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Knowing The Right People

By: canitbethatlong



These events actually happened, to me, in England, quite some time ago. This is an abridged version of a much longer account I wrote some time ago. It is fully copyrighted.

* * *

I'm not going to begin this story where it should begin, with me being sent off to Ranleigh at the age of eleven. Going on twelve. 

Ranleigh School is quite obscure, but it's similar to Rugby, which is very well known. Rugby is the school in "Tom Brown's School Days", published in England in 1857. At some point in the book the author mentions -

" ... miserable little pretty white-handed curly-headed boys, petted and pampered by some of the big fellows who ... did all they could to [corrupt] them." 

And in case the reader missed the point, an accompanying footnote adds 

"There were many noble friendships between big boys and little boys, but I can't strike out the passage: many boys will know why it has been left in." All this could have been written of Ranleigh too.

I first went to Ranleigh in the 1960s, more than a hundred years after this book was written. By that time much had changed - and I'm sure much had changed at Rugby too - but the friendship situation was recognisably the same, running the gamut from noble to, well, less than noble. As for myself, I wouldn't say I was miserable or white-handed, though most of the rest applied.

There was a sequel, "Tom Brown Goes To Oxford", and there Tom and I diverged once more -- I went to a different University, considered equally good by some, but not Oxford. And this is where I'm going to begin - when I went up to University at the age of 18.

* * *

The University was an absolutely marvelous place; I'm sure it still is. It hummed and fizzed with precocious young students, most of whom thought, the first year students anyway, that university was the pinnacle of life, an end in itself rather than a means to an end. I certainly thought that myself. And looking back from 40 years further on I can't say we weren't right.

Within the first week I was aware that I had an admirer. This wasn't a rare event for me. I was slim and somewhat petite, and good-looking in an effeminate sort of way, and as anyone who looks like this will tell you, it attracts a certain type of man.

And some proportion of these would become what I thought of as 'admirers' - you see them more than once, they put themselves in your proximity, and after a few times walking innocently by, they nod to you, smile at you. They are trying to insert themselves into your circle, to make the jump from stranger to acquaintance.

Delaroy told me "Keep an eye on that one, he likes your type."

"What do you mean 'my type'? I'm not a type."

"Of course you are, everybody's a type. You're 'angelic, freshly-minted little Ranleigh-sweetie' type."

I rolled my eyes. "Who is he?"

"He's Professor Hewitt. Classics. Spent too much time studying the Spartans, I hear."

"He can go and wank himself so far as I'm concerned."

"He might consider that a promising first offer ..."

"Now, myself, I'm more interested in that - that's my type." "That" was a very attractive first-year who'd just bounced into The Café. I'd seen her several times and what I'd said was true, she had the sort of looks that appealed to me.

"Oh, Stephanie, yes, she's delightful. Quite impure, too, I hear. Would you like to meet her?" So like Delaroy, so superior. Not just acting in a supercilious, superior way, but actually being superior. Insufferable.

"You know her?"

"She's my sister."

"Pull the other one." 

But even as I said it I remembered there had indeed been a gawky gamin around at events at Delaroy's house in years gone by. She had been introduced as his cousin but I'd heard the very edges of rumours that she might actually be a little more closely related than that. This must be her.

"No, it's true, she is, she's my step-sister. You've met her actually, you just don't recognise her."

I looked at her more closely, and then jerked my eyes away as she became conscious of me. (Being stared at yourself, if nothing else, causes you to be sensitive to staring at others.)

Delaroy went on "You know my family situation is fairly unconventional. Complicated, even. My father has two wives, and two sets of children. I'm in the London family. Stephanie is in the Paris family."

This was essentially the rumour I had heard, in mangled form, but now I was old enough to appreciate it.

"Would you still like to meet her?"

"Um, perhaps not."

"A wise choice, Monsieur." Done in a French accent.

Delaroy was a year older than me and a year ahead of me academically. We had grown up almost next door to one another in London and he'd gone to Ranleigh too, so we knew one another very well indeed, and although we were as different as chalk and cheese, for some reason we had always been the closest of friends.

* * *

My room mate's name was Moody, and he was from Ranleigh too, same year as me. He was even prettier and more effeminate than I was myself. And better at maths too. He had a huge mop of bright yellow hair and could easily have passed for a girl.

Having sexual relations with members of one's own sex was by no means rare among the boys at that university, or for that matter, in that entire social class. But virtually all of us were on the whole more interested in girls. We were 'bi-sexual' - though I don't remember that word being in use then. 

Moody wasn't bisexual. Moody was homosexual. He didn't wear it on his sleeve, but he didn't pretend he wasn't either.

We made good room mates, Moody and I. We both liked mathematics. He knew that I had no interest in him sexually. (Though he made a good character in one of my fantasies: We are both captured by the Russians, mistaken for spies, taken to a discreet and lonely house, tied up in the nude, forced to -- well, you get the idea. But just in fantasy.)

He wasn't interested in me either. Not his type. In fact, definitely not: Moody liked men who were much older than himself. 

At the university, needless to say, the best supply of older men were the Professors. And as luck would have it, the famously-queer student body of the 1930s, 40s and 50s had by now moved on to populate the faculty. Many of them were no longer communists, but all of them seemed to have managed to preserve their sexual preferences intact. They were just older. Which for Moody wasn't a minus.

* * *

Professor Hewitt made his move a few days later. I was in the enormous bookshop near my college, and when I glanced up, there he was. He nodded and smiled. "He likes your type!" rang my internal alarm bell.

"You're Wilson, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir. Andrew Wilson. Do we ...?" 

" ... know one another? - No. But your friend Harris recommended you." Harris: Two or three years ahead of me at Ranleigh. (Known at Ranleigh as 'Bummer Harris', derived, in part, from the fact that he was vaguely related to the World War II Air Force commander, Bomber Harris.)

"Ah, yes, that's Harry Harris, Sir?"

"The same. Look, I'm sure you're wondering why I've sought you out, but I sub for 'Pantheon', the literary periodical, and I keep an eye out for a few new bloods each year, you know we do a whole section on new writers at the beginning of each academic year, just for works by you first-years. And Harris told me you're a very promising writer ..."

This was quite flattering. I'd been expecting some sort of sexual proposition, and it caught me unawares that I was instead being offered the chance to write a piece for a journal. And not just any journal - "Pantheon" was a prestigious publication. Even though I was following the Mathematics course for Year One, that was at least partly because I knew I could ace it. My real interest was writing.

* * *

"Are you sure about Professor Hewitt?"

"That he's queer?"

"Yes."

"Um, yes, I'm fairly sure of that."

"He subs for 'Pantheon', he does the fiction bit. He's asked me submit a piece for it."

"I'm sure he'd like you to submit more than that."

* * *

In spite of my scoffing at Delaroy, the idea that Professor Hewitt might have lecherous thoughts about me was, secretly, stimulating, and the Professor had already begun to play a prominent role in my nightly masturbation sessions.

I was an indefatigable masturbator, an activity that I fueled with elaborate fantasies, almost parallel universes, peopled by rich castes of dominant homosexuals and sluttish women. There were intricate plots, usually quite implausible.

When stimulated by a circumstance from the real world - someone propositioning me, for example - I would spend the next two or three nights imagining a detailed scenario based on what might have happened had I gone along with whatever it was, the proposition, the nodded head, the bathroom leer.

(Once, when the photographer Sir Cedric Clouter had asked me to pose in the nude for him, I spent several weeks masturbating urgently to that theme. Even though it was surely all above board - he was a celebrated photographer, after all; and even though I had turned him down. It didn't take much.)

So Professor Hewitt was often in my thoughts at night as I lay in bed masturbating. The Professor invites me to his place, he tells me what Harry Harris has told him about me. Next scene, I'm out of my clothes, kneeling on the floor in front of him in the nude, taking his big stiff penis into my mouth ...

Or ... he's taken me to his lonely little place in the Lake District. He ties me up in the nude. He and another Professor take turns ... Or ...

* * *

Moody knew that I'd 'been there' as they say, and he took that as license to recount his escapades to me. He was regularly propositioned and he knew I was too, so he didn't have to explain about that. And we were both observant enough to understand that not only were we both being propositioned, it was by and large by the same people.

Over a pint one evening he said "Remember that Professor I said was after me?"

"There was only one?"

Moody laughed. "Well he keeps turning up, you know how I mean. I was in the library after tutorials and he was staring at me so I went all the way over to that area that has books about homosexual art ..."

"... the Lord Keynes Memorial Shelves?"

"Is that what they call it? That's funny, very good. Anyway, I went there and took down the most egregious book, absolutely disgusting, full-page illustrations of ancient Greek erotic pottery art, really very turgid stuff, and I sat at one of the little nook tables and started examining it page by page.

"So the Professor turns up when I'm at about page two. I give him a big smile, just in case he has any lingering doubts, and he smiles back and looks at my book. Then he reaches all the way up to the top shelf, has to climb the ladder to do it, and he gives me another book, and he whispers to me 'if you like that one, have a look at this'. Well, of course, it makes my book look like Christopher Robin, it would turn the Archbishop of Canterbury queer ..."

" ... I think I heard he's already ..."

"... perhaps he saw the Professor's book. Anyway, I looked at his book for a minute and then he asked if I wanted to come back to his place."

"Nice line. A bit prosaic, but ..."

"I know! I'm going to write a book, "Etiquette For Literate Queers". But anyway I went back to his stunningly over-furnished flat with him and I noshed him. He has a big penis and he came buckets, but he only lasted about a minute."

"You always say that. It must be your technique."

"I think it is - I always try to feel their balls and put a finger on their anus when I nosh someone. And I sort of masturbate them with my fist at the same time I'm noshing."

"Sounds like you'd need an extra hand." I didn't say so, but I was fascinated. Good masturbation fodder.

"It does, doesn't it? But if you put the palm of one hand under his balls and sort of cup them like that, and then use the middle finger of that same hand to touch in his anus, then you have your other hand free to fist him while you suck him. Actually, it's even better if they wank themselves, into your mouth I mean, while you're noshing them, instead of you fisting them. But it has to be one or the other - see the thing is, if you just nosh them, only your mouth I mean, they often don't come at all. It's just not enough um stimulation."

"I'll defer to your vast experience." 

"I'll show you if you like." And we both laughed.

"I have to go" Moody told me, and as we got up to leave, Professor Hewitt appeared.

He looked at me and smiled.

"Oh, Wilson, what a coincidence. Just the man I want to see. Do you have a few minutes?"

Later, when I thought about it, I decided he and Moody had set this up. Moody swore it wasn't so, but it seemed too perfect, the pints - I have never had a head for alcohol - the discussions of sex, Moody having to leave, Professor Hewitt arriving at that precise moment, all too much to believe it was coincidence.

But whatever the case, I wound up sitting over yet another beer, now with Professor Hewitt. He was smiling at me, self-deprecatingly, dying to please, and I realized for the first time that he was really quite young. It's hard to judge age when you're young yourself, but I now know that he was 28 at that point.

He fumbled around with conversation, and in spite of my being a bit plastered I was easily able to see that he had nothing in particular he needed to discuss with me. He just wanted to be with me.

And, oddly, this began to excite me. The idea that simply relaxing and letting it happen would lead to me being in the nude with him was, once I thought about it, extremely exciting. I realized I was stiff. I looked around in alarm, hoping no-one else I knew was there. Realising I should leave, either alone, or ...

Professor Hewitt had a very nice little townhouse just half a mile away. We walked there together making small conversation about literature. I was ready to call it off by the time we arrived, but once we were inside he lit a joint and poured some Rum and Coke I think it was, something unnecessary, and we relaxed in a low-lit living area. Listened to Slade.

I actually don't remember very well how things proceeded, but I know at one point I was dressed in a tight little bra and pants. Not really my cup of tea, the bra and pants I mean, but I've done worse.

* * *

I had a low, dull hangover the next day and lay in bed literally all day, with dream-like snatches of my debauchery of the night before drifting in and out of focus. With limited clarity, guttering like a candle. I vaguely remembered licking Professor Hewitt's anus like an ice cream. My own anus was twitching, not painful, but touching on my consciousness, and it led me to recognise that I had been very thoroughly sodomised. Possibly by more than one person - that was what my mind said. I had no concrete memory to substantiate it. And my knees were rubbed almost raw - whatever I'd been doing, it had involved kneeling, or perhaps being on all fours.

Moody brought in a huge pile of fish and chips at dusk and we ate them all. He opened a big can of MacEwan's, our favourite, and although the first mouthful, in fact even the smell, nauseated me, we knocked it off in no time and opened another.

"What did Professor Hewitt want to talk to you about?"

"Oh, well, not much just this thing writing for 'Pantheon', just about that. I think he really would have sooner been talking to you."

"Did you have sex with him?"

"Yes." I groped in these new and utterly unexpected weeds. "Yes. But ... he'd honestly sooner have been talking to you."

Moody smiled at me, his angelic face suddenly so full of warmth and, I don't know, camaraderie? I remember it so well, even if I can't put a name to it.

But I vowed quietly to myself as regards Professor Hewitt: Never again.

* * *

I went to a party at Delaroy's sister's place. I still carried a candle for her but I knew she was completely out of my league. It was better that way actually, because it meant that when I talked to her I wasn't self-conscious, knowing there was nothing at risk.

This was at that point in the progression of marijuana into English society that it, marijuana, was fairly common, but it was still treated with a certain reverence. A few years earlier it was almost unknown, and a few years later it was like having a pint. But at this point it was still the case that a party at which there was pot was exactly that -- a pot party. Everyone got stoned and sat around and ... enjoyed being stoned. 

This was a pot party. I wound up sitting next to a girl called Valerie, someone I got on well with. I had already learned to be careful with pot; the line between being stimulated and being a drooling idiot wasn't well defined in my case. I'd also learned that the height of cool was to be funny but not to lose oneself in laughter, while trying to make others lose that cool, to make them laugh uncontrollably. I was quite good at it.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" Valerie asked me.

"A fireman." I could see a twitch of suppressed laughter. 

"You're attracted to fire?"

"No, quite the contrary. Perhaps I've misunderstood the role of the fireman. But anyway, my plan is to put the fires out. Rather than, you know, set them, or ..."

"... gloat over them."

Valerie had quite large breasts. Which wasn't all that common then. Or perhaps it's because I've since spent some time in the United States. (Whether New York City is the Capital Of The World, as it proclaims on every lamp post, is debatable, but that it is the Large Breasts Capital Of The World is a more-defensible position. Along with LA. And Houston. And Miami. And - well, it's basically the USA.)

Anyway, by my standards - un-enhanced by exposure to the American model at that point - Valerie's breasts were quite large. And she knew about cleavage. She had silky tanned skin and she owned a line of button shirts and V-neck pullovers and scoopy tops that brightened the day of every male at the University. Well, except Moody, of course. And -- well, she brightened many a male day, including my own.

She was also by repute someone who could be talked into a bit of slap and tickle fairly easily. 'Impure', in Delaroy's vocabulary.

So I was delighted to find myself sharing a couch with her at this party, to be seated so close to her cleavage that I had to concentrate on looking her in the eyes as we spoke.

"So, that's what I want to be -- a fireman. Or perhaps a policeman. But what do you want to be? When you grow up I mean."

"I'm still thinking about it. I was going to be a nun, but I'm beginning to think I might not be suited to it." I fought down a wave of laughter.

"Temperamentally?"

"Well, there's that, yes. But the threads, too, not my look. And you know they get up at some absolutely appalling hour in the morning."

"To do god's work, yes, the day is short. So, what was it you actually liked about the idea of being a nun?"

"Yes, that's the thing, when I look at it a bit more closely there's really nothing."

"A sort of ontological liking for nunnery."

"Exactly, once you've pierced the veil of words, there's really nothing I like about it at all."

"So true of life -- once having pierced the veil ..."

"How many girls have you fucked?"

"Oh, dozens. Hundreds. Lost count."

"Seriously."

"I was being serious."

"Seriously ..."

"Um, well ... "

"More than one?"

"No."

"Less than one?"

"Less than one. I've been, um, devoting myself to mathematics."

And masturbation, though I didn't mention that.

* * *

We fumbled around in my room in the dark, kissing inexpertly and feeling one another up. Her breasts were jelly, but firm jelly. I didn't know how to undo her bra and she did it for me, silhouetted against the faint glow from my window as she sat up. (I wondered if anyone was watching from the quad below. And whether Moody could hear us - his room was just across the little common room we shared between us. Still, Moody wouldn't care.)


Knowing The Right People



She lay back down and we slowly undressed one another.

She handled my penis, pausing and concentrating for a moment, and I realised she was bringing up spunk. She was expert at it too. Then she inclined us so that I wound up on top of her, between her legs, and she was guiding me into her incredibly slippery twat.

I hovered over her a moment, and slid myself in, having to push surprisingly hard, she was so tight. She began to come almost immediately, I mean, no more than 10 seconds after we started, and she bucked and grunted, grasping me to her so tightly that I could hardly breathe. It took only seconds of this for me to come too, her slim, lithe, sweaty body rubbing frantically on me.

I had bruises on my back the next day from being gripped so tightly.

* * *

"That's a good piece you wrote, Wilson. We're probably going to print it."

"Thank you, Professor, I'm pleased to hear that!" Pleased! I was absolutely over the moon!

"Beauchamp wants you to go up to his place for lunch on Saturday, he'd like to meet you. You and Farrell - he's one of the others we're going to publish."

Professor Sir Terrence Beauchamp was the over-all editor of Pantheon, and something of a literary giant in England. We read several of his books in the senior year at Ranleigh, one of the very few living writers we studied. I looked on it as an honour, a distinction even, to have been invited to lunch at his place. Still do.

Professor Hewitt explained where Beauchamp's cottage was, about five miles away, just outside Stotting Norton. He offered to drive me there if I wanted, but I decided to just ride my bike.

I didn't know Farrell but I knew of him, a year ahead of me and considered one of the bright sparks, doing really brilliantly funny little vignettes for the reviews, and supposedly the next Peter Cooke. I was flattered to be mentioned in the same sentence as him.

* * *

The ride up to Beauchamp's turned out to be mostly that -- up -- and it took me a while to get there so I was a little late.

Professor Beauchamp was a considerably older man, perhaps 60. And not a very well-preserved 60 either. But he was charming and civilised, a gentleman, and he treated us, me and Farrell, like princes. We, the three of us, had lunch in his 'cottage' - which was actually a very substantial Georgian manor - and we talked about my piece. And about Farrell's piece.

After lunch, Farrell surprised me by getting up and excusing himself. The silence in Professor Beauchamp's cottage after Farrell's car whirred down the track to the road was intense.

"I was quite surprised to hear you're doing Maths, Wilson. I'd have thought you'd be more along the arts end of things."

"I'm fairly good at maths, it's something I can rely on to see me through."

"Yes, you want to pass, sensible. But don't you want to write?"

"Yes, very much so. But I think I can find time to write along the way."

"True enough. I've known others who looked at it the same way. And anyway, not everybody ends up where they thought they would. Even me - writing wasn't my first interest, you know."

"Really? What did you want to do?"

"Photography. Funny, isn't it? Clouter and I were at university together and he wanted to write and I wanted to do photography. Now, I'm a writer and he's a photographer."

"Sir Cedric Clouter? I've actually met him a few times. He didn't mention writing though."

Professor Beauchamp laughed. "No, I think in his case photography won him over. I know he still writes, but the photography has done wonders for him. So you know him?"

"Not well, but he's photographed my mother a couple of times."

"Oh, yes, Lady Jane, of course he would want to photograph her. He's such a charming person, isn't he? And those portraits! ..."

"Yes." I watched as the Professor poured me another glass of wine, Pouilly Fuisse, I think. I was already a bit tipsy.

"Have you seen any of his other work?"

"What else does he do?"

"Sir Cedric is really two people: The better-known one is the celebrated salon photographer, welcome in every drawing-room in the world. But he's also always liked to record some shall I say less-fashionable images. We both do actually. Here, I'll show you ..." and he levitated out of his chair and went into his library. He re-appeared with a large-ish binder, like a portfolio -- an item just then becoming fashionable -- and put it on the dining table beside me.

"It's not something we can really publish, so we -- did this."

He opened the book at a random page, revealing a large glossy black and white photo. In it, a boy of my age was standing looking out a window. He was completely nude, his slim almost girl-like physique quarter-turned away, but he was looking back at us over his shoulder, into the camera, an appraising look, almost coquettish.

The photo itself was absolutely beautiful, the boy bathed in the soft light streaming down on him from the big windows, and around him the gorgeously detailed brocades and patterns of a huge, over-furnished late-Victorian room. In addition to the technical mastery, the composition was clever too, especially the device of having the subject look back at the camera, as if on the point of saying something.

"It's ... beautiful." I said at last. It was also very, very erotic, but I didn't say that. "Sir Cedric Clouter took that?"

"Actually, no. I took that one. I'm glad you like it."

"It's a work of art."

"Oh, thank you so much. Do you recognise the room?" I stared at it for a moment, and realised ...

"It's -- here. It's this room!" I laughed and he nodded approvingly. 

"Quite photogenic isn't it?"

"It really is!" I agreed admiringly.

He opened the book at another page, this time showing a boy lying face down by a stream, trailing his arm in the moving water, where it made a complicated wave form around his hand. Again the boy was in the nude.

Another page, then another. All the subjects were completely nude, and my age. In fact several of them looked like me. "His type ..." said the voice in my head.

"I so much enjoyed taking these" the Professor sighed, pouring us another glass of wine as I leafed through the photos. 

"This one was taken here too, wasn't it?" I said.

"Actually they were all taken here, in the house or out in the garden. All the subjects are amateurs, mostly students. Whenever we found someone who would sit for us we'd come here at the weekend for a shoot. It was usually Clouter who found the models -- in fact some of them came to him, such a plus to have a reputation."

He was reminiscing now, looking down over my shoulder as I kept leafing through the portfolio. 

"So," he went on "So most of them are Clouter's choices. He liked a rather gracile form. As you see. In fact -- " -- he snorted at the thought -- "in fact, he would like you, you're exactly what he looked for."

I didn't tell him that Sir Cedric had indeed asked me to pose for him. Or that I had masturbated for weeks imagining I had gone along with it.

The fact was that my head had been swimming since I looked at the very first picture - the idea of being in the nude for a man was always a tremendously thrilling theme for me. And now that the Professor was so plainly inviting me to pose for him, I felt that familiar sensation of breathlessness I always experienced when propositioned. I'm sure it was obvious to the Professor too. 

"Though Clouter's in New York at the moment" said the Professor as an afterthought.

"Oh."

"But," he went on hastily "I would be very pleased to photograph you myself, if you would allow me ..."

"Now?"

"Yes. There'll be very good light soon," nodding to the big French windows. "This winter afternoon light is the best."

"Ah, yes, I would be, er, very pleased to ..."

"Oh, good! I'm going to set up a camera and film, why don't you take your clothes off."

"Here?"

"Yes, you needn't be self-conscious. For a start, the nearest house is half a mile away. And as for me -- I won't mind!" and he laughed again and opened the door to the basement.

By the time he came back up I was completely nude. My penis had sprung to full stiffness as I undressed, I could have hung my clothes on it, and to avoid displaying it I'd hurriedly sat back down and resumed looking through the folios. He came over and stood beside me once again at the table. I was extremely conscious of being in the nude, but the Professor seemed to ignore it.

"Nuisance, I don't have any film for the big camera, but we'll use this instead, still a very good camera.

"Oh, yes, my father has one of those" I said, looking at the handsome double-lens Rollei. I think everyone's father had a Rollei in those days. In a few years the new single-lens reflex designs would sweep across the markets and wipe them out, turn them into collectors items overnight, but at that point Rolleis were still the choice of anyone who could afford one.

The Professor looked me over, quite unabashed. 

"Mmmh," he said. "You'll have to stay like that for about a quarter of an hour -- there's still a belt mark around your waist, and I can see where your socks were. You'd be amazed at how the camera picks up that sort of thing. Oh, and just sit on this, will you" and he handed me a big flat velvet cushion. "Otherwise you'll have the pattern of that rattan on your bum." The dining room chairs had cane seats, I realised.

He topped up our glasses, and said "Perhaps you'd like to see another book of our photos while we wait? We did several more but they're a bit more ... racy" and he gave me a grin, hard to read. "Some people might find them a bit too ..."

"No, I'd love to see them" I answered, honestly, and in a moment he was placing a second book on top of the first. "Have a look, I'm just going to put some film in the camera."

He walked back into his study, and I opened the book at a random page.

* * *

I don't want to say my jaw dropped when I looked at the first photo, but it almost did. The photo was again taken in this same room, but this time, on the carpet in front of the big heavy couch there lay a boy of my age, once again completely nude, but this time he was bound hand and foot with rope! To top it off, a piece of cloth was tied around his head to make a gag.

I shouldn't be repetitive about my fantasies of the time, but my most enjoyable fantasies were of bondage combined with nudity, and this photo captured both of them instantly. (This was also at a time when pornography was essentially missing from life, or at least from my life, so the impact of something like this photo was even greater.)

I opened at another page, and this time it was (another, different) boy with his hands tied above his head to some sort of rafter, and his pants pulled down to his ankles, so he was just in his underpants, and it was obvious he was stiff. As I looked at it, I realised the same was true of me -- I was stiff again too.

* * *

"So, those are interesting for you? Not too -- over the top?"

I had to pause and collect myself to answer in a normal voice.

"Yes, they're, yes, I like them."

"Yes, there's something exciting about someone being bound, isn't there? - something feral and elemental about it. But it's not for everyone, some people are quite offended by it."

"Not me" I thought to myself, turning another page. Same theme -- a boy my age tied up, but this time wearing a swim suit. Or almost wearing a swim suit -- it had been pulled down off his hips to reveal his slim, girlish bum. I tried to breathe normally, not to swallow, aware of the Professor looking at me, evaluating my response. 

"Yes, of course," he said. "I can see you like them" and he gave a slightly wolfish smile. I knew he'd have to have been blind not to see I was aroused.

"As I say, not everyone likes them, but since it's clear that you do - I have some others that are even more, er, racy. Perhaps you'd like to see some of those too -- while we wait."

I swallowed, and said "Yes, I would like very much to see them", and in a minute he was putting a third book down on top of the other two. 

"Just look at the first one. If it's not for you, close the book and forget I ever showed it to you, and we'll get on with simple photography."

"Yes, Sir."

I opened the book at the first page.

A beautiful, high-contrast, black and white photo of a large, paunchy, nude man, sitting back on the couch -- it was in the same dignified, heavily-furnished room. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, between his legs, was the boy -- the same one who'd been lying bound and gagged in front of the same couch. He too was completely nude, and he was bowed down, his mouth nuzzling against the big, glistening penis. The man's large hand rested languidly on the boy's head.

There was no faking a response this time - I took a long, slow almost-involuntary breath as I drank in the thrilling image. Around the boy's neck I noticed a loose loop of material, which it took me a moment to recognise as the gag that had been over his mouth in an earlier photo. The man's penis, solid and stiff and visibly coated with an uneven slick of saliva and spunk, seemed certain to make the boy open his mouth as wide as it could go.

I glanced furtively at the Professor, but he'd quietly gone back into his study. I could hear him opening the camera to load it with film.

The dramatic change in my inaugural photography session had almost taken my breath away. The idea of being in the nude in front of Professor Beauchamp and his camera had an appeal, but the idea of being like this boy in the photo made my head swim. My fingers crept almost involuntarily to my stiff penis and I delicately squeezed the head -- wet with spunk already -- between my thumb and forefinger.

With my other hand I turned the book to another picture, and another one, each more outrageous than the last.

The Professor came back in, a camera in his hand, saying breezily "There, all ready, just had to change the film."

He came and stood beside me and looked over my shoulder, standing close enough that his hairy tweed-ish pants touched my bare shoulder. Somehow that simple touch ran through me like an electric current, it made me so conscious of the fact that I was nude. I turned to the next photo. I realised I was still touching my stiff penis and I took my hand away.

"So, Wilson. Let's take some pictures! The light is perfect!" And it was true, streaming in the tall french windows, setting the whole room aglow.

He was using a tripod, the elegant little Rollei perched on it like a bird of prey. At first he had me just look out the windows, shooting me from behind, complimenting me on my bum as he worked. Then he had me lie on his enormous bear-skin, in front of the unlit fire. I was surprised how unselfconscious I felt, how easily I slipped into the role. Even when he guided me towards more explicitly sexual poses -- lying on my side on the bear-skin, my back to the camera, but looking back over my shoulder -- even then, I was very relaxed.

"Oh, gorgeous! You were born to do this picture" he said as he took it, and I could see in one of the many mirrors that his penis was bulging in his pants. My own penis was so stiff it was almost painful. Not only posing in the nude for an older man, but deliberately flaunting myself for him, it was wildly erotic.

"Have you ever ... done any of the things in the photos? - performed fellatio?" he asked as he moved the camera.

"Yes, I have," I told him. 

"Been sodomised?"

"Yes. A few times." I had a slight flashback to being at Professor Hewitt's place.

I heard him sigh, and he said "Now you've got skin-marks from the bear-skin, have to sit on the velvet cushion for a few minutes."

Once again we looked at the photos. But after I'd turned a few pages of the folio the Professor put his hand on my head, and exerted the smallest pressure, guiding me almost imperceptibly to turn my head towards him. And there, three inches from my mouth, was the Professor's hard, veiny penis, which he had silently freed from his pants.

I glanced up at his face, and I suppose he took that as an encouragement, because the hand on my head became more firm, inclining my head onto him, and the head of his penis, coated in spunk, came into contact with my lips. 

He was holding his penis in his fist, his other hand resting authoratively on my head. Holding my head still, he moved the head of his penis back and forth along my lips. I parted my lips a little and brought the tip of my tongue to the front of my mouth so it touched him. Then he exerted slightly more pressure on my head, guiding me into him, so his penis ran back along my cheek, leaving a trail of spunk, and bringing my mouth in contact with his balls.

I had never done this before. I licked at his balls and then opened my mouth, and the hand on my head gripped in my hair and guided my face under a little so I was licking the area underneath his balls. His fist was working his penis, making squelching noises almost in my ear.

He was breathing rapidly. Still licking, I touched my fingers in front of my tongue, on his perineum. Trying to reach further back, I found I couldn't, so I quickly and untidily rolled his pants and underpants down off his hips, dragging them. Then I covered my fingers in the drool and spunk that was dripping down from his balls, and probed back further, behind his perineum, teasing up into his crack, touching his anus with a slimy finger. I thought of Moody.

As I carefully inserted my slimy finger into his anus, wriggling and probing to keep everything greasy, I could feel him tense, and he brought his penis back in front of my mouth, the head against my lips.

I opened my mouth and he fed it in, slimy and rubbery and huge. He wasn't really all that large, I suppose, but I remember being surprised at how wide I had to open to accommodate him. I felt his anus clenching on my finger and I knew what that meant.

* * *

As I whizzed back down the hill to town it was almost dusk. I was still a bit pie-eyed, not sloshed, but definitely high, and the fresh air and the countryside felt good, refreshing.

I had a twinge of regret for what I'd done, almost repulsion. Guilt. But that night in bed I recalled every sordid moment of it, fisting myself urgently as I re-lived the Professor's slimy penis sliding into my mouth, regretting he hadn't tied me up, regretting he hadn't lain on top of me, sodomised me. As I lay there in the dark with my pyjama pants round my ankles I fervently promised myself that I would make sure he did both when I went there again.

I masturbated so hard that night, and on Sunday night too, that my penis was sore the next morning as I walked to my morning coffee ritual with Delaroy at The Café.

* * *

"Have you seen this?"

Delaroy was the only student I ever knew who took a newspaper. The London Times (now The Times). Not only did he take it, he read most of it every day, an early manifestation of the fact that he had inherited his father's celebrated ability to read incredibly quickly and to remember everything he read.

I sat down next to him and he handed the Times to me, folded to the page he wanted me to read. The Obituaries column, I saw. I frowned at him as I took it.

"Sir Terence Beauchamp, 57. Man of Letters."

"No!" I breathed involuntarily. I looked up, holding my breath for calmness, and Delaroy nodded back. Sympathetically, unusual for him.

"Yes. Saturday. Heart attack."

I read on, following the reference to the news pages to see what had actually happened. He'd been found dead at his home by guests arriving for dinner. It was thought to have been a heart attack. An autopsy would be performed.

Then back to the Obit. Grand Man of English letters, worthy successor to GBS, etc. Read by young and old alike. His roman a clef "The Walled City" won everything worth winning. And was made into a terrible film.




Knowing The Right People



"That's terrible" I said at last, looking up from the paper, handing it back. Now that I was conscious of my surroundings again, I saw how sombre Delaroy seemed to be too. (Later I found that almost everyone of our age felt the same way, it was is if we had suffered the death of a wise friend. So powerfully had Beauchamp's books spoken to us that we all felt we actually knew him. There are passages in his writing that evoke a place or a thought so accurately that they can later seem to rival actual memories of real events. There are just two or three other writers who have ever done that for me, made me feel sympatica -- Emily Bronte in Wuthering Heights, Evelyn Waugh in Brideshead, and of course Scott Fitzgerald.)

I was miserable all day, thinking of that old man (this was at a time when 57 could be thought of as old) dying alone. I was 18, death wasn't much on my mind, but this was so close, so clear.

* * *

I breezed through that first year. My plan worked. I was good at Maths and I'd taken as much of it as the rules allowed; I was good enough at everything else. I was also fluent in French -- thank you, Mother -- and although that wasn't a requirement, it wasn't a minus either. 

Valerie and I had sex a few more times before she took up a less transient relationship with an upper-classman. I missed her from a companionship point of view, but I have to admit that from the point of view of sexual gratification she never held a candle to my masturbation sessions.

* * *

There was one very big disappointment. The new Editor of Pantheon, Robby Burlap, wasn't as keen on my work as Professor Beauchamp had been. 

Burlap had been one of the Angry Young Men from the fifties, a very successful socialist playwright. Now he was an Angry Middle-Aged Man, and he had parleyed his radical political views into a seat in Parliament, from which pulpit he railed against what he called the 'English Oligarchy', the undemocratic way in which a small coterie of well-to-do Oxbridge grandees ran the country. 

After a very long delay, this same Honourable Robert Burlap, MP, in his capacity as the new editor of Pantheon, sent me a letter.

Dear Mr Wilson,

Please forgive the long delay in contacting you.

We all share in the great loss that has befallen our literary publication, I'm sure you join me in da-da da-da da-da.

Professor Beauchamp had recommended one of your pieces to the Pantheon's Selection Committee, of which I was a member, and am now Chairman. In this capacity, I have decided to defer his recommendation, due to the pressure of works of a more socially relevant character.

We at Pantheon da-da da-da

* * *

I had several of the elements that are supposed to make a person homosexual, notably a strong-willed mother -- bordering on overbearing in my case -- but the fact was that I preferred girls. I actually much preferred girls. I know that may seem odd, given the events I've been describing. But 'odd' is definitely the right concept to have in hand when the subject of my sexual makeup comes up.

I had no interest, sexual interest that is, in boys my own age. My only same-sex fantasy was of performing sexual services for someone older than myself, and the only same-sex experiences I had all conformed to that one scenario.

But while I preferred girls, the fact was that I had more indications of interest -- propositions - from members of my own sex. Usually from older members of my own sex. It's not that girls didn't like me. I was a little shy, but I was fairly good-looking and reasonably articulate. They just didn't, usually, want to have sex with me.

In my fantasy sex world, the one of masturbation that I visited basically every night, the girls were numerous. They usually also conformed to the general elements of all my fantasies -- they were often tied up, often put in submissive situations. But there were also slutty girls I met in dark corners of the world who wanted to suck my penis, to take it up the arse, to pose in the nude for me, the list was long. Anything except conventional sex with a conventional girl.

I think it was Somerset Maugham who remarked that if thoughts were subject to the law he would have spent most of his life in jail. I knew what he meant (though in Somerset's case, I believe the thoughts were more about the boys than about the girls). 

Delaroy's sister was friends with another girl, also French, quite petite, very, very pretty. I didn't know her name but I liked her even more than I liked Delaroy's sister. And almost every night for a while she spent some time with me, tied up and with very little clothing on, being subjected to anal sex, as I urgently masturbated in the dark. In the real world, the only thing she seemed to like about me was that I spoke the 'best french of all the English boys'. In my mind I tried to twist this compliment into a scenario that resulted in her being desirous of performing fellatio for me but even for my imagination that was a tall order.

* * *

Charles Meech, 'call me Charles', owned Harrow House, the publishing firm that had made a name for itself discovering promising young writers. Most notably, thirty-five years earlier Charles' father had discovered Terence Beauchamp and published his first book, and Beauchamp stayed with the firm for the rest of his life, even though better and better-connected houses would have given their eye teeth to take him away.

Mr Meech contacted me out of the blue near the end of that first year at university. I hadn't written anything after the disappointment with Pantheon, but I still thought of myself as being a writer one day, and of course I was glad to go and talk to any publisher, let alone such a well-respected one.

His offices, around the corner from Berkley Square, were festooned with books and piles of manuscripts stacked higgledy-piggledy. Mr Meech himself was sitting behind a desk the size of a car, peering at some sort of list.

"I'm Andrew Wilson, Sir. How do you do."

"Yes, of course, Wilson, I'd recognize you anywhere. So glad you could come."

I smiled a little uncertainly. He must have an incredible memory. We had met once, at a function following Churchill's funeral, nearly four years previously. I had been fourteen or fifteen years old, and we hadn't talked at all, just been introduced.

"I'm surprised you remember me, Sir. We just shook hands that one time, and that was -- years ago."

"Oh," he looked at me quizzically. "I didn't realise we'd met, when ...?" He squinted at my face again.

"After Churchill's funeral, Sir."

"Please, call me Charles. But - yes, I see, that must be so. Forgive me, I don't recall meeting you, there were thousands of people there and they all seemed to want to shake my hand, we published him, you know. Winston was such a popular fellow ...

"But, yes, I see - you're wondering why I can say I'd recognize you anywhere. Well ...

"Pull up a pew, pull up a pew. See, I was asked to be the literary executor of Beauchamp's estate, Beauchamp asked me himself quite a while ago. You can imagine the stuff -- he'd collected books and stuff all his life, then there were his own manuscripts, he'd kept every word he'd ever written so far as I could tell. And of course people from all over the world had sent him their manuscripts, asking if he could get them published. You can imagine the quality; some of them weren't even in English! But he kept them all."

He smiled in the recollection, rolling his eyes. A little flicker of concern waved at me from my stomach as I began to see where he might be heading.

"And then there were the photographs. You know he was a keen amateur photographer. Well of course you do, you're in some of them."

He looked at me, waiting for a response. I smiled wanly, with as much warmth as can be managed when one's heart has stopped beating.

He nodded. "Yes, so many photos, all dumped in boxes and boxes and boxes ... and then there were the albums. Did he show you his albums by any chance?"

"Ah, yes, he did ... some anyway."

"Yes, I thought he might have. Well, there were just the three. Really superior work, didn't you think? Of course, Beauchamp didn't take those, they were Sir Cedric's - Cedric Clouter. You know who I mean?"

"Yes, I do. He photographed my mother."

"Of course. Lady Jane. But if Cedric knows you I'm surprised you haven't wound up in his collections, the ones he kept at Beauchamp's place - you're very much his type."

"I just met him that one time, at my parent's place. But ... Professor Beauchamp told me he took most of those photos himself. And they were definitely taken in his house."

"Yes, they were. But that was just the Professor's line, as it were."

"I don't ... quite follow you."

"Well, by pretending that work of such high quality was his own, Beauchamp was able to pass himself off as an 'artist'. Rather than as someone who had a strong interest in pornography. That way -- well, I bet he showed you the first album, the nudes album, as art."

"Yes, he did."

"Yes, you see his own photos were quite pedestrian, they wouldn't have done the job. But by using Clouter's work, he was able to sort of break the ice with the boys that Hewitt sent him."

"What do you mean, 'the boys that Hewitt sent him'?" I asked, stutteringly. But I knew what he meant.

"Didn't Professor Hewitt send you to Beauchamp?"

"Yes. He scouted me as a First Year writer for Pantheon."

"Exactly. Good ruse. Professor Hewitt would keep an eye out for likely candidates among the new students, boys who were known to have homosexual experiences, and who were the right 'type' -- slim, graceful, a little effeminate, hope you're not offended. He was usually guided."

"How -- how would he know they'd had homosexual experiences?"

"Well, he had ... older students. I'm sure if you think about it you'll remember someone from your past who might have known enough about you to direct Professor Hewitt to you."

"... oh, I see. Yes, perhaps there was someone." I remembered Bummer Harris. Professor Hewitt had told me Harris had recommended me. He'd just neglected to mention for what. 

"Yes, there always was. And was it someone you'd had, er, experiences with? At Ranleigh, perhaps?"

My face was burning. "But -- how did Pantheon fit in? It's a real Journal. I thought it was well-respected."

"Oh, yes, the best, I agree. No, the only connection with Pantheon was that Beauchamp was editor of it, only part time, of course, people like Hewitt did the actual work, but Beauchamp was such a giant that he could publish anything he wanted, and he used it to, er, get to know some potential, er some potential ..." He trailed off.

"In your College there were two - you and a boy called Moody."

"Moody?" I said, incredulous. My room mate? That Moody? I wasn't surprised that he might have been sought out for Professor Beauchamp's little photography sessions, but the idea that he could have been published in Pantheon was ridiculous.

"Moody was published in Pantheon? He could hardly write a grammatically correct sentence!"

"Yes, that's what Robbie Burlap says, utter drivel apparently. But, no, he wasn't published in Pantheon. Neither of you was published."

"But we would have been? -- if the Professor hadn't died, I mean."

"In your case, yes. But probably not Moody. His piece really was terrible I'm told. He looked very fetching in his photographs though." And he laughed, and after a moment I did too, it was all just so ludicrous. 

"Here" Mr Meech went on "see for yourself."

He pushed a small folder of photos across the table to me.

In the first one, Moody was standing by the window in the nude, looking back at the camera, trying to strike the same pose and the same empathy that the boy in Sir Cedric's photo had done. There were several in that general pose, then a few of him lying in the nude on the bearskin, essentially the same poses I had done. The quality of the photos wasn't poor, but they fell well short of being works of art, just as Meech had said.

In the next photograph, Moody was sitting in the chair by the table, sitting in the nude as I had done, sitting on the same velvet cushion I had sat on, and he had the head of Professor Beauchamp's penis in his mouth. Just as I had had. 

I stared at it. Even in this strange context, sitting in Meech's office, the photograph exerted a powerful erotic pull on me, the slim, graceful student, completely nude, the large slimy stiff penis in his mouth, the photo itself, and my memory of my own episode, sent my blood racing and my penis was instantly stiff.

I tried to think of something to say, aware of Meech's eyes on me.

"Um, I'm slightly surprised that Moody let himself be photographed like this. I didn't think he was that -- extroverted."

Meech looked at me with a wrinkled brow. What I'd said apparently puzzled him. Did he perhaps have some reason to know that Moody actually was extroverted?

No. He looked at me for a long moment, and then reached under the pile of papers on his desk and pushed another folder over to me.

I wasn't surprised when I opened it and found the first photograph was of me, in the nude, looking back at the camera from in front of that big beautiful set of windowed french doors. I had hoped that this wasn't going to happen, that the half-exposed roll of film in the Professor's Rollei hadn't been noticed, hadn't been developed, hadn't found it's way back into my world. 

But it had. In fact, of course, this was what Mr Meech had meant when he said that I hadn't changed, that I looked exactly the same - he'd seen this photo of me, looking back at the camera. A little coquettish.

Then the ones of me on the bearskin. Embarrassing, but not the end of the world.

But then the next one showed me seated in front of the Professor, in the nude, on the velvet cushion, just like Moody, and just like Moody, I was performing fellatio on the Professor.

"Fuck!" I breathed, staring at the picture. Then at Mr Meech.

"Yes, it's -- I thought that when I first looked at them -- at Beauchamp's own photos I mean. It's always the same - a few preliminary ones in which the boy is the only one in the picture, always posing in the nude, often looking at the camera, obviously aware he is posing. Then there are more photos in which the boy has sex with the professor, and those ones are always lower quality -- not well-framed, or even properly focused sometimes -- and, well, I think those ones were done with a concealed camera."

"I see." There were two more of me serving Professor Beauchamp, including when he had ejaculated so messily, half on my face, half in my mouth, leaving a large gob of spunk, I now saw, dribbling off my chin.

I stared at the pictures again for a long moment, sitting in the imperfect silence of Charles Meech's office, and acutely conscious of Charles Meech's eyes on me. Could he see I was getting stiff? Could he see I was panting?

"No need to be embarrassed," he said after a moment, and I looked up.

"Not on my account, anyway" he added. "I mean, I can see they have the potential for embarrassment, certainly, but as for myself - well, I'm the last person to judge. In fact ..."

He looked me, holding my eye for emphasis.

"... in fact, I rather enjoyed them. And it looks as if you enjoyed making them?" He still held my eye, smiling, holding a faintly quizzical expression, waiting for me to react.

I grappled for an answer, waiting for my mind to clear of the curious fog that always descended on me for a few moments when someone came on to me. It was self-evident that I had enjoyed making the photos - in the ones of my sucking Professor Beauchamp's cock, I was also masturbating myself with one hand.

"Yes, I did enjoy making them," I said lamely. I had by this time overcome the surge of lust that seeing the photos had broght on, but now it was exciting me to be discussing them with Meech.

"No need to be ashamed, it's quite common," he was saying, suddenly hearty. "In fact, if you'd like to experience er some more, come round to my place tonight for a drink. Have to be after dinner, though - I have to take a writer to dinner."

"Yes, that would be ... No photos, though" I said.

"I don't even own a camera." And he gave me a card with his home address on it.

* * *

Mr Meech had a large, dark house off Berkeley Square, around the corner from his office. As he opened a bottle of wine in his big, dimly-lit living room, he said

"Before I forget, Wilson, I must mention this." He put down the wine bottle and got some magazines from the next room and handed them to me. Going back to the wine bottle, he went on

"Have you heard of Viscount Lindmann, the German publisher?"

I hadn't.

"Well, he's bought a small London outfit, a magazine publisher, rescued them really, they were pretty close to extinction. They publish Swinging London Magazine and a few other titles - the ones I've given you.

"And Voltan, that's his name, has asked me if I could suggest a few young writers to him, for these magazines, and it occurs to me that it might suit you. 

" ... if you could bring yourself to write for them - they're not the most prestigious publications. But ... look through them and see for yourself. Don't be too put off by what you read - if you think they're not very good, so does Voltan, he wants writing that's you know, a bit more with it, a few IQ points higher. You could definitely do that, from what I hear."

I told him I'd look at them.

"And I'd like to stay in touch with you myself, by the way" Mr Meech went on, pouring two glasses of wine. "You know we focus on young writers. And as for Voltan - he's the biggest private publisher in Germany, not a bad house to be writing for in the meantime."

He tried the wine, a little theatrically, and we moved over to the huge chairs by the fireplace, and once we were settled, Mr Meech re-directed the conversation to the main point.

"So you liked Beauchamp's photo albums?"

"Yes, I did."

"Yes, they're really terrific aren't they? Had you ever seen anything like that before?"

"No. Absolutely not, never!"

He looked at me appraisingly. "But I suppose you've thought about things like that - the um activities in the photos, I mean."

"Yes."

"Like, um, perfoming fellatio for a man?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't bother you that he's older?"

"No." I thought about it for a moment and said "Not at all."

"What about being tied up? Had you had thoughts about that before seeing Clouter's photos? I know a lot of people do."

I saw that the purpose of his line of conversation was to sort of prime me, and the thought emboldened me, let me slip the mooring to my usual caution and play my role for him. I had to shift in my chair to ease the pressure on my penis as it stiffened in my trousers.

"Yes. Especially that, especially being tied up. It's always been ... exciting for me." I fumbled for a word. I didn't have a very good vocabulary for these areas of fantasy, or for the states of arousal that they engendered - they were so private that I'd never spoken to anyone about them.

"But you weren't tied up in any of the photos he took of you - do you know why not?"

I had actually wondered about that myself - after all, the Professor was clearly interested, and I would certainly have acquiesced.

"Yes, I think I do know why not: the Professor didn't have time to tie me up, he had people coming for dinner."

Mr Meech laughed, a genuine chuckle. He pulled himself out of his chair - with an effort, he was quite bulky - and poured more wine. Standing beside me, leaning forward to pour the wine, I could see the prominent bulge in the front of his pants, which he made no effort to conceal. I was panting a bit, and I leaned back in my chair so that he could see I was stiff too - for both of us it was so obvious, even in the fashionable Tiffany half-light.




Knowing The Right People



He put the bottle down and sat back down in his chair.

"Stand up, Andrew" he said to me, and I stood up, right in front of him.

"I see you're enjoying this conversation too? Or are you just stiff all the time?"

"A bit of both, Sir. But perhaps especially the conversation."

"You were stiff in the photos too."

"Yes, Sir."

"You enjoyed ... what? - being undressed?"

"It's always been exciting for me, being, you know, looked over."

Mr Meech sighed, a long slightly raspy sigh.

"Why don't you take your clothes off?" he said, and I started unbuttoning my shirt. Mr Meech watched me, both of us silent. 

Once I was down to my underpants, he unbuttoned his own trousers and brought his penis out into view. As I rolled my underpants down my thighs, he started masturbating himself and I could hear him breathing now. I could hear a slight, regular squelch sound too - he was already bringing up spunk. Once I was completely nude I went over and knelt down between his legs.

He seemed twice as big as me, and his penis twice as big as mine, waving in front of my face. I worked his pants and underpants down off his hips, him squirming in his chair to help me, then pulled them off. He was still masturbating, now on a coating of spunk that made a rhythmic bubbling noise. Still kneeling between his legs, I reached out and handled his balls, massaging them gently. I slid a finger over his slimy fist to get it slippery, then I worked it down under his balls to touch his perineum. Once again, Moody came to mind, and I had a sudden shaft of enlightenment: Mr Meech had probably done Moody too. Or would.

He raised his angle on the chair slightly and I was able to work my hand back underneath him so I could touch behind his perineum, carefully probing his crack. He gave a ragged sigh again when I managed to touch his anus, and he reached for my head with his free hand, and guided me gently down, bowing down over his big stiff penis until it was touching my face as he masturbated. He brought the head against my mouth, a big, hard, shiny, slimy mushroom sliding between my lips. He increased the pressure on the back of my head and I opened my mouth and the bulbous head slid over my lips and I felt it probe on my tongue, rubbery and slippery. And again, the odd sense of it being so big in my mouth.

I bobbed my head up and down in the way I knew was expected of me and I could feel his anus clenching on my finger, a sign, I knew, that he wasn't far from coming. His fist was still round his penis, having guided it into my face and then my mouth, and now he began masturbating gently onto my face.

"Do you think of something like this when you masturbate?" he asked, out of the blue.

"Yes. I do. I think of being completely nude and being made to do things for a man."

" ... made to?"

"Yes, it's always been very exciting for me that thought." I could hear that my enunciation was slightly off because my mouth was still coated with spunk.

"And tied up?"

"I almost always think of myself as tied up when it happens. I'm completely nude and with my hands tied behind my back, and this man has got me in a quiet lonely place and he makes me take his penis in my bum, you know, slides it right up ..."

And as I said this I felt Mr Meech's whole body pause, then stiffen. His anus tightened, clenching on my slippery finger, grinding down on my hand. And at the same time he grabbed me by the hair and started pumping his penis right on my face, grunting and fisting himself furiously, and in a moment he was squirting gouts of spunk in my mouth. I pulled back after the first squirt into my mouth, and it went on my cheeks, on my eye. And then, with a long exhalation, he went limp, except his anus, still reflexly twitching and squeezing on my finger.

I knelt still and he was the same, no movement at all, perfectly silent. I detected a slow regular breathing that transmitted itself through his hand, still on my head. And in a minute it became a low snorting sound - snoring. Mr Meech was asleep!

I disentangled myself, wiped the spunk off my face with my handkerchief. I tried not to wake him, but my underpants were under his foot, and when I retrieved them he snorted and regained consciousness. He watched, not moving, as I stepped into them.

"You know, Andrew ..."

"Yes?"

"All this about Beauchamp and Hewitt and ..." he trailed off. What was his point?"

"Yes ..." I said, trying to keep him going.

"It would all make quite a good short story."

* * *

On the way back up to University, Stephanie's exquisite little French friend was on the train and she came over and sat next to me.

"Andrew, isn't it? You are Delaroy's friend. Why you were in London?"

"Oh, visiting a ... um, a publisher."

"You are a writer?"

"I'd like to be. And you, why were you in London?"

"Same, visiting. A friend."

"Have fun?"

"No. He's a little bit of a prick as it turns out. Actually."

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"It happens. You're Delaroy's friend ... and Moody's, right?"

"Yes. He's my room mate."

"Oh. Is it true he's homosexual?"

"I've heard that too."

"Are you?"

"Homosexual? - No, I'm not."

"English boys are, sometimes."

"I've heard that too."

"But you're not, that's good. Because ... now I have no-one to take me to the Ball, you know, with my friend turning out to be like that, a prick."

"The May Ball? You want me to go to the May Ball with you?" These were held at the end of the academic year. At one time that was apparently in May, but now they're in June.

"Yes, of course the May Ball."

"I'd ... I'd be delighted."

"Alright."

"One thing ..."

"... I have to have sex with you afterwards?"

"Well, of course, that goes without saying - but what I was going to say was, it's a bit of a tradition, for some of the students anyway, to have breakfast in Paris the morning after the Ball. Perhaps you'd like to come to Paris with me afterwards?"

"I live in Paris. I've lived there all my life. I might not be the person who is the most inflamed with the desire to go all the way to Paris for breakfast."

"London?"

"Yes, that would be very nice. You know, Wilson, I always wanted to get to know you."

"What's your name?"

She burst out laughing, so loud that others in the carriage looked at us.

"You don't know my name!?" she laughed, incredulous.

"No. It never came up."

"I'm Campbell. How do you do?" And she leaned over and kissed me on both cheeks.

"Enchante. In English that's a boy's name."

"In French, too. My father wanted a boy."

* * *

The May Ball was absolutely magic. Slade was the band, to this day one of the best bands I've ever heard, and certainly the loudest. 

As we were arriving, Delaroy murmured in my ear 

"Perhaps I was wrong about Professor Hewitt after all ..." and he nodded to the entrance hall. 

There the Professor was arriving too, with a strikingly pretty girl on his arm. Everyone was looking at her. She was very slim, almost boyish, and she had a huge mop of bright yellow hair. She caught us looking at her and she winked at me.

"You know her?" asked Delaroy.

"Yes, we ... recognise one another from somewhere."

"What's she like?"

"Impure."

"You have to introduce me!" he said, whispering right in my ear so his own girl wouldn't hear.

"She's not really your type," I whispered back.

* * *