Blessed Be the Merciful
by Rafael Henry
Chapter 7
Close to the end of the school year is a thing called Parents Morning and Annual Swimming Gala. They reckon on about one fifth of the parents turn up for the Morning, and even fewer hang around for the as-near-as-damnit naked boys treat for those of us that appreciate such things. We are all off-lessons so we are available to show our people the 'facilities'. It's all very low key and informal, with a short address from the Headmaster to start things off and a buffet lunch around one, and then all the aqua-athletes start to do their stuff at two. All the chairs are arranged around the outdoor pool, and boys are allowed to sit with their parents for the event. The competitors have their changing area on the grass at one end of the pool. They arrive in white shorts and tee shirt with the swimming togs rolled up in a towel, and herded into their House groups to change from their white briefs into navy blue or black swimming ones, and sit on the grass and await further instructions. There's no danger my people will show up, but Peter's father did.
I was in the Creative Arts area waiting to be asked a question by a disinterested parent who thought he or she ought to take a passing interest in matters cultural and ask me something . Peter strolls in about eleven with his extraordinarily handsome father. He's blond, like his son, and it's not hard to see where Peter gets his looks from. He's dressed in casual stone- coloured shorts, pale blue polo shirt and brown leather slip-on loafer type shoes and no socks, and he's obviously come on his own. He has a gold chain around his neck with a cross attached. He's clean shaven, quite thin faced, very fit looking, and lightly tanned with a quantity of fine golden hair on his legs and arms. As I look down at the front of his shorts, as I always do, there's more than a hint of the unknown in there. So far he has kept his hands out of his shorts pockets, preferring to put a thumb in the waistband, or hold his hands behind his back. I don't get a rear view until he stoops to examine a small pot some child has fashioned, with a messy coloured glaze all over it. Then I can see that his underwear is modern and nicely cut, so much so my heart does one of those curious little flips, indicating to yours truly that I've seen something of interest. No doubt in the course of this afternoon's events, I will see more, as I shall make sure I get a seat at the grassy end of the pool. I have noticed from the list of competitors one or two names of boys whom I have yet to see minus their regular school attire. Swimming shorts, or God forbid, those garish surfing shorts, are not allowed in the pool at all……never. Boys must wear regulation navy or black very brief pool pants as they are called here. Thank the Lord for that.
'Would you sit with me Jamie…….at the Gala? As Peter's competing, I'll need some company.' Peter's handsome father asks, just before he and Peter leave me in the room full of largely mediocre objets d'art. I gulp somewhat at his request………
'Yes of course Sir.' I reply, feeling my face warm. You should always address a male parent as 'Sir', at least to start with. At least they do teach the boys some manners here.
'Good. Where shall I meet you?'
'Oh, maybe outside the lunch tent Sir? I can wait there until you're ready Sir?'
I wasn't expecting that.
With a half hour to go before the start of the Gala, Henry Thompson appears from the lunch tent. He sees me waiting and walks over to me. I'm dressed in full school kit, white shirt and striped tie, smart grey trousers, black blazer, and nicely polished black shoes, my hair attended to, and trimmed and clean fingernails. All this, and fresh socks and underpants, makes me feel confident.
'Care for a wander Jamie……for a few minutes? I've not seen the garden. I'm told it's worth a visit. Peter tells me you are friends. And can we drop the 'sir' bit please?'
Oh shit. He's going to quiz me on 'what kind of friendship is it' stuff.
We are out of earshot, so the questioning gets quite personal, and I can feel myself getting hotter and hotter. Basically, Peter's father wants to know just how 'friendly' we are with each other.
'I am aware Jamie. Peter has told me about you, and I'm pleased he's found a kind and reliable mentor, if I may use that term. He's very fond of you, and I can see, meeting you this morning, why he is. Is this a mutual thing, or are you just being kind? I must ask that you are completely honest with your answers Jamie, and don't for one moment think that I will disapprove, whatever you say. I wasn't born yesterday Jamie. You are both at an age when you are quite capable of forming deeper friendships. We all had them, if we were lucky enough. I think Peter is very lucky to have found you, if I may put it that way. Do you find here that you have opportunities to develop friendships beyond the casual? Are there times when you can be together and enjoy one another's company more fully……….privately shall we say? Peter tells me that he very much enjoyed his night away at your home.'
Bloody hell, how do I deal with this one? He's asking me if our friendship is a physical one. It is, or has been quite a few times. We both enjoy it. Peter came on to me, and I was thrilled that he had, and we went on to do something about it……..nothing drastic, but it was sexual, pure and simple.
Mr Thompson, or Henry as he insists I call him, wants me to be honest with him. The other thing is that his approach to me is touchingly warm, and I'm already convinced that he likes me. He's already had his hand on my shoulder, which incidentally, he kept there longer than one might have expected him to. We are walking through the garden, roses everywhere, and I'm desperately trying to decide exactly how honest I want to be. A couple of minutes pass…….
'So, are you going to tell me Jamie?'
Henry Thompson, Peter's father, knows that his son and I have slept in the same bed. He's wrung the truth from Peter, quite obviously, or just told so. So no earthly point in trying to pull any wool over this guy's eyes.
The swimming gala is about to start. We are at the far right-hand end of the front row of chairs, six deep, set out for the spectators to watch the swimming races. To our right is the grassy competitors changing area. There must be seventy odd boys in four distinct House groups, sitting cross-legged, some standing, some kneeling and chatting, all waiting for the call to action. Henry and I have been watching the show with the perfect view. A very pretty young lad called Leon has satisfied my curiosity nicely. I now know a lot more about him than I did five minutes ago. What a lovely surprise. Henry sits to my right, and from the occasional glances I give him, he's noticed the various goings on too. Earlier I told him about my liaison with his son Peter, truthfully. His response was interesting.
'Thank you for being frank with me Jamie. I appreciate that it takes a certain amount of courage to talk about personal matters with someone you might regard as a stranger. As I've said, I think Peter is a lucky boy. But I'm finding you interesting Jamie. I'd like to know more about you, if you were willing? I can quite see why Peter was drawn to you. You are a very attractive boy in several ways. It was kind of you to take Peter home with you. Has Peter told you about his home? You would be most welcome to come and stay?'
Oh fuck. This guy is really coming on to me. I've already concluded that Peter must have let something incriminating slip through the privacy net. If Peter has admitted that we had slept in the same bed, he could be forgiven for putting two and two together and making four?
An honest kid like Peter would be no match for the interrogation skills of a guy like Henry Thompson. It would probably go something like this…….
'So how was your weekend Peter? What was Jamie's bedroom like? Two beds in it? Oh, just the one bed was it? A double or a single bed was it? Did you sleep well? Oh, not very well. I expect you had a cuddle didn't you? You did. Oh that's nice. He's a very sweet boy isn't he? Yes he is, and very kind to you. How do feel about him Peter….really feel about him? He's very nice looking don't tyou think? You do? Oh that's nice.'
Peter didn't win his race, fifty yards freestyle, but he did well enough to come third. I told Henry about the figure I had made from his son, and how Peter had been my ideal model. Seeing him posed once more at the edge of the pool, poised and crouched down ready for the sharp sound of the starter's whistle and the dive into the water, took my mind back to the very beginning of that project. I told Henry all about those moments when I first realized that I had to know Peter properly, and how that couldn't happen unless Peter wanted it to. He did want to, bless him, and from that spark the flames were ignited.
'You love him don't you Jamie? I think you are old enough to know that, and to tell me you do? I think we can be grown-up about this Jamie. If that's true, I think it's quite wonderful. I really do.'
Of course I love Peter. And how. For Peter it will be different, inevitably……..not quite the same thing. I know what I am, and will be for ever. Peter does not know that about me, not yet at least.
Henry asked me to walk with him back to his car. It was about half-past-four. We had all had tea in the tea tent, Henry, Peter and I. Peter had gone off to do something he had to do apparently, so that left me with Henry. I watched as Peter said his goodbyes to his father, turned and walked away from us in that lovely sexy way he walks. I watch until Peter has disappeared from view. Then I look up at Henry, who I know has been keeping his eye on me.
'You really do, don't you?'
Not so much a question.
'Will you always be like this……..do you think?'
'Yes, I think so. But I think I need to know more……..about that kind of life. I think I'm ready. What I need to know I can't share with Peter.'
'Because he's still just a boy.'
'Yes. I know I'm very naïve about what it all means when you realise things about yourself. I know what I want, even now, at my age. It's not too soon. I'm old enough. I know I am.'
As I said those things, I knew that I was walking right into it, willingly.
'Would you like me to help you Jamie? I think I can if you would let me. Will you?'
When we found Henry's car on the field dedicated to temporary parking, almost all of the other cars had gone. The nearest one, an old and rather beautiful white drophead coupe Mercedes Super Light, was about twenty yards away with no one in sight. Peter opens the rear passenger door and puts his hand on my shoulder as I get in. He walks around the car and opens the door opposite and sits down beside me. I know what he was going to do, which is exactly what I want him to do. He leans over and plants the most gentle of kisses on my cheek, both of his hands behind my head. My hands rest in my lap. I'm breathing faster now and I'm aroused. He sits back, looking at me.
'Did you mind me doing that Jamie? I'm showing you some thanks, and……….'
'No.'
'But did you enjoy that Jamie, or not?'
'Yes I did.' I answer, nodding and my mouth open.
'When did you last come Jamie?'
'I'm not sure. Maybe the night before last.'
'Was that with Peter?'
'No. We haven't done it for a week or so.'
'Would you like me to do it for you now?'
'If you want?'
'Yes I do, very much.'
'Then yes, if you want to.'
I get my blazer out of harm's way as Henry exposes me carefully. I lean back and pull my shirt high up my chest, lift up my bottom so Henry can undo my trousers and slip my pants down as far as is necessary. I'm watching the whole time as he plays with my genitalia. When I move my legs wider apart, he takes the hint and pushes between my legs and with his middle finger, gently touches my back passage. I make an appreciative sound.
'Is that something you like Jamie?'
I nod.
'Has anybody ever?'
'No. Not yet.' I say, breathing heavily now.
'But they will?'
'Yes, I'm sure they will.'
'Soon?'
'Yes, I think so.'
'I think so too. I know Peter is a beautiful boy, but so are you. I'm going to start in a moment. Is that ok?'
I haven't moved my arms from my sides as he kisses me, this time on my mouth. I can't feel his tongue which is a slight relief. His other movements are deft, gentle when they need to be, and then firm and decisive when they need to be. I have been watching the whole time, when disengaged with Henry, and as the end nears, I put my head back and close my eyes, and by lifting my things higher still to leave exposed skin right up to my neck almost, I'm telling Henry that his mission is nearly complete. He has a knack for this thing, or maybe a sixth sense of where I am in the process, because he knows exactly when to slow, to quicken slightly, and then to slow almost to a stop, and then release me wonderfully from my agony! I love the sensation of the liquid rushing through my penis and out into the world. I have made a glorious mess on my tummy and chest. When I'm recovered enough to look my tormenter in the face, he's smiling……
'Was that nice? It looked it. I'm quite good at this sort of thing……you know, experienced.'
I smiled back as if to say, there's nothing like succumbing to the hand of an expert, and I meant it. It was five minutes of pure joy, and far better than I have ever experienced from a boy. He was equally deft with his monogrammed hanky.
'There, all done, you naughty boy. Are you ok?'
'Yes thanks. It was…….'
'Yes I know. I can tell. There's no hurry. We can sit here for a while. Just relax.'
It was fabulous what he did. He just eased me down so gently, touching and stroking, and generally comforting the flesh. Again, he hints at what might be possible in the right place and at the right time. I think that time for me is fast approaching.
'You say when you're ready Jamie.'
'Ready for what Sir?' I repost, almost laughing.
'There you go again, you bad lad.'
Re-assembled, zipped up and tidy, I get out of the car still with a bulge downstairs, and Henry Thompson, the father of my lover-boy leaves my whole body tingling with excitement. I knew that Henry had slipped something into my trouser pocket. With his car disappearing down the main drive and into the town, I extract and look at the hastily folded piece of paper. On it is written a telephone number. I know it not Peter's home number. I'm thinking that something I hadn't in the least expected in my life is actually going to happen.
In the car I had asked Henry if he was really Peter's father. He smiled, and said that a man could be more than one thing at any given time. With Peter's mother he could be one thing, and with me, he could be another. He smiled again and announced that 'women are for duty, but boys are for pleasure'. Then just before he drove off, he said……
'I've enjoyed your company Jamie. Boys are endlessly fascinating……..like toys powered by batteries. When they are charged up, they are ready to release all that energy. Again and again until they run dry, but still they go on. Your body will recharge and you will begin again. Is that you Jamie?'
He's right. I know I'm past that 'I just have to do it' stage that Peter's in right now. For me it's still a necessity when 'fully charged', or just after I've spent time with Peter. As I've mentioned, Peter has become rather selfish, wanting my services without offering anything in return. Of course I do what he wants me to do for him, and as often, which is often by the way. We can meet in 'safe' places easily enough, but as I am all systems go these days, it would appear now in terms of my sexual maturity, there are some practical difficulties. Peter is well behind me in the maturity stakes, obviously, so what I want he can't provide. Well he could , but he shouldn't.
There's a public telephone in our House which the boys can use to talk to their people at home as and when. If it's in use, one stands a discrete distance away so as not to overhear a private conversation, yet tell others you are waiting to use the facility. This afternoon I had to wait a few minutes for a first year to finish what was clearly a difficult conversation with home. By the end he was in floods of tears. Maybe his mother [or father] had to tell him his dog had died, or something worse. When he finished he had to walk past me. He stopped and looked up, pink eyed and still weeping. I took him by the shoulder and led him around the corner to a place where we could sit together for a while. I held him to my chest as we both wept, him for whatever tragedy had befallen him, and none of my business, and me for I know not what. It's easy to cry in these places. I couldn't allow that boy to suffer on his own. That's just not fair.
When I got back to the 'phone ten minutes later, someone else was on it, sods law, and having a very jolly chat to someone. I imagined what stories that telephone could tell, if it could. Thank goodness it can't.
The number Peter's father, Henry, had given me must be an office number. It sounded like an office environment rather than a room in a private house. He told me how much he had enjoyed his visit the other day but the conversation seemed to be going nowhere. I volunteered the fact that I can skive off on Saturday afternoons, if he wanted a face-to-face chat with me. I got the impression that if I didn't take the initiative, he wouldn't. He said it was fine to meet again, but there are legal issues due to my age if 'certain limits' were not kept to when 'vulnerable people' were involved. I hadn't considered anything like that. Am I a vulnerable person? I don't think so, but maybe society thinks I am.
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