Bath Oliver
by Ivor Slipper
I nearly fell off my chair at the breakfast table that morning when I started reading the Old Boys magazine.
It was now not far short of 40 years since I had left the school but when I did I had joined the Old Boys Association. At the time I think most of us leavers did but I knew that over the years many had dropped out. I wasn't sure why I was still a member or come to that why I had ever joined in the first place. It wasn't as if I'd been that good at sport (apart from rugby which for strange reasons I enjoyed) and thus wanted to play in one of the Old Boy's rugby or cricket teams. Come to that nothing much at school had been my forte and I hadn't been a leading light in anything. But I'd joined and never got round to leaving.
At first I had gone to a couple of the annual reunion dinners and it was good to see a few people again. But as time had passed and our lives taken us in different directions and to various parts of the world, the urge to go back and meet those few friends I had made at school diminished. So now all I got for my membership was the quarterly Old Boys magazine. Most of it contained little of interest to me to be honest; sometimes there was a snippet about a boy I had known, but there was never anything about him.
He was the reason I'd gone to those reunion dinners, but he'd not appeared much to my disappointment. I was told that he'd joined one of the services – the Navy I think – so quite possibly he wasn't even in the country when they took place. I'm sure whatever he did with his life it would have been successful, but I guess if he did join the Navy he never made it as far as Admiral or I'm sure I would have spotted his name in the paper or heard it on the news.
As for me I'd joined my father's firm which was involved in manufacturing plastic articles, mainly housewares such as bowls and buckets. We'd been fairly successful for many years, but finally the competition from the Far East based on their cheap labour costs had started to cause us problems. Fortunately before the problems had become too severe and soon after my father had finally retired, I was able to sell the business. Since then I'd lived a life of leisure with my wife Sandra, splitting our year between our house in England and the villa in Spain which enabled me to play golf all the year round. We had frequent visits from my three daughters, their husbands/partners in two cases, and grandchildren.
Besides nearly falling off the chair I must also have muttered something as I heard Sandra asking me to repeat what I'd said. Instead I put the magazine down on the table, turned it so that it was upright to her and said,
"Recognise anyone?"
She peered at the picture for a brief period before looking across the table at me.
"Is that you?" she asked.
I couldn't blame her for asking the question as in all honesty it was quite hard for me to even recognise myself. Partly because I was absolutely covered in mud from head to foot while holding a rugby ball in both hands and partly because we hadn't met until we were at Durham University together.
I nodded and she said smiling at me,
"My word, you were a dirty little boy, weren't you?"
At that I instantly went into flashback mode, recalling just what a 'dirty little boy' I had been back then………
As far as the picture was concerned I hadn't been aware it had been taken, but it was definitely me. I was thirteen at the time, but quite small for my age which was why I ended up playing at scrum half in the House rugby team. Back then scrum halves were nearly always small and the way in which you passed the ball, usually to your fly half, after it came out of the scrum, was to dive full length while doing so. In theory this increased the distance you could pass the ball and put your fly half into more space, but it also meant that every time you did so you ended up flat on the ground. Come a wet day and a churned up rugby field and as scrum half you would inevitably end up covered in mud and thus much muddier than the other players who would just get dirty from tackling and such like.
I was a bit surprised to see how long my blond hair was in the picture – yes it really was blond back then although it is pretty mud covered. I guess it must have been one of those times when the Head wasn't on one of his anti-long hair purges. You can't even tell the colour of my shirt from the pic, but it was green. Pupils at the school were divided into four houses – Drake, Cook, Wellington and Nelson; I was in Nelson and our colour was green. The shorts were probably a sort of grey colour and very short and tight, especially when wet and muddy. Our socks would also have been grey, not that you'd know from that picture with one down round my ankle and the other looking as if it is about to join its partner.
That winter it seemed to rain a lot and the rugby field became very much like a quagmire. Consequently virtually every game I played resulted in me ending up very muddy, but I really didn't mind.
My parents had sent me off to boarding school when I was eleven. I'd hated it at first, but as time passed I had slowly grown to like it. Before the time I reached thirteen and puberty had finished working its miracles, I was thoroughly enjoying it.
Part of my problem initially was that I was an only child. I had been used to having my own things and my own privacy. To be suddenly thrust into a situation where privacy hardly existed was a tough adjustment to make. I had originally gone to the little school in our village where I knew all of the other boys and girls in my class when I started as well as most of the older ones. Now I was in a school of about four hundred pupils ranging in ages from eleven to sixteen or even eighteen. Worst of all for me was that I was in a dormitory along with about two dozen other boys – not one of whom I knew. I was forced to eat, study and sleep alongside these strangers.
Add to that I had to wear a uniform whereas at the village school anything was acceptable. Now though I had to wear black leather lace up shoes; long grey woollen socks that ended just below my knees; grey corduroy shorts that ended several inches above my knees; a grey shirt; a black tie with diagonal green stripes because that was the house colour and a black blazer with the school badge on the top pocket again in green in my case and underneath the badge the school motto – "Vincit". That to all the boys was translated not as it was intended to be as 'He Conquers' but much more literally as 'Wank it' – not that I understood what that meant at the time I joined the school.
Most of the other boys in my dorm had either gone through the school's preparatory offshoot or had boarded at other schools. Thus I was the only boy in that dorm who had no experience, but I was to learn very quickly.
On my first night I crawled into my bed just before 'lights out' at 9:30. I'd been warned by our dorm prefect that after lights out no talking was allowed, but it became clear after a few nights that only applied for the first hour or so and that once it was safe to assume the danger had passed of any master entering the room due to noise, then talking and other things could happen.
I was so unhappy that first night that I started crying. I tried not to make any noise but I couldn't help it even by pushing my face into my pillow. After a few minutes though I felt my bedclothes being lifted and then someone got into bed and snuggled up behind me.
"Keep quiet, Benson. You'll soon get used to being here and crying isn't going to help."
I had no idea who this boy was, but the words registered in my brain as did the thought that someone cared about me and my crying subsided. I felt an arm go over my body and pull me closer. It was nice being cuddled like that and I started to relax. Then the hand slid lower, pulled the knot of the cord on my pyjama trousers and felt its way down to cup my balls and prick. I tried to jerk away but the voice whispered in my ear to be still and quiet so I obeyed even though no strange hand had ever been there before. The fingers of the hand stroked my prick and I began to enjoy the sensations I was feeling. It wasn't many minutes before I experienced my first dry orgasm.
"Now it's your turn, Benson" said the voice and its owner moved in my bed to lie with his back to me. I duly turned over and placed my arm over him. His pyjama trousers were already undone and when my fingers went inside them I was surprised to find a prick that was already hard and definitely longer than mine. I duly stroked it and was amazed when its owner suddenly stiffened and then something damp came from the end of his prick over my fingers.
"Lick it off, Benson. Don't leave the evidence around" said the voice and once again I did as I was told. I'd thought it was piss that I'd got on my fingers but it was thicker than that and tasted slightly salty, but quite nice I thought.
"Now we'd better go to sleep" said the voice and I did. When I woke in the morning I was alone in the bed. Had I dreamt what had happened that night? I did suspect I had but there on my pillow was a gold star that hadn't been there the previous night when I'd got into bed.
Later that morning after we'd washed and dressed the dorm prefect who was a 17 year old boy called Roberts, called me over. He asked if I'd had a visitor during the night. I wasn't sure how to answer him as I didn't want to get anyone into trouble so I sort of mumbled something. He sat down on his bed, indicated for me to sit beside him and said,
"I think I'd best try and explain things for you, Benson. In this dorm most of the boys have their special chums; not everyone mind you, but most. Of those who don't some don't want a special chum but others do. The boy who visited you last night I suspect left you a token and if you look carefully tonight you should see a matching token on his bed. Of course he may have decided that he doesn't want to be a special chum with you after all in which case he won't display a token. But if there is a token and you want to be special chums with him then you are invited to go and share his bed tonight. If you don't go then perhaps on another night someone else will join you and maybe leave a token, but there is no guarantee. And being a special chum is not like being married, relationships can change.
Do you understand?"
Of course it was all a totally new world to me and I wasn't sure I fully understood what Roberts had said and meant. But being all on my own I decided that I did need a special chum and just hoped that not only would I spot a gold star on one of the beds, but that it would be on the bed of someone nice.
I couldn't wait for evening to come when we got back to our dorm after eating our evening meal and doing prep. I tried hard not to look too anxious as I walked round the dorm exchanging a few words with some of my fellows who I was starting to get to know. Then I spotted it – a little gold star on a pillow, but there was nobody by that bed. I looked round the room trying to work out who was missing, but couldn't decide who it might be so I went back to my bed, sat down on it and got out a book which I pretended to read. I was not really concentrating on it but rather casting frequent glances at that bed - two down from mine and on the opposite side of the room.
The door to the corridor opened and in walked two boys, not together but one behind the other. One was quite tall, slim with dark hair and a friendly face; the other was slightly shorter, a little on the tubby side with ginger hair and freckles. I couldn't breathe as they walked down the room drawing level with my bed. Neither had glanced at me but then the ginger haired one stopped, stepped towards my bed and spoke,
"Hi, Benson, I'm Rawlings. Hope you're settling in okay. It's weird at first being in a boarding school, but I'm sure you'll soon get used to how we do things."
With that he moved on. I looked past him and saw the other boy had now walked on to the far end of the dorm, but Rawlings stopped at the bed with gold star on the pillow, turned, looked at me and smiled. As he did so his face lit up and I knew where I wanted to be that night.
And so my introduction to life in a boarding school was thus well in hand – Oliver's hand that is. He became my mentor, guide and to some extent at least in the early days, protector. Sadly the school had a number of bullies but Oliver was quite an expert in judo and consequently nobody crossed him or his chum.
I lived for the nights we spent together although most of them were simply spent cuddling one another. But it wasn't long before my orgasms ceased being dry and I can clearly recall as if it was yesterday Oliver's delight at the first time I managed to spurt a few drops onto his fingers. Drops which he proceed to consume as if they were the highest quality Beluga caviar!
It turned out that he also lived quite close to me so it was natural that we came to spend parts of our holidays with each other. His family lived in a large rambling manor house with considerable grounds including woods. His father seemed to spend most of his time elsewhere – 'in the city' I was told by his mother, while she was quite happy to leave the pair of us to our own devices. Perhaps the more accurate word though would be vices as we moved in fairly quick time from what we could do in bed in the dorm at school to what was possible in his bedroom or the woods in summer.
I have to say that Oliver led the way in everything we did together, but I was a very willing disciple every step of the way on this voyage of discovery. His bedroom at the manor house had two beds, a double and a single, but we only ever slept in the double although we ensured the bedding on the single was sufficiently disturbed each morning to give the housekeeper the impression that it was being used. It also had its own private bathroom.
Mind you it was on the very first night I stayed there that I very nearly blotted my copybook to an extent that might have ensured I was never invited back. Mr Rawlings was at home and a formal dinner was served in the dining room. The meal was finished with cheese that was accompanied by some very nice crackers of a type I'd never seen before. I asked Mrs Rawlings what they were and was informed they were Bath Olivers on hearing which I nearly choked on the part of the one of those and some cheese I had in my mouth at the time. Fortunately I was able to pull my napkin from off my lap and get it in front of my mouth before its contents would otherwise have been sprayed over the table.
"One should never speak with one's mouth full."
was Mrs Rawlings comment when I recovered my composure, while Mr Rawlings restricted himself to an harrumph followed by another mouthful of his port.
As soon as reasonably possible after dinner Oliver asked if we could retire to his room. Once we had got there and he had closed the door behind us I walked across the room, opened the door to the en suite and with an 'after you' wave of my hand said,
"Bath, Oliver?"
on hearing which he collapsed onto the bed almost doubled up with laughter. We did indeed have a bath and afterwards when we got into bed Oliver gave me my first blow job which I heartily, if clumsily, reciprocated on the next night. It was only a couple of nights later that he explained to me how we could satisfy each other at the same time and when I stayed there for part of the Easter holidays we became so expert at pleasuring each other that we could virtually synchronise our cumming. Meantime those two words became a sort of catchphrase for us signifying that the fun was about to start.
All of this, and more, came flooding back on seeing that picture. The great thing about playing rugby was the communal bath that we were all 'forced' to take after the game. I say 'forced' as there was an option to take a shower, but the water in the showers was usually lukewarm at best as virtually all the hot had been used to fill the bath. But of course the warm water wasn't the only attraction. Toss thirty teenage boys with dirty bodies into a communal bath and it is a certainty that a large percentage of those, especially in an all boy boarding school, will also have dirty minds. Thus it became an opportunity to grasp and grapple with each other in the knowledge that what you were doing was pretty much hidden from the eyes of the Games Master by a combination of the vigorous thrashing about of those bodies, soap scum, but most of all the way in which the water quickly became dirty from all the mud that was being washed off. Naturally chums helped one another remove the mud from their bodies and Oliver and I liked to give each other plenty to do. It also became a ritual for me to say to him after the game was over, "Bath, Oliver?" in the knowledge that we were about to have some fun.
There was a risk involved in such activities and that was that you could make what you were doing to each other a little too obvious and it would be spotted by the Games Master – Mr Eales. He was known to us boys as 'Slippery' and not just for the obvious reason of his name. It was just as much because if you fell foul of him then your arse and his size 12 slipper would quickly become acquainted. That was bad enough if it happened in the gym or on the sports field, but boy oh boy it was something else entirely if he decided you were up to serious no good in the bath.
The day that picture was taken was one of those. Oliver and I had somehow managed to become separated from the main group of boys in the bath and 'Slippery' spotted that we were busily engaged in wanking each other off. Suddenly I heard this roar as he called out our names and instructed us to get out of the bath. We knew what was coming as we'd seen it happen before with a couple of other boys. We were still sporting our erections as we got out of the bath but they were subsiding fairly quickly as we walked towards him. Quite where he'd found it from I don't know but he had his trusty slipper in his hand and told us both to bend over and grasp our ankles. As I said being slippered by him wasn't rare and being slippered at the school wasn't unusual but getting six whacks on a bare, wet arse was something totally different. Normally one could take a slippering over your corduroy shorts without too much of a problem, but this had both of us hollering by the time he'd got halfway, landing whacks on each of us alternately. We both had faces that were wet with more than just the bath water by the time he'd finished.
The only good thing is that we had a tremendous mutual wank in bed that night and naturally come the next game I was once again doing my best to get as muddy as possible. We were though rather more discrete in the bath afterwards!
My relationship with Oliver continued throughout our time at school and especially during the school holidays. Well before the time we left Oliver had shown me other things we could do with our pricks apart from wank and suck them. Very suddenly though it all ended; I managed to scrape a place at Durham University while Oliver achieved one at Southampton. At the same time my father relocated the family business and during the summer between leaving school and starting uni we moved a couple of hundred miles away. Although we spoke on the 'phone a few times afterwards we never saw each other again. Once I got to uni I also suddenly found that girls were actually quite interesting, especially when Sandra came into my life. What happened to Oliver I have no idea.
However, although I have been happily married for over thirty years now and have a family, I do have a secret which is that I am bisexual. Throughout that time I have had relationships with young men.
While here in Spain I play golf two or three times a week. It is a sport that holds virtually no interest for Sandra so I am out of her sight on those days. About once a fortnight though I don't go to the golf club but instead drive into Torremolinos to my own special '19th hole' where I enjoy the company of an attractive dark haired and dark skinned young man named Carlos. Usually when I get back to the villa after my game Sandra will ask if I had a good game. There are occasions when after seeing Carlos I can honestly tell her that I had a very good one and scored a sixty nine!
Voting
This story is part of the 2016 story challenge "Inspired by a Picture: Cold, Wet, and Muddy". The other stories may be found at the challenge home page. Please read them, too. The voting period of 3 June 2016 at noon, to at noon on 30 June 2016 (times in UTC) is when the voting is open. This story may be rated, below, against a set of criteria, and may be rated against other stories on the competition home page.
The challenge was to write a story inspired by this picture:
Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily.* Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.
[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address (it goes directly to your clipboard without having the courtesy of mentioning that to you) to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. Note: If the email address pastes or arrives with %40 in the middle, replace that weird set of characters with an @ sign.]
* Some browsers may require a right click instead
