier in the week, when the class looked at the Russian Revolution, a boy had asked me what 'Comrade' meant, and I replied that it meant 'friend,' and it was a perfectly acceptable word to use now that the Soviet Empire had collapsed. For the rest of the day every boy addressed every other boy as 'Friend Cory,' 'Friend Michael,' 'Friend Shayne,' and so on. I thought it was simply charming, and only put a gentle stop to it when one boy went too far and addressed me as 'Friend Russ.' He only got a stern look, though. At that age, that is usually enough for most boys to realise they've stepped over the line.

"I'm very well, Sir. Looking forward to dinner tomorrow," he answered. I took the initiative again, and kissed him on the lips. I hadn't really thought out where I was going with this, I was flying on instinct alone.

"I think I figured out why you don't wear underpants, Terry," I declared to the boy in my arms. He raised an eyebrow at me, so I continued. "It's because you'd rather be nude, but you can't go nude at school, and going without undies is the next best thing. It gives you the feeling of being nude without actually being nude. Am I right?"

"Now you know one of my secrets," he replied in a dreamy voice. "So I will tell you one of yours." My eyes widened as Terry proceeded. "You teach boys because you love them. Not 'love' as in 'sex' but you love them like my Mummy loves me. If you didn't love them you'd do something else. Drive a truck, or build boats or something."

A hundred emotions must have flitted across my face just then, all watched carefully by Terry. Surprise, fear, curiosity, admiration, each took their turn and was replaced by another. Was I such an open book, or was Terry an exceptionally perceptive boy? "That is my biggest and only secret, friend Terry," I admitted. "See you – all of you – tomorrow." I released him from my hug and stood him on his feet properly. He skipped out to enjoy his lunch.

The constant smiling in class stopped, thank goodness. Maybe Terry just wanted a little more attention than usual.

When I arrived at the Gillings' home the next evening, I had a bottle of Verdelho in one hand and a small overnight bag in the other. I was determined to take up Mrs Gillings' kind offer, and see where it led. Terry met me at the door, tonight wearing a large white bathtowel around his waist. As soon as he saw me, he removed the bathtowel to reveal that he was naked underneath, then turned and called to the kitchen, "Mummy, it's Sir!." An answering call came back, "Show him in please Terry."

Terry took my overnight bag from me and deposited it in the spare bedroom. He returned his towel to the bathroom before joining me on the couch. Grinning, he held open his arms for a hug. I obliged, pulling him onto my lap for a kiss. I locked lips with him and held him a little longer than I usually do. He rubbed my back a bit, then broke off the kiss. "Thanks," he said.

"What for?" I asked

"Just for being nice to me," he answered coyly, sitting down on his usual part of the couch.

"Mummy, can I ask Sir now," Terry called to the kitchen. In reply, Mrs Gillings lumbered into the family room to greet me personally. She 'tsked' at Terry's nakedness, but smiled to show she didn't mean it.

"Before you ask Sir, have you cleaned your bottom like I told you," Mrs Gillings asked the boy sternly. I cringed inside. It was the kind of question parents insisted on asking their children in front of other adults, seemingly to suggest 'Do as I say or I'll embarass you even worse'. But it did get worse.

"Yes Mummy, it's clean," Terry replied blandly, without a hint of the exasperation I usually hear in children's replies to their parents.

"I mean did you clean it properly, right up inside your crack?" Mrs Gillings continued, then turned to me. "Terry has a little problem he wants to ask you about, if that's okay. Dinner will be in twenty minutes," and back to the kitchen she turned.

"Yes Mummy, I cleaned it thoroughly, inside my hole as well," Terry replied to her departing back. I thought I was used to the frank speech of the Gillings household, but it appeared that I had yet much to learn. Terry turned to me and asked "Sir, you know how your skin can be itchy?" I nodded sagely in reply.

"Well, is it possible to be itchy on the inside as well as on the outside of your body?" Before I had a chance to formulate a reply, Terry crawled across my lap, laying face down with his little round bottom right in front of my eyes. He reached back with both hands and pulled his cheeks apart.

"Just starting last night, it feels really itchy right up inside my hole. I didn't want Mummy to touch it because I know she doesn't like doing that sort of thing with little boys."

"That's for sure, Terry," boomed her voice right behind my head. I only jumped half a foot this time. "I got some Sorbolene from the pharmacist. They said it was good for itchiness. Would you mind doing it for Terry please Sir," Mrs Gillings said, handing me the bottle. It had a pump-action top. What could I do but oblige?

I pumped a millilitre onto the palm of one hand, then dipped my index finger into the gooey white gel. "Looks a bit like semen," I thought to myself, "but I don't think they sell that by the half litre bottle at the pharmacy." Terry was still patiently holding his bottom cheeks apart, exposing his pink hole. He seemed relaxed, so I pulled his hands away from his nearer cheek, then tipped the goo off my hand onto that cheek. That meant that I could now use that hand to hold his bottom cheek, a feeling which is utterly indescribable even to those who have travelled in outer space.

I moistened my index finger in the goo again and rubbed it around his tiny pink hole. My fingernail was closely trimmed (luckily) so I had no fear of making the itch any worse. I prodded inwards, expecting Terry to flinch. He was remarkably calm for a boy who was about to be skewered up the anus by his fifth grade teacher's finger.

"Now when I go in, you'll have to guide me to the itch, Terry" I counselled, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

"Uh huh," he replied in that sleepy, dreamy voice I had come to associate with pleasure.

"Terry!" Mrs Gillings called from the kitchen. "Answer Sir properly! I've spoken to you before about grunting like an animal!"

"Sorry Mummy," Terry repented sincerely. To me he said "You can push your finger in my hole now Sir, I'm ready."

Terry's words made the whole operation a lot less erotic than I feared it would be. It was almost clinical. I wondered whether a gynaecologist feels like this when he looks at a woman's most intimate parts. Just a routine procedure, nothing to see here, folks. As I pressed further into his hot tight passage, he guided me with his words.

"That's it, Sir 3; a little further in, please 3; good, now a bit that way" (here he waved his hand and pointed) "now more sort of down, yes, oh, that's it 3; now a bit further in. Can you sort of twist your finger around a bit, please Sir?"

"I think I'll need more Sorbolene," I gasped, slowly easing my finger out. I wondered if he would notice a change to my middle finger instead? It's a centimetre [½ inch] longer, and slightly thicker. One way to find out. I greased up my largest finger and began to ease it into Terry's anus. His directions resumed.

"Mm, um, good, yes, deeper now please Sir 3; er around that way a bit 3; good oh yes good 3; now a bit further, almost there 3; now can you do the twisty thing Sir mm." I had my middle finger fully inserted up to the last knuckle. It wouldn't go in any further, but it was extended straight. I tried twisting it but it was like turning a screw inside a stripped thread. Suddenly inspired, I used my free hand to push Terry's other hand off his bottom cheek, the one further from me. I then grabbed that hip and pulled Terry's rump higher in the air. His groin was no longer touching my lap. I curled my finger and Terry sighed. He got the message and pushed his bottom up even higher.

"I think you've found it Sir," he moaned as I scratched the wall of his lower colon. He was resting all his weight on his knees and shoulders at this stage, his bottom raised almost as high as my chest. My arm was beginning to grow weary so I finished off the scratching exercise by vigourously pumping my finger in and out about a dozen times. Terry grunted, but Mrs Gillings made no comment, if she heard.

Tired but happy, Terry slumped back down onto my lap, a contented smile on his face which was turned towards me. Mrs Gillings appeared from the kitchen and said that dinner was about to be served. She asked Terry to take me down to the bathroom to wash my hands. Instantly invigorated, Terry leapt up and grasped my clean hand, pulling me up off the couch and dragging me down the hallway. I was again amazed to see that Terry did not have an erection. Surely all that moaning and sighing signified some kind of sexual delight? So where was his stiffy?

Chapter 7
Is it Supposed to Get Stiff?

"How can you drink that stuff Sir?" the naked little boy sitting next to me asked. "It tastes like 3; like wee-wee, er, like urine!"

Mrs Gillings and I both smiled benignly at him. "It is what's called an acquired taste, Terry. For example, some people like the taste of avocado – to me it tastes like soap."

Mrs Gillings also added her piece. "Alcohol, Terry, is something that adults enjoy, not just because of its taste, which you get used to eventually, but because it relaxes them after a hard day at work trying to knock some brains into silly schoolboys' heads." Turning to me, she continued. "Oh yes, something I've been meaning to ask you Sir, uh, your name, Pazko, is that Russian, or Ukrainian perhaps?"

"I wouldn't know, to be honest, Mrs Gillings," I replied evenly. "It's the name they gave me at the orphanage. Maybe they just made it up; I wouldn't be surprised."

"Oh you poor man, an orphanage, how 3; how, er, how unfortunate," Mrs Gillings tried to search for the word that would convey her dismay without sounding too judgemental.

"Actually it wasn't as bad as many lurid news stories nowadays make out," I countered, in an attempt to rescue her from the embarassment of asking me such a personal question and getting a completely unanticipated answer. "In a way, it was a lot like living in a boarding school, except you couldn't go home at the end of term for holidays. The caregivers took us on plenty of interesting outings, maybe more than a child in a regular family might experience. I grew up feeling like I had sixty three brothers and five parents. The saddest times where when a boy you had been friends with would get adopted, and you never saw him again."

I had been so focussed on replying to Mrs Gillings that I momentarily forgot about Terry on the chair next to me. A soft sob made me look towards him, and what I saw took me aback. Tears were streaming down his face, making me instinctively put my arms around his shoulders and pull him to me chest.

"Terry, Terry, shhh, it's okay, really, the orphanage wasn't so bad, shhh," I rocked his little body a bit to calm him down.

"Did 3; did your Mummy le-leave you at the 3; or-orphanage because you were 3; bad?" Terry gasped out between sobs.

I heard Mrs Gillings' sharp intake of breath at Terry's words, so I spoke quickly. "No, no, Terry, I don't think so. I don't think I was any more bad than any other boy. No, I don't think my mother would have done that. Orphanages as a rule do not encourage boys to question why they are there. They expect a boy to get on with their lives and make the best of his situation. In my case, when I was old enough to ask about my parents, I guess I must have been about six years old, my caregiver simply told me that they had passed away. He didn't actually say it in so many words, but he hinted that the subject was closed, so I never gave it any more thought, or worry. Nor should you. You feel my pain, don't you?" I asked gently.

"It made me so sad when you said about the orphanage," Terry whispered, his sobs now stilled.

"I think it might be somebody's bedtime," Mrs Gillings wisely suggested. "Would you like Sir to tuck you in tonight Terry dear?" The boy's big smile and vigorous nodding were ample reply, his tears already forgotten. He hopped off his chair (his legs not quite long enough to reach the floor when he was sitting) and ran around to Mrs Gillings, gave her a hug and a kiss and raced to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The Dental Association probably would not have approved of the much abbreviated brushing, because he rushed past the table within a minute and headed straight for his bedroom.

Mrs Gillings had one more shock for me that night.Clearly she had been waiting for Terry to depart before broaching the subject. "Will you stay over tonight, Sir? Tomorrow is a Saturday, no school, and you did have quite a bit of wine. Also Terry would love to spend some time with you in the morning, if you're up to it. I know you see him five days a week, and deserve a break from him 3;"

"I'd be delighted to sleep over, Mrs Gillings, thank you. It would not be a happy experience to have to explain to the school principal how I lost my driver's licence, or how I wound up in the emergency ward. As for Terry, I find his company 3; well, I guess I enjoy his company a lot more than I expected I would ever enjoy any student's company. He brings out instincts in me that I didn't even know I had."

After I said that, I realised how ambiguous it sounded, but Mrs Gillings must have taken the more wholesome meaning, because she just gave me one of those maternal smiles and a nod.

She continued with her conversation, and I began to worry that Terry might fall asleep before I tucked him in. I glanced towards his bedroom, but Mrs Gillings noticed and said "It's alright, he'll probably read for half an hour or so before he starts to get really sleepy. That will be enough time for me to screw uo my courage to ask you another favour."

"A favour, Mrs Gillings? I'm sure whatever it is, it will be my pleasure," I replied, trying to indicate that whatever she asked, I would try my best to accomplish. I saw a funny little turn of her head when I said the word 'pleasure', though, which gave me a niggling worry.

"Since you grew up in the company of so many little boys, I'm sure you will know what I mean," she began. "When I got custody of Terry after The Slut left this world, he was in a bad way. Physically I mean. I blame myself that I did not see it right under my own nose, but I swear I never knew she could be so mean to her own child. That poor boy was underfed, pale from being indoors all the time, and bruises, my Lord, you should have seen the marks on that poor boy's frail little body. That's the reason I never force him to put clothes on. I can't really deny him any small joy, to make up for the pain of his first year of life. Terry saw more pain in his first twelve months than a lot of people see in their whole lives." I kept silent, hoping she would get to the point before I started bawling myself.

"The bruises on his body were not from beatings, the doctor told me afterwards. They were from pinching. The Slut used to pinch my dear little grandson, my little Terry, on his legs, his bottom, and even on his 3; his poor little boy part. When I got him, his boy part was blue all over from bruising. He howled like the damned when he 3; passed water, but the bruising eventually faded. Now I will be the first one to admit that I don't know much about little boys, but I do know that they are always getting 3; that is, their boy parts often get 3;" She was beginning to flounder, so I rescued her.

"You mean little boys often get erections, or stiffies," I stated gently.

"Thank you, yes, that's what I'm trying to say. I remember from my own teenage years that boys can get them all the time. Terry has been running around this house naked for over ten years, and he has never once had a 3; never had a single one. Ever. I thought that maybe he was less, er, less easily stimulated than others boys. But you already know how open he is. I'm sure that if he ever got ne, he would have asked me what it was. I fear that the Slut somehow damaged his boy part, and that it will never satisfy a girl. He will never be able to get married. He will be alone, for ever." Mrs Gillings buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as sobs wracked her large frame. She looked up at me with tear-streaked eyes.

"Can you find out if Terry is able to 3; to get it 3; to be a whole man? Please?" she begged. I found myself in the unusual position of being the only person in the house who had not turned on the waterworks that evening. I got out of my chair and went around to her. I rested a friendly hand on her shoulder to offer some human comfort.

"I will have a talk with Terry tonight when I tuck him in. We'll talk more tomorrow, too. May I ask, just in case, if Terry wants to sleep in my bed, will that bother you?"

"He's never had a friend sleep over, or slept over at anyone's house himself. If he wants to sleep in your bed I doubt you or I would have the heart to stop him," she said with a wan smile. "Just be true to those instincts you told me about earlier. I have confidence in your good judgement, Sir."

I really must get her to stop calling me that, somehow. It's so disconcerting. Must be like how a new priest feels to be called 'Father' by elderly parishioners.

I patted her shoulder again, and headed for Terry's room. He was still awake, as Mrs Gillings had predicted, reading a novel about the boy who became a half-Vampire. He looked up as I entered his room and put the book on his nightstand.

"Hi, friend Terry," I smiled at him. He smiled back. "I'm having a sleepover tonight, if that's okay with you."

"Mummy told me this afternoon that she had invited you. I'm glad you accepted, Sir," he replied. I sat on the side of his bed and lightly patted his hip through the bedclothes, which stuck up like a little mountain as the boy lay on his side. I was pretty sure he was naked underneath the bedcovers, for why would a dedicated nudist wear pyjamas?

I ran my hand over his hip then up to his ribs, still on the outside of the sheets. Terry smiled again, then rolled onto his tummy. I seized the opportunity. "Would you like a backrub, Terry, before you go to sleep?"

"Can I have a tummy rub too, Sir?" he asked, shamelessly.

"Anything for you, friend Terry," I returned.

"That's just like in that song, Sir!," Terry replied eagerly, and then, in a thin high voice, began to sing 'I'd do **anything**, for you, Sir, **anything** For you, Sir, **anything**, for yooooou' before dissolving into giggles.

"That was lovely, Terry. I think there is no more beautiful sound in the world than a treble voice. It must be what the angels sound like in heaven," I answered, wiping my eyes. He really was getting under my skin (darn, another song lyric).

"Now for my backrub," Terry declared, throwing the covers off himself. I beheld the back view of him in all his naked glory. A thought passed my mind, that Terry and his grandmother had conspired to produce exactly this outcome, but I dismissed it immediately. Would a pleasantly plump, down-to-earth grandma pimp for her only grandson? Surely not! Perish the thought.

I placed both hands on his shoulders and commenced a gentle massage. I worked my way down his shoulderblades, his lower back, his nicely rounded bottom cheeks, his thighs and finally his calves and heels. I tried to give all parts of him equal attention, I honestly did, but perhaps his bottom received slightly more of my hands' caresses, if truth be told.

After lightly scraping the soles of his feet with my fingernails, making him wriggle and squirm (but not pull his feet away), I simply said "Okay," whereupon he rolled over in an instant. I saw right away what Mrs Gillings had feared. His little penis was still flaccid. Maybe my backrubbing skills were not sufficient to light the fire in his young loins. I began manipulating his chest (marking my second adventure with his puffy nipples, mmm) then on to his ticklish tummy. I showed no false modesty as I worked my way straight down to his little weapon. I stroked his little doodle, massage his testicles, plucked at his foreskin and stroked his perineum. Nothing. Not even a little lengthening to suggest a future stiffness to come. I decided to cut to the chase.

"Terry, have you ever had a stiffie?" I enquired gently.

"What's a stiffie, Sir?" he asked innocently. That pretty much settled it for me. Any eleven-year-old boy who doesn't know what a stiffie is could not possibly have ever had one. But I owed it to Mrs Gillings to be absolutely certain.

"It will be easier to show you than try to explain," I replied, standing up. "I'm going to my room to change for bed. Then I will come back, okay?"

"Do you wear pyjamas to bed, Sir?" Terry enquired sweetly. He lay back with his head on his hands.

"No, Terry, I sleep like you do, in the nude. I will be coming back into your room nude, so I can show you what a stiffie is, is that okay?" I clarified.

Terry smiled at me. "Thank you, Sir," he whispered.

I slipped off my clothes in the room across the hallway from Terry's room. Mrs Gillings' room was on the other side of the family/dining room. A sliver of light showed under her door. The rest of the house was in darkness. I returned to Terry's room, and I must admit that I was, as they describe in the classics, rampant.

I am only modestly equipped in the reproductive organ department, but apparently I had enough to impress Terry. His reaction was very flattering, really. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. Then he gulped. He licked his lips. I could almost see the gears turning inside his head. I sat on the bed and resumed my fingerplay with his tiny tossle. Still no response. Maybe he was resolutely heterosexual?

At any rate, I didn't think I needed to tell Terry what a stiffie was anymore. He sat up and reached one hand out to my hardened organ.

"It's lovely," he breathed. "It's warm, almost hot! It's soft and hard at the same time! Will mine get like that when I'm older, Sir?" Terry looked me in the eyes, and I think it was at that instant, when he saw the pity in my eyes, that he realised he was not, and would never be, like most other boys. His eyes glistened with tears.

"Terry, please don't cry, come on now," I said as I mopped his wet face with a corner of the bedsheet. "Your 3; er 3; Mum asked me to talk to you about erections, and whether you 3; er, but 3; ah, I need your help. Truly I do, otherwise I'll be crying too." I held my arms open for him to give me a hug. He had to let my tool go to do so, which was probably just as well, or he might soon have been getting a first-hand advanced lesson in male virility. He clambered off the bed into my arms, which I folded around him, and we both sort of slowly crumpled onto the bed like one of those buildings which has been levelled with a controlled demolition.

"Now, friend Terry, we have all night to talk things out, if we need it, and all tomorrow morning as well. Let's have a good long chat, like friends do, and you can get everything off your chest. I guarantee you'll feel better. Let's start with a kiss, okay?" I saw the beginnings of a smile curl on the end of his mouth, and his eyes scrunched up, not like more crying, but in a happy way. He made a short laugh, almost a bark, and pecked me on the lips. He pulled his head back to look into my eyes (for approval?), so I smiled and pecked him one back.

He had not said a word to me as yet, so I decided on the direct approach to loosen his tongue. "Is that the best kiss you can give your favourite teacher? Hmm?" I quizzed him, rubbing his chest lazily.

"Well, you show me a better one," he spoke at last, his quiet voice still betraying fear (I guess about the erection business) and reluctance (that in spite of my declaration, I still might vanish in the night, back to my own house).

"A better kiss, eh? Well young Master Terry Gillings, I just might do that. I fancy myself as rather an expert on the subject, so you can just jolly well lie back and I will give you the benefit of my vast knowledge, both theoretical and practical." I was speaking in my pompous tone, which usually makes the kids in my class laugh (or at least smile).

"I am ready, my lord," Terry replied. I think he was lapsing into the persona of one of his literary characters. A boy that reads a lot often imagines himself to be one of the characters in one of his books, usually an heroic figure, Frodo Baggins perhaps, or Jack Hawkins, or maybe John Connnor from the Terminator. Terry lay back with his hands behind his head, awaiting my next move.

I looked him in the eyes and smiled. "For an improved kiss, one must open one's mouth slightly and allow one's beloved to play about with his tongue." I tried to make it sound like I was explaining how to add fractions with different denominators. I bent over him and lightly grazed my lips on his. He opened them a little, as I asked. My tongue licked his lips in preparation for a frontal attack, although that word is far too strong for what I had in mind. Invasion, perhaps? No, nothing so aggressive. More like the timid landing of refugees on the deserted beach of a foreign land. Terry's eyes widened as he felt my tongue inside his mouth, but as in all of his school subjects, he was a quick learner. His little tongue poked at mine, then circled it. I suddenly sucked, pulling his tongue into my mouth. I could feel Terry jerk underneath me ( I was resting a little bit of my upper body weight on him), but I thought that was only from surprise. He explored my mouth very tentatively, running his tongue over the backs of my teeth. I began to get worried about a premature ejaculation again, so I paused.

I broke the suction between our lips in order to speak, but kept my head just an inch above his face. "Would you like to show me what you have just learned about kissing?" I whispered. Terry nodded, and lifted his head to clamp his mouth on mine. We tongue-wrestled for another minute or two, both of us moaning a bit as we tried to outdo each other in satisfying the other's desires. I had to break things off again, for the same reason as before.

"Now we have kissed intimately, we can't have any secrets from each other any more," I declared to Terry. He nodded. I continued. "Your 3; er 3; Mum told me that she has never seen you with an erection. You now know what an erection is. She thought that you might have a problem with them because of 3; because of an accident you had when you were a little baby." I waited for him to say something.

"I have never 3; had an erection, Sir. I don't know why, and it worries me. When I saw your 3; er, your penis, I realised why boys have erections. It's so the penis can be 3; inserted, isn't it, Sir?"

Terry's quick perception of the matter helped a lot. The thing I had dreaded most when Mrs Gillings first raised the subject was having to have 'the talk' with the boy. But he seemed to perceive the essential mechanics, and their purposes, as soon as he saw me naked. Another argument in favour of communal nudity, I guess. I pressed on.

"Terry, I am not convinced that your 3; accident 3; caused you permanent damage. Sometimes these things are as much psychological as physiological." I knew Terry understood these big words because his eyes showed no confusion. "If I may, I'd like to test out my theory. Are you game?"

"What 3; what did you 3; what are you going to do?" Terry asked. He was a little concerned, as would be natural.

"I am going to stimulate your little penis, to see if you can become erect." I let that idea sink in for a moment before continuing. "What I want you to do, is shut your eyes and focus your mind on someone or something that you truly love, and think of how nice it is to be close to that person or thing, how good that person or thing makes you feel, and just let your body react however it will. Let me do the rest."

This really was the worst kind of pop psychology, but I had to give it a try. It broke my heart to think of Terry in a hospital ward, undergoing any number of surgical tests to establish the nature and extent of his impotency. I put my trust in Providence, and hoped that I was doing the right thing by the boy that I had become way too fond of.

He was already laid out in front of me, relaxed and calm. I moved his legs a bit further apart, then looked up at him. "Ready?" I enquired for the last time. Terry just nodded and looked at the ceiling. I bent over his loins and dabbed at his little member with my tongue. Terry flinched a little, then stayed still. I took his flaccid little worm in my mouth and began to suck on it. At the same time, I probed between his legs for his anus. My intention was to launch an attack on two fronts. Napoleon and Hitler both found this approach to be unsuccessful, but I was determined to succeed where they had failed.

I have to admit, I entetained no thoughts of winning this battle. I thought, from what Mrs Gillings had told me about the condition in which she had found Terry as a baby, that he would be completely impotent. Despite my fears, I was determined to try my best for this boy. While I worked my mouth on his little penis, working it up and down, laving it with my tongue, sloshing around under his foreskin, I poked my index finger into his bottom hole, searching for the little gland I knew to be there.

They say that God looks after idiots and drunks. They also say that miracles happen to the most unlikely people. Well, I don't believe that there is a God as such, but tonight, somebody gave Terry a little touch of good luck. His tiny member responded to the combined assault of my tongue and my finger. His previously inert phallus spontaneously hardened to a respectable (for an 11 year old) two and a half inches [6½ cm] of skinny boy erection. It pointed straight up his hairless tummy towards his belly button.

Terry propped himself up on his elbows. "How did you do that, Sir?" he gasped, staring down at his first woodie.

"Well, I'm not sure, Terry old son. Smoke and mirrors? Fairy dust? I guess sometimes things just happen by themselves," I replied, as I carefully withdrew my finger from his prostate gland. "Um, you're allowed to hug me by the way," I interrupted his reverie. He was staring at his hard-on as though it were a cobra in a basket at some Indian fakir's tent. I had broken the spell, however, and he laughed and hugged me.

"Everything else can wait until tomorrow," I assured him as I held him in my arms. I could feel his hard little member poking into my stomach as we drifted off to dreamland in each other's arms.

Chapter 8
Am I Gay?

Terry stirred a little, but didn't really wake. I deemed an increase in stimulation was in order. I grasped one buttock in my left hand and began to squeeze rhythmically. The other hand continued the marching fingers down and up his spine. Every time the fingertips reached his bottom cleft, I pulled the cheek I was grasping to one side so that the fingertips of my other hand could march right down to Terry's hole. When the fingertips arrived at that tender place, they began to mark time, drumming on the spot. First a tapping, then a rapping, now a poking, soon a prodding. I wish I was talking to an awake Terry now, I am sure he would know what book those lines came from – a Grimms Fairy Tale, perhaps. Terry stayed asleep.

I rolled onto my side and let Terry slide off me onto the bed. His hands slowly released me, and not a moment too soon, as my back teeth were floating. I crept off the bed and made my way to the toilet. Mrs Gillings was up and about, but she paid my nakedness no mind. It was almost as though I were now a part of the family, like a big brother or an uncle to Terry, inducted into the family rites, and permitted to enjoy the family customs.

When I returned to my bedroom, Terry was awake, uncovered, lying back with his hands clasped behind his head. His boy part had returned to a flaccid state. He watched me closely as I entered the warm bedroom.

"The other boys have a nickname for me," Terry stated, matter-of-factly.

"Oh yes? Not a cruel one, I hope?" I replied lightly.

"Depends how you look at it," Terry answered. "They call me 'HG'."

"Hmm. Er. I give up. What's it mean?"

Terry gave me a sour look. "I asked one of the boys what it meant, and he said that it was short for 'HG Wells', the writer. He wrote War of the Worlds," and The Time Machine. Those are two of my favourites.The boy said that everyone called me 'HG' because I was always reading and I liked books so much."

"Well, that's not so bad, is it Terry? There are a lot worse nicknames a boy can have. Some boys are so invisible that they never even get a nickname." I was trying to humour him, and he saw through me.

"That's what I thought, too, until my friend Peter set me straight. He said that my nickname had two meanings – one for public use, and one more private for the popular boys to laugh at among themselves."

"Oh? And did Peter tell you about the other meaning?" I feared I was on dangerous ground here.

"Yes," Terry answered simply. "He said that 'HG' stood for 'Hermione Granger'. You know, Harry's friend, the girl who was always reading books."

It was charming in a way, that Terry referred to 'Harry', the literary creation of Ms Rowling, as though he were one of his acquaintances. But that did not disguise the fact that Terry had a girl's name as his nickname. Strictly contrary to school policy, giving a boy a **girl** name as a nickname.

"Does that mean that the other boys see me as a girl?" Terry asked, with more than a little trepidation.

"You are obviously not a girl, Terry, no matter how many books you read. You attend an all-boys school, and you would not have passed the physical if you were a girl." I tried to make light of the poor boy's dilemma. Possibly not the right approach.

"They may not think I am a girl, but do they think I am a 3; a proper boy?" Terry looked at me in the face to try to see the truth in my eyes. "Do they think I am 3; queer? Sir, am I queer? Am I 3; gay?"

"Terry," I began, "I am glad I had a sleepover at your house last night, so I could answer this very important question for you this morning." I hope Terry did not detect that I was babbling to give myself time to think.

"You know there are a lot of people in the world, Terry, a lot of people. Most of them try to get through their miserable lives without thinking too much. One way of not thinking too much is putting labels on things, and on people. They think that by putting a label on someone, that person is correctly identified, pigeonholed, and sorted out for all time. Labels like 'Queer', 'Straight', 'Liberal', 'Democrat', 'Patriot'. Let me tell you something about myself that I have never shared with anyone before, Terry 3;" The boy just looked at me, waiting for me to continue.

"In my lifetime, I have learned a few things about myself. I am not sexually aroused by men, so I do not think of myself as homosexual. I am not aroused by women, though I have known a few of them in bed, so I do not think of myself as straight. I enjoy the company of boys, but I do not desire them sexually, so I do not label myself as a pedophile. I am simply a male person who is trying to get through life by what honourable means I can." I looked at Terry and continued.

"The reason I have shared my deepest philosophy with you is this: you, Terry, are the only person I have ever loved with my whole heart. It doesn't matter to me that you are a boy. You could have been a man, or a woman, or an Alsatian dog, it makes no difference. Once I give my heart, it is given. And I believe it is the same for you. You do not feel any attraction for the other boys in your class, so that tells me you are not gay. I think I am right in guessing that you can love only one person, and I am the lucky one. Doubly lucky, because I also feel the same for you."

Terry looked at me with something akin to wonder. A grown-up had revealed his innermost secret to him. A grown-up had said that he loved him above all else in the world. A grown-up, not just any grown-up but his own dear Sir, had pledged his love. So it didn't matter whether he loved a man, or a woman, or anything. He could just be himself again. He jumped up and hugged his teacher before running naked to the toilet before he disgraced himself.

Chapter 9
Will You Still Love Me?

"Do you know something Sir," he asked me once, "My penis only gets hard when I think of you. It doesn't get hard when I lay in bed alone, or when I think of the other boys in our class, or even when I wash it in the bathtub."

"I have to admit, it is the same with me, Terry. No sexy pictures, no thoughts of your classmates, no Internet stories, get me stiff any more. Only you do – and then only on a Friday night!"

"What do you think it means, Sir?" Terry asked timidly.

"I think that sometimes it doesn't pay to think too much. Sometimes we just have to live our lives as best we can, and leave the thinking to those quiet times when we are lying in bed, reviewing the day's wins and losses." I hoped this answer helped him. At the time, I was kissing his chest and groping his warm genitals on the couch. Mrs Gillings was cooking another fine dinner.

Weeks turned into months. Terry graduated from my class into the sixth grade. I continued to enjoy dinner with him and his grandmother every Friday night. We slept together afterwards, in each other's arms until Saturday morning. I have only a modest sex drive (to match the size of my equipment) which meant that one night of loving per week was enough for me. It seemed to be enough for Terry too. We usually satisfied each other with our mouths or hands, sometimes not waiting until after dinner, but pleasuring each other on the living room couch while Mrs Gillings cooked the dinner. She would call out words of encouragement from time to time, to both Terry and I, which I found quite disconcerting at first. Once she even praised Terry on his oral techniques, but then warned him not to spoil his appetite. I nearly had a stroke when she said that!

Terry eventually finished his primary schooling and advanced to Secondary school. It no longer mattered that he was no longer in my class, or even in the same school. My main concern was for Terry's physical maturity, or lack of it. I hoped that he simply was a 'late bloomer', but it was now a long while past his thirteenth birthday, and he still showed no visible signs of puberty, until one Friday when I arrived at the door of his house to find him wearing not his usual birthday suit, but a pair of football shorts (and nothing else). It was such an unexpected sight – imagine seeing a puppy in a tuxedo and you can begin to encompass my surprise.

Terry gulped, looked at his feet, shuffled them a little then looked at me. I tried to make out that I believed nothing unusual was happening, allowing him to usher me inside his home. We sat on the couch together, as was our custom, holding hands. He had a worried look on his face that I was not accustomed to finding there.

"Okay, tell me, Terry," I simply stated, "out with it."

"Would 3; will you still 3; love me 3; if I 3; grow up?" he asked hesitantly.

"Is that all that was worrying you Terry?" I answered, trying to keep my voice level. "I thought we settled this a long time ago. Age does not matter between you and me, it never has. What brought this panic on?"

"I was nervous about showing you," Terry began, "but I suppose I should have trusted you like I always have." I gave him a quizzical look, so he continued. Slipping off the couch, he faced me as he put his fingers to his football shorts. "I've got hair," he confessed, pulling them down and off. And it was true. A tiny tuft of brown hair graced the right side of his pubic mound. "I've had it a few days now. I wasn't sure if I should shave it off."

"You'll do no such thing, Terry," I heard from the kitchen. Mrs Gillings must have heard the whole thing. No doubt she saw the first filaments of pubic hair as soon as they appeared. Not much escapes her.

"I want you to penetrate me tonight," Terry whispered fiercely to me. "Prove to me that the hair doesn't matter."

"I don't know 3; that's a big step. Maybe you should think it over and be absolutely certain that's what you really want. Once you've 3; done it, there's no going back," I cautioned him.

"I already have thought about it, and I'm certain. In fact," at this point Terry glanced towards the kitchen where his grandmother was rattling some pots, "I want you to do it to me right here, now, before dinner, to prove you really love me."

I also peeked towards the kitchen. The same thought was on my mind. Just how broad-minded was Mrs Gillings? I had my answer sooner than I expected as a one-litre dispenser of sorbolene dropped into my lap from above. I almost shouted in surprise (and pain!) as Mrs Gillings' disembodied voice followed the sorbolene. "Dinner in thirty minutes. There's a towel under the cushion. Don't hurt my boy."

Thirty minutes, eh? I stood up and undressed in record time, fishing out the towel from under the pillow, spreading it on the couch, sitting my naked bottom upon it and holding my arms out for Terry to climb into my lap. The next part of the story is way too private to disclose, but it involved a juggling act with a wriggling boy, a sorbolene dispenser, some tears, quite a bit of vigorous jockeying up and down (on Terry's part), a lot of huffing and puffing (on my part), and yes, you guessed it, not a few pertinent comments from Mrs Gillings on the kitchen. How does she do that?

A cop-out, some may think? In my defence, I have to assert that there are some love affairs too beautiful to describe; some couplings too sublime to enunciate; some events of total abandonement of self that are so precious that to put them into words could only diminish them. Readers can be assured Terry's request was granted before dinner (with a minute and a half to spare) and again after dinner, and again the next morning.

Chapter 10
The Ultimate Calamity

Terry was fourteen years and three months old when he had his very first emission of semen, and I was present on the happy occasion. I have never liked the taste of seminal fluid, but Terry seems to enjoy it (or he never complains about it). I made an exception on this red letter day, not only tasting but swallowing, as he has done for me so many times. Mrs Gillings even brought some mouthwash from the bathroom and set it on the end-table!

At dinner, Mrs Gillings dropped her bombshell. She had finally achieved her one goal in life, making Terry's life happy. "Oh, he's always been cheerful, no problem there, but when he is with you Sir, he is genuinely happy. As for me, it's time I moved into a cosy little retirement villa. I've had my eye on it for some time, since that first night we had you over for dinner in fact, Sir. I failed miserably with 3; well, with 'you know who', and I am pleased, very pleased indeed to have not failed a second time. Terry has never kept anything from me, not for long anyhow, and I am very relieved to be able to let him make his own choices for his future life. Terry?" She looked at her grandson expectantly.

Terry had watched Mrs Gillings while she made her speech, but now turned his gaze to me. "Sir, I would like to live with you when Mummy 3; I mean, when my **grandmother** moves into her retirement community. I will be your devoted companion, friend and lover." And then Terry began to sing for me again – not the treble with which he first serenaded me, but with the light tenor voice that he had adjusted to in the last few months:

"Imagine me and you – I do, I think about you day and night – it's only right To think about the one you love, and hold him tight So happy together"

He got out of his seat with a paper napkin to dry the tears that ran down my cheeks. We sang the rest of the song together, quite loudly. The neighbours must have thought I had too much wine (again). My new life had started.

The End