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Date: Fri, 7 Jun 2002 07:04:06 +0100 (BST)
From: Smile <pantonius@yahoo.co.uk>
Reply-To: smile@yahoo.co.uk
Subject: Greg and Katie in Love (TG)
Greg and Katie in Love
a Justin Silk story
(c) Copyright Justin Silk 2002. All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER ONE
When I was a kid growing up in a typical suburban house in
a typical suburban street I was pretty much like most other
boys my age. Sort of typical, you might say.
I liked sports, especially those where I had to pit myself
against me. Swimming. Tennis, Gymnastics.
Can't say I was really stoked by team sports, but I was
tall for my years and they put me in the basketball team.
By the time I was nine or ten, they put me in the swimming
team, too. But that was fine by me. I really liked
swimming. I was good at it and it helped me keep in shape.
My name's Ewen McLintock. Ewen Alistair Gregory McLintock.
I'd chosen Gregory as my everyday name, but when I was
growing up, Ewen was what I was called at home and that was
fine by me.
Needless to say, some called me Jock. Still do. And I can't
say I mind.
From all of which you wouldn't be surprised to know that I
have Scottish antecedents. Incidentally, if you're one of
those picky people who insist it should be spelled Ewan,
please forgive me if I gently ask you to fuck off and mind
your own business.
My ain folk spell it with two e's, as do many other Scots.
It's Gaelic, and comes from E� gann, which, my grandpa told
me, was a form of John. Later, I discovered it more
probably came from Eugene.
And just to show that I'm not a completely pompous prick,
here's a joke against myself I've only just remembered.
One day at school, at the end of term, we had to write a
couplet about the name of a classmate. We drew names from a
hat.
Peter Bannister, now a well-known writer in the States,
drew my name. What he wrote got him in deep shit with the
class teacher and the headmaster.
"You've a very long name, young Jock McLintock,
And when you grow up, 'twill match your thin cock."
Something like that. Not exactly your perfect pentameter,
perhaps, and definitely not prescient in one respect. For
the record, it turned out to be thick.
I saw Pete interviewed on "Parkinson" the other night and
he mentioned the kid in his class he'd written this couplet
about. I blanched and Katie nearly choked on her drink.
"Can't remember his bloody name, except that it rhymed with
cock. Had to write a couplet about him. Headmaster gave me
the cane for what I wrote. Reckoned I must be some kind of
pooftah [that's Australian for faggot]."
"Which is American for poof, I suppose," said Parky with
that rare Yorkshire charm and style.
But I get ahead of myself.
When I was fourteen, like many of the boys in my class, I
got myself a paper round. I can't say I was really
enthusiastic about getting up that early in the morning,
but it brought in some pocket money.
I remember the first morning I went out on my own.
I was delivering in Morgan Road, just around the corner
from my house in Bond Street.
It was winter, and I was just lobbing the plastic-wrapped
paper on to a lawn when a light came on in a bedroom. All I
noticed was this thick and gorgeous long hair. I stopped
and, making sure I couldn't be seen, watched in awe as the
hair was shaken from side to side and then carefully
brushed out.
I was just coming up for my fifteenth birthday and I
guessed that the object of my interest was of a similar
age.
Being a little short-sighted [specs and then contacts would
follow], I nevertheless wasn't so blind that I wasn't
captivated. My heart told me what I needed to know. I knew
I wanted to run my fingers through that hair. Who was this
beautiful creature? I needed to know. Right then.
But how? I wasn't about to bang on the door and ask for an
immediate introduction to the owner of the glorious mane.
I'd reached that age when boys often think they have become
men. When boys start to brag - or skite, as we said - about
the 'chicks' they were 'going out with'.
Having passed the worst of that dreadful time of life
called, unappealingly, puberty, I didn't think too much
more about the hair after I'd finished the round.
[But I have to confess that the starching of many a late-
night handkerchief had a direct connection to my rising
early that winter morning.]
From the newsagency I discovered that the owners of the
house had only just moved in. But I still had no way of
knowing who the girl with the flaxen hair might be.
I asked one of the guys in the junior swimming team who
lived in Morgan Road if he knew who the vision of
loveliness was.
"Nah, mate," replied Eddie, absently. And drawing his
intellect up to its full six inches, he slouched away.
Notwithstanding this lack of interest, a couple of weeks
later, when my brief and distant encounter with The Hair
had become a faint memory, my classmate Eddie grabbed the
arm of my blazer and pointed to a new girl who'd just come
into our class. She was Indian with the most beautiful
long, satin-smooth blue-black locks.
"That her? Nah, dickhead, the Indian sheila. Just moved
into our street at the weekend. If she wouldn't be Indian,
I'd bury my head in that hair," said Eddie, with his usual
mix of juvenile racism, anti-sophistication and total lack
of logic.
"Is that who, Eddie?"
"The chick you saw on your paper round."
"Jeez, Eddie, you're hopeless. No, that's not her. And
Eddie, if that girl over there weren't Indian, she wouldn't
have beautiful hair like that," I breathed, exasperated.
"Yeah. Right," commented Eddie, uncomprehending.
Twelve days later, the school year ended and, after a
lengthy summer holiday at my grandparents' house in
Tropical North Queensland, moved up a class.
The next two years were uneventful. There was the usual
trauma of initiation, but you made friends - and enemies -
and got on with life. Being athletic and well-built, I had
few problems with bullying, I enjoyed learning and I was
becoming, so I was told, quite good looking.
I was happier with life than I had ever been.
And I forgot about the girl from Morgan Road.
For a while, the prettiest girl from the Girls' High,
Angie, helped me forget about her. Correction. Almost
forget.
I'd only seen her once after that dark morning.
One Saturday morning, listening to a disc in a shop, I
looked up and saw her leaving the shop. Yet again, I saw
her only from behind.
So did a woman standing in the next booth. She called out
to the disappearing hair. I discovered it was owned by
somebody called Katie. I guessed the woman was her mum.
The woman, realising that, with the headphones on, she must
have been shouting, looked embarrassed. Charmingly, she put
her hand to her mouth, dropped her eyes, made a shy little-
girl look and mouthed 'Sorry' to me.
I smiled back and I sensed the woman looking me up and down
before I left.
That same night, Angie and I went to the movies and, having
a cup of coffee on the way home, I asked her whether she
knew a girl called Katie at her school.
"Katie? Look, I can't say I do, Greg. There's a girl called
Catherine Everard. Lives in Regis Drive, down near Macca's.
Why? "
"No reason. When I was up in Cairns a couple of years ago,
I met this guy. Heard from him that his cousin Katie was
coming to your school." I couldn't believe how easily I
lied to Angie.
Half an hour later, I kissed Angie goodnight and headed
home.
As I walked, I wondered about Katie.
If she wasn't going to the Girls' High, did that mean she
was going to Ladies' College? I would have to start
sleuthing around Morgan Road. Or maybe she was away at
boarding school.
On the Monday morning of the second week of term, I heard a
couple of second-year boys talking.
"Kenneth Thomas. That new kid with the ponytail. Lives in
Morgan Road. Yeah, his mum calls him 'Katie'. 'Don't forget
your bag, Katie.' Straight up, I heard his mum shout it
when she dropped him off this morning. Jeez. how'd yah be
with a nickname like that? Who's a pretty boy then, Katie?"
New kid. Ponytail. Katie. Morgan Road. Could the object of
my desire be ... a boy. I was gutted. And what did they mean
'new kid'? New kid at my school?
Less than two minutes later there she was. Katie. My grand
passion wasn't a chick at all. She was a male. And for the
first time I saw her face.
And she saw mine.
I think I also saw a little smile. But the glance she gave
me, brief though it was, was steady. I wondered what she
might have been thinking of me. She? Why did I keep
thinking and saying she? I wondered what he might have been
thinking about me?
I went to the art room for my next lesson.
How did I feel about that? Was I shocked? Yes, a little.
Was I confused? Definitely. Was I in denial? Now there's a
big question when you're seventeen.
I certainly didn't think I was queer.
For most of the day I was distracted. I was a young Aussie
bloke. I was 'on the team'. I belonged. I wasn't a pooftah.
That night, I went to bed early and thought about it. Not
about Katie. About my sexuality.
Did I fancy ... who? How about Daryl Benger, the school's
best diver. He had a beautiful body. Appealing eyes. A nice
mouth. Did I fancy him?
"NO!" I told myself.
Did I fancy Eddie Besant, the execrable Eddie?
"DEFINITELY NOT!"
How about a pretty, boyish girl with long and flowing locks
that jumped unbidden into my mind? I thought about that a
long time. As I filled my hankie with a generous load of
extra-hot cum, the answer also came.
"DEFINITELY HOT!"
Angie and I continued to go out together and it became
clear that it wouldn't be long before we would have to do
that.
I was very fond of Angie, she was pretty and I liked being
seen with her. I even liked kissing her. And going through
all the romantic nonsense I thought was real love.
When Angie and I were together, KT rarely came into my
mind. Angie was fun. She was kind. She was intelligent.
But there was one thing she wasn't. She wasn't KT.
I did everything I could to avoid KT.
For the next few weeks, I watched KT from afar.
I noticed that where I was broadening in the shoulders and
developing a shapely and muscular chest, KT was just
growing.
It's a dilemma when you're a so-called school sports star
and all the local girls think you're a 'spunk'.
Or it is if you know that some effeminate boy, younger than
you, turns you on more than an entire classroom of girls.
And especially so when you're on the block in your Speedos
preparing to race and there he is, all smouldering eyes,
staring at you. And clearly not caring whether or not the
others are aware of his interest in you.
By the time I turned 17 I realised that I was lusting over
a boy. No, I accepted that I was lusting over a boy.
He was athletic enough to be a footballer. But pretty
enough to be a catwalk model.
Every month that passed he was growing (dare I admit it?)
more and more desirable.
The thing that began to strike me most about KT - nobody
called him Kenneth or Ken or Kenneth Thomas - was his self-
possession.
Most of the boys in his class - indeed in any class -
instantly jump on a fashion bandwagon.
But sometimes one doesn't fit the mould. KT was that one at
our school.
Here were the cloned and the pimply. Here were the
pubescents, all burdened with or about to be burdened with,
or having recently been burdened with shattered, unstable
voices. Here was our dissonant choir. Tenor and counter-
tenor mixed, discordant and unpretty, in a single voice.
Mewing the plumage that is childish beauty and innocence,
every male sings it, the painful dawn chorus of manhood,
the eternal, atonal anthem of maleness. And the libretto?
We know it by heart and by instinct. It consists
principally of verbs and adjectives in the key of F. Sharp.
Minor.
But KT was quite different from that.
Whenever I saw him around the school, he would seem to be
gliding. Very upright. Moving like a swan, his upper body
steady while his feet made tiny, rapid movements to propel
him forward.
Once I saw him sneeze. In what seemed like slow-motion he
brought his hankie gracefully to his mouth. I swear I heard
him very delicately whisper, "Scusi" to himself.
As I observed him more carefully, I recorded that I rarely
saw him laugh. I did notice him smile benignly. Once.
Nor did I see him cry.
There was always a steady look in his eye. He was
completely in control of his demeanour.
I sometimes wondered why so feminine a boy was not the butt
of cruel jokes and japes. Other than the conversation I
overheard, he seemed never to provoke them.
Perhaps the reason was not unrelated to the most surprising
event - quite staggering, really.
One day, I saw KT near the cricket pavilion. He was walking
up and down reading aloud from a book. It was obvious from
the way he would look away from the book and continue
speaking that he was learning something by heart.
From behind the pavilion two of the school's bully boys
were sneaking up on him. Swaggering up to KT, the two
started taunting him and finally began to push him around.
My instinct was to go to his assistance. But as soon as I
began to run across the cricket pitch, quicker than a flash
of lightning, the bigger of the bullies was on the floor.
Getting up, and shouting abuse at KT, he and his pal
slouched away. KT continued reading his book.
"Are you OK?" I asked.
The limpid eyes looked steadily into mine and for the first
time the beautiful mouth opened and spoke to me. "Thank you
for your concern. I'm fine."
"Good," was all I managed to say.
I immediately took myself to the toilet block where I
relieved my aching erection. As I shuddered to ejaculative
joy, I saw the lips that had just opened to me, moist and
pleading inches from me. "Thank you," they were saying.
Of course, this was yet another fantasy. But we had spoken.
I had been close enough to see the silky smoothness of his
skin. The length of his lashes. The power of his smile.
But he had decked two bullies.
Walking home that night, I found myself smiling and
thinking about the extraordinary scene. "Well, well," I
thought, "my love is like a black, black belt that's newly
floored a jerk."
And so, for most of that academic year, it continued.
One morning, I passed him in a corridor. Rather, he floated
past me. Very quietly, he was humming Noel Coward's "Mrs
Wentworth-Brewster". I had learned most of Noel Coward's
songs from my mum, who had, when she was in her teens,
spent a little time in Ocho Rios in Jamaica, where Coward
had lived. Coward was, apparently, quite taken by my mama.
I knew "Mrs Wentworth-Brewster" by heart.
KT was humming the bit that goes "nobody can afford to be
so lah-dee-bloody-dah in a bar on the Picola Marina." The
likelihood of meeting another teenager who knew a Noel
Coward song was so unlikely . my heart missed several
beats.
So why, you might ask, did I not declare my interest?
The simple answer is that I was still too scared.
I was seventeen and I still couldn't come to terms with my
sexuality. It didn't matter that I knew. I was still
putting off coming to a conclusion.
Without knowing it, Angie helped a lot. She was scared of
losing her virginity and, being of a certain religious
persuasion, would not consider contraception. The fact that
I was glad should have told me something about my
sexuality.
Yet, in spite of everything I now knew about myself, I
wanted to belong. I wanted to be blokey.
I found it very hard indeed to accept that I might be in
love with a boy.
I was very keen on movies and belonged to the school Film
Society.
The Art Teacher, Miss Carlisle, ran it and at a crucial
moment for me, happened to arrange a showing of Visconti's
"Death in Venice".
Starring Dirk Bogarde and a fifteen-year-old Swede called
Bjorn something or other the movie soon had me absorbed.
Bogarde plays an old bloke called Aschenberg who has the
hots for this pretty young prick-teaser called Tadzio.
Watching the older man yearning for the beautiful teenager
I had the preposterous thought that I was Aschenberg to
KT's Tadzio. Was that what I was like? An old perve at just
over seventeen years?
So I knew. There was no doubt now. But I still didn't want
to be the odd one out.
And, somehow or other, perhaps by going out with Angie, I
managed to avoid competing in the Teenage Schoolboy
Bullshit League.
People seemed to accept that I was quiet. When you're well-
built, smaller people often do. Funny about that.
Then it happened.
A thunderbolt hit me one Saturday morning as I was walking
absent-mindedly through town. Right out of the blue, a huge
finger had come down from heaven and was pointing me out to
everybody I had ever known.
"This boy is GAY", the accompanying surround-sound voice-
over had declared.
It was followed by a very loud and vulgar choir of
scantily-clad blond and hunky angels singing "Gloria! In
EXCESSIVE GAYO!"
Then, to underscore the point, the heavenly host, bending
near the earth, made me look up.
There, a few paces in front of me was The Hair. K.T. Katie.
Immediately, my heart beat faster. I wanted to rush up
behind him, take a handful of his magnificent hair, turn
him towards me, sweep him into my arms and kiss him so
passionately that he would faint.
More importantly, I wanted him magically to turn into the
exquisitely beautiful girl my mind told me I could see. As
we kissed, she would whimper "Oh, Greg, oh yes, I want you
so much. Take me please . take me, take me NOW."
Almost as if he knew I was there, KT stopped and looked
back.
I felt as if my crotch was bulgeing a foot in front of me
and my face was flashing a bright, traffic-light red.
Yet I did not take my eyes from his.
I wanted him to know what I was feeling.
Our eyes locked. Probably for less than a second.
I was dumb-struck.
And KT said nothing.
If he was surprised to see me, he showed no sign of it.
But the look in his eyes, and the little smile, even for
that nanosecond, told me more than all my hours of
wondering in the months and years before.
I knew that I would not be rejected should I make a move.
But should I make a move? Could I make a move? I hesitated
and I was lost.
KT disappeared into a shop. In the window a single
mannequin wore a very sexy chemise.
EWEN'S STORY: CHAPTER TWO
When I got home, Mum gave me her usual warm smile. "Hi,
hunk," she grinned.
"Hi, what?" I asked, irritated.
"Hunk."As in 'My Son, the Hunk'. I just thought how
handsome you looked as you came through the door. Reminded
me of your father. He was about your age - a year older -
when we first, er, met."
"The first time you made love, you mean," I said boldly.
She just laughed. "Could be," she said quietly. "Could be,
my darling."
"Mum?" I asked. "How do you know when you're in love?"
"Love? Or lust?"
"Could it be both?" I questioned.
"You BET. Who is she?"
"It's not as simple as that, mama."
"OK, who is HE?"
"I didn't mean that, either. Look, I'm all confused. I
haven't even met them yet ...Not properly."
"There's more than one?" asked my mum, her eyes widening.
"You're not even 18. And you're already considering
bigamy?"
"Mum!"
"Sorry, darls. You want my advice? Speak to her. Tell her
that you like her . what? You like her hair? You love her
smile? Her laugh leaves you thrilled? You've noticed her
cute little bum? Whatever.
"But don't get too serious about it. She won't be your
last.
"Wanna Coke? Coffee? Tea?"
She came over and put her arms around me.
"Darling, we all go through this. It's part of growing up.
As one of our prime ministers once said, 'Um, life, er,
wasn't meant to be, y'know, easy,'"
I laughed as we both said the words together. We often did.
I adored my mum.
It didn't exactly make things easier, but that night I lay
awake thinking about KT.
If only he were a girl.
Maybe he IS. But then I remembered seeing him at the pool.
He isn't a girl.
After a while, my thoughts gave me a stiffy and I started
to wonder what KT would be like in a dress. And what it
would be like to slide my hand up and under it. And what
I'd do if he/she smacked my face. And what I'd do if she
was wearing panties and her cock was hard and it was
leaking precum and some dripped on to my hand.
I was so hard now, I KNEW what SHE'd be like and it'd be
like and what I'd do.
Pumping my cock to get some relief from the agony of the
sexually overcharged indecision I was going through, I
moaned, "Oh, KT, Katie, Katie, KATIE!, why aren't you here?
Oh Katie, I want you so much, I want to fuck you so much."
I came more than I'd ever done before.
Unknown to me, my smiling mother, outside my bedroom door,
now knew that I was hooked on someone called Katie!
Also unknown to me, at that self-same moment, around the
corner in Morgan Road, the object of my desire was
uploading a large quantity of high-quality spunk on to her
beautiful lace-edged pink silk nightgown as she sighed my
name lovingly into her perfumed silk pillow with every
pungent jet.
I slept deeply that night.
In the morning when I arrived at school, Miss Carlisle
called me up to the Art Room.
"Ah, come in Greg." In her usual direct fashion: "You've
been studying Caravaggio and Michelangelo, so you'd know a
bit about posing, wouldn't you?" she said.
"Ye .esss," I replied hesitantly. "Why?"
"Greg, I want a favour. Well, actually, there could be
money in it, too. I want you to pose for a Life Class I do.
Thursday evenings. You've got the build and the
understanding of what life drawing is all about."
I hesitated again. "Who's in the class?"
"Mostly adults. Some parents who have kids here. Ken Thomas
and his mum, among them. You know Ken don't you? He
especially, is good, by the way, he's the best of them all.
Very talented indeed, that young man. As good as you, if
you can cope with that. I even thought about getting him to
pose - might still - just for that hair. Jeez, wish I had
hair like that. I'd kill for hair like that. A dab or two
of slap and he'd pass."
"Slap? Pass?" I asked.
"Forget it. You don't need to know about that sort of
stuff. Though there were plenty at it in da Vinci's time.
Will you pose for us? We've been working from photos, but
some of them, especially KT, have talent that demands the
real thing. Living muscle.
"You wouldn't deny us your muscle . would you Greg? No,
NOT that muscle, you dirty young puppy! You'll wear footy
shorts or Speedos.
"Anyway, think about it. Let me know in the morning. Off
you go."
Another dilemma.
I liked Jean, Miss Carlisle. In her late 20s she was very
pretty. Lived on her own in a flat. Seemed to have a lot of
friends. I always wondered if she, well, fancied me.
I wondered if that was why she wanted me to pose.
But there was a bigger problem. A potentially bigger
problem at least. KT was in that class.
What if I suddenly threw a stiffy?
What if I inadvertently kept my gaze on him?
What if I dumped a load in my shorts? I'd never done it,
but I'd heard that spontaneous orgasm was not entirely
unheard of.
"I'll do it," I said. Especially if there's cash in it.
"Good on you, Mr McClintock, Thursday evening. I'll give
you the address. Thanks, Greg. I owe you one." Jean patted
my tusch.
Thursday afternoon arrived and I felt sick. After school, I
went to the gym to work out a little. Went to the toilet
and jacked off. Had a shower.
As I walked into the Art Class, I noticed a sheet at the
other end of the room.
"That you, Greg?" called a voice from behind the sheet.
"Down here, behind the Shroud."
Jean stood up. And grinned. "Hi, Greg. Thanks for doing
this."
"Ah good, you brought a hanger. You can use the store room
to change. You OK? You look a little doubtful. Wanna back
out? You better hurry if you do, 'cos the first of your
artists just arrived. You like Slava Gregorian?"
"The guitarist? Yeah."
"No, Gregory, the transvestite Nepalese accountant. Of
course, the guitarist, idiot. I've just got his new CD.
I'll play it for the class."
The students arrived.
I was introduced.
I stripped off.
Jean arranged my pose and I started several weeks of rather
tedious posing.
On the sixth Thursday, as the class was packing up and Jean
was rushing out the door to meet a girlfriend, KT was still
sketching.
"Greg, would you hold that pose for just a couple of
minutes more. I'm trying to get the drape of your shorts
right. It's rather hard."
The voice was so soft and melifluous and musical and
seductive and confident and beautiful and . that I
instantly began an erection. It was almost as if his mouth
was smoothly tangoing up and down my shaft.
If you can imagine having yourself raped to the strains of
"Destiny" played by some top Buenos Aires orchestra on
heat, that's how it was for me.
Whether or not the effect would show through my shorts I
didn't know.
It did.
"Parfait," whispered KT.
Looking up, he broke into the slow, enchanting smile that,
although I didn't know it then, was to beguile me for the
rest of my life.
Finishing his sketch, KT said slowly, without looking up.
"Gracias. Perfecci- n. � No es verdad, Meestairr
McCleentock?"
"Pardon?" Why did everything I said around this enchanter
sound so banal? Perhaps because it was.
"Sorry. Showing off, I think. I love languages. Not that
I'm fluent in any of them. I was just thanking you, sir, in
Spanish and saying that your pose was perfect. 'Ain't that
the truth, Mr McClintock?What do you think?"
KT held up the picture. It was good. It was me. It even had
the giveaway bulge in my shorts.
KT now swears I spoke to him first, but I can promise you,
this is the truth.
I told him that I'd seen some of his drawings before and
that I liked them.
"They're not stiff and formal like the others. You have
real talent."
"Thank you. Rather, I have a passion ." KT smiled. "Hard
to believe, isn't it that a skinny, quiet boy like me could
be a passionate anything."
I knew I was falling in love. Everything about KT was
hauling me in like a gamefish on a line. I'd been fighting
it, but not only was I hooked, I was sunk. I suppose that's
where the statement comes from. Hook, line and sinker.
His voice, his delivery, his calm, his eyes (especially his
eyes), his voluptuous mouth, his carriage, his slender
fingers, his gentle humour.
All of it was whipping me into line. This wasn't anything
like the way it was with Angie. No way. This was as
different as it gets.
I asked KT where he lived. Even though I knew. Even though
I suspected that he knew I knew.
"Morgan Road."
"I'm in Bond Street."
"I know."
"Shall we walk .?"
"Home together?"
"Yes."
"Why not? That would be lovely. Go and get changed and I'll
fix this drawing and store my kit."
It just happened that I was pulling on my jocks when,
without knocking, KT came into the store room to put away
his drawing kit.
"Ooops," he said without a smile. "Both storing our
equipment. I'll wait for you by the water thing. I'm
parched."
On the way home we talked of inconsequential matters. The
attitude of our prime minister to the United Nations. The
crisis in Northern Ireland. The problems in Russia.
Eventually, I asked about his name.
"Why do they call you Katie," I asked, even though I knew
about Kenneth Thomas. I wondered if there was more to the
story.
"They are the initials of my exotic and complex names.
Kenneth and Thomas. Can you say them, Greg? Kenn - eth.
Thom - as. KT is so much easier, doncha think?"
"Katie. It's a girl's name, isn't it?"
"Very good, Greg. Not many people know that."
We both burst out laughing.
He was adorable. He wasn't sending me up harshly. It was a
dumb question. But he was equally making fun of his own
names. Who could possibly resist? Other than the rest of
the boys at school.
I poked at him and he laughed as he set about tickling me.
In the end we started chasing each other, laughing
uncontrollably. It seemed like lovers' laughter to me.
Or did I just fantacise it? I did not want to get hurt.
I wanted to take his hand. I wanted to pull him into my
arms. I wanted to pull on his ponytail and kiss his
uncovered neck. I wanted him to be my girlfriend. And as
that thought passed through my mind, the setting sun shone
down on us and a voice from a passing car called "Hi, Greg.
See you tomorrow."
It was Angie.
"Who was that?" asked Katie.
It looked, from the statement on her face, that something
had, at last, unsettled KT.
"She's a friend. There's nothing serious about it. We go to
the movies together sometimes, that's all. "
WHY WAS I BEING SO DEFENSIVE?
It was no bloody business of KT who I went out with.
But I knew it was.
We were getting close to my place and I figured I had
better say something to register my interest.
I was going to ask Katie in for a drink, but I was feeling
so horny that, if mum was home, I was going to have to skip
it.
Mum was always pretty open about sex, but I wasn't sure how
she'd feel if I brought home a guy and then took him to my
room and fucked him. I expect I'm a noisy fucker.
But mum's car wasn't in the drive. Of course, second
Thursday, she was out until eleven or so.
"Your hair's great. I like it. Must have taken a long while
to grow."
KT blushed. He did that a lot. And he changed the subject.
Asked how I came to be the model.
"Well I'm in one of Jean Carlisle's advanced art classes
and she asked me to model for your class for a few weeks.
I'd never modelled before, thought it sounded kinda cool,
so I said yes".
"You're very good", Katie commented looking deep into my
eyes.
"Good? Thanks, but it's not too hard. All you've got to be
able to do is lie still and follow instructions".
"And look gorgeous."
They say that the last moments of your life happen in slow
motion.
As Katie whispered those three words, I thought I was going to die. Right there on the footpath outside my own house.
This was the ultimate clue for slow learners. Katie was
spelling things out. Beyond what she had said, only "I want
you to fuck me" could have made things clearer.
"And look gorgeous."
The look in his eyes as he said it made certain I knew
exactly what he meant.
I think I said something disarmingly witty. I said in a
deep blushing purple "Thank you".
The punchline? "Well, this is where I live".
And, realising that I might have been misreading the
situation totally, added, nervously, "Would you like to
come in for a coke or a coffee or something?"
"I'd love to", KT answered.
I let us into the house, ushering KT through the door
first.
Closing the door behind me, I wanted to throw KT up against
the wall and ravage her. "Come through to the kitchen.
"Throw your bag in the corner and have a seat", I said,
directing KT to a stool at the kitchen bench. There was a note for me. "Hope you posed perfectly. Will stay at Auntie J's tonight. Rots of Ruv, Mummy."
KT climbed on to a stool as I got the glasses from a
cupboard and the lemonade from the refrigerator.
As I poured our lemonade I saw Katie pull off the band holding her ponytail and shake her head. A flood of gleaming hair flowed over her
shoulders.
Handing him his lemonade my eyes caught his again. They smiled back at me and as he took the glass I felt his fingers stroke my hand.
I pushed myself up on to the stool next to KT's, a stupid grin on my face. As I sat down I wanted to reach out and touch his hair. The Hair.
Neither of us said a word.
For me it was as if, having spent my life walking a long, long path and not knowing where it might lead, I had now reached an important waypoint.
Metaphorically, I had come to a door through which I had to pass to continue my journey. I put out a hand as if to knock at the door and, gently, Katie took my hand and rubbed her cheek against my palm.
The intensity of her stare deepened and I saw now that there was lust in her eyes. I'd never seen lust in another's eyes before. It sent a electric charge running through me. Throwing sexual switches. Connecting sensual circuits.
My fingers were now being pushed through the underscrub of Katie's beautiful hair and were curling behind the back of her head.
"It's just so beautiful", I whispered. "Do you ever cut it?
It must be hard to keep clean."
"I just have it trimmed occasionally to remove the split
ends and, no, it's not hard to keep clean. I love looking
after it".
Her voice seemed to be echoing.
What was it with this hair? Without thinking, I dropped a
hand and adjusted my crotch.
And then, without any of the skill or finesse I guessed KT
was capable of, the question that had brought me to so many climaxes was on my lips. I heard myself blurt it out.
"You could almost be a girl. Have you ever pretended to be a girl? You know, worn a dress? And makeup."
"Oh, Greg, what a sweet question."
KT got down from the stool, stepped towards me and, pushing
open my legs, brought his slender body against mine.
"Kiss me, Greg. Take my hair and kiss me. You'd like that,
wouldn't you? I'd like it more than you can know. I've
wanted to be kissed by that gorgeous, sensual opening on your face more than I've wanted anything else for years."
As I took him in my arms, he brought his own beautiful, sensual
lips to mine and we sank into a long passionate embrace.
I could feel his heartbeat. And he could feel my cock
against his thigh.
We broke. And breathing very unevenly, stared deep into
each other's eyes.
"Come with me," I said and, taking his hand, dragged him
down the corridor to my mother's room.
Everything about KT was almost perfect to my mind.
He was just gorgeous.
But he wasn't quite the Katie I wanted.
We entered the room and I pushed shut the door by crushing Katie against it and kissing her passionately again.
"You want me to wear something feminine, don't you?"
I think I blushed, but I nodded and sliding open the mirrored door of my mother's wardrobe, I began flicking through the robes and gowns and slips hanging there.
Like Kate, as I decided on the spot to call her, my mum was
slim and I knew she had a white silk slip that was very sexy and clinging.
"Put this on for me." I was very much in charge.
Katie held the slippery garment against herself and, smiling, said quietly, "I have a better idea. I want to make ..."
I stopped her mid-sentence by pulling her to me. "Come here and kiss me first," I demanded.
She did as she was bidden and once more relaxed into my
arms, a thigh pushed hard against my throbbing cock. After a few moments she pushed me gently away.
"Greg, I wouldn't feel right getting dressed up like this. Not wearing your mother's things. And certainly not the first time we're together on our own.
"In ay case I need to go home. But I could come back. If you'd like me to. I have to feed my doggy because my mummy is away for the night, too. She's gone up to Mansfield to see my grandmama. I can call her from home. Then she won't worry. I'll tell her I'm staying with you."
"Your mum knows about me?"
"Of course. I told her that day we were buying CDs.'
"What did you tell her?"
"Ah, wouldn't you like to know? Perhaps I'll tell you later."
She went home.
I waited.
The thirty minutes KT mentioned as he (or she) walked out the door stretched to just over an hour. It felt more like a year. I showered, shaved and changed. (Though I say it myself as shouldn't, I would really go for me if I was a queer). Mum called to `make sure I was OK' and then, after I put the answering machine on, Angie called. I flicked on the TV, but I have no idea what I was watching. Eventually, I heard the doorbell.
When I opened the door I could hardly believe my eyes. There was Katie. Unfathomably B E A U T I F U L. And not a sign of KT.
Where, before, there had been a pretty young man, now I was facing a beautiful and, what's more, confident woman. As she took my proferred hand and stepped past me into the house I could hardly take her beauty in.
"Oh, Kate, you're . . ."
"Oh, Greg, you're sweet.
I could barely believe that this was all for me. These sleek, shapely, silk-wrapped legs disappearing under a gorgeous fur coat. [Of what kind I couldn't tell you. Nor was I in the least interested in knowing. It was just so very sexy.]
I shut the door and leaned back against it, my heart pounding.
Kate came forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. Then, her mouth very close to mine, she pinched one of my nipples and whispered, "You seem confused." "A big boy lost. A big, handsome, bad, bad boy who . . . probably . . . has a . . . big, bad hard-on needing attention." I felt her hand as it checked. She was right in her prognosis.
I went to take her in my arms, but, instead found myself being drawn towards the kitchen. "You didn't let me finish my lemonade," she pouted.
I fixed some drinks. Katie declined alcohol and I rarely drank. We chinked glasses and I gazed at Kate, smiling my pleasure and being pleased that she was smiling back with equal pleasure.
"I was going to say how beautiful you look. It's hard to believe that you're really a ..."
"I'm not. Not what you were going to say. I'm a girl. Every inch. Save for a few that only very special people get to see and touch. And no man ever has. Never. Not until tonight."
I started to have those confusing thoughts that most boys have at times like this. Times like this? That's silly. There is only ever one time like this. Once is all the times it happens. That first magical, unimaginable moment when time stands still � and you have no idea what to do next.
For the first time in your life you know that there are two of you with the same thought. Like that Grover Washington song.
But you still don't know what to do next.
"It's very warm in here isn't it?" I said.
"Yes. It is warm. Would you take my coat please?"
Katie turned in front of me so that I could take the beautiful coat from her shoulders. Except that she would not let me take it immediately. It slid down her arms and I saw that under it were the slender little spaghetti strings of a white silk slip. She was wearing no dress.
The strings looked so sexy on her golden shoulders.
Besides the gleaming silk and lace slip, which fitted her like a second skin, she was in a pair of high-heeled pumps. And she was perfectly made up.
Suddenly the kitchen was full of sex.
Kate walked away from me, the fur coat almost brushing the floor as it slid further from her shoulders.
Three or four steps from me she stopped, with her back to me.
Then, as though she were a Catalan dancer in a seedy club
in Barcelona, she raised her arms and executed a slow double
pirouette.
"Oh God! Oh God! Oh God, you're even more beautiful than I
imagined." I spluttered this compliment, fighting to get
the words out and desperate to have her know my feelings.
"You're too beautiful. Come here."
She did as she was told, letting the coat fall to the floor.
Now I knew what Jean had meant. Katie could have passed. Would have passed as a woman.
I held out one hand and she slowly walked to me, taking my
hand.
"See what you do to me", I declared, placing her hand
directly on my trouser-covered brute of a penis.
But Katie herself recorded her own thoughts in her diary. She
has said I can quote from it. Here's how she described what
happened next. I can vouch for almost every word.
"I could feel it throbbing through the material. It was what I had longed for since puberty.
Without announcement, but with both hands free, he drew me
to him between his parted legs and kissed me. Well, in
reality, it was impossible to tell who was kissing whom
because I kissed him back with equal excitement. Suddenly
my little lace thong gave up its struggle and my cock
escaped, thrusting itself, through my slip, into Greg's tummy.
"Oh Katie, I want to fuck you", he gasped, breaking off the
kiss but rubbing his slightly stubbly cheek against my own smooth
face.
"Have you ever been fucked? Are you a virgin? If you are
I'll be gentle".
My own breathing was so shallow and so rapid it required
great concentration to form the words of a reply. "Yes
please", was all I could manage.
He moved me back just far enough for him to stand, and in what
seemed to be a single movement, unbuckle his belt and step
out of his trousers and jocks. He slipped off his shoes and
stood before me in just his white socks and white shirt
below the hem of which thrust the most gorgeous cock
imaginable. It was so magnificent. It throbbed, pumped up
and down with his heart beat and the beautiful purple
helmet, oozing pre cum, seemed to call my name as I
stared, hypnotised by its masculine beauty.
Involuntarily, I fell to my knees and managed just one
brief kiss to the bobbing purple tip before he leant down
and lifted me to my feet again.
"Darling girl, I want to make love to you. You can suck me later",
he commanded.
"He called me 'girl'. He called me 'girl'. He called me
'girl'. He called me 'girl'". Elation was an
understatement.
I had lost all capacity for independent thought and
movement. He was going to fuck me. The gorgeous Greg
McClintock was going to fuck me!
He was going to thrust that gorgeous cock into my body! My
body! And he called me 'darling girl'.
Awash in my cloud of lust and love, he turned me round to
face the kitchen bench and placed his hands gently on my
shoulders, forcing me to rest my head on the bench. His
hand reached up under my slip, pulled down my thong and pushed my legs further apart.
His strong musky odour surrounded me as I felt
him lift the slip and press his cock tip between the
fleshy globes of my bum.
I was dizzy with anticipation.
As I pushed back against the hot helmet of his manhood, I felt his spare hand surround my own cock which, while engorged in a way I had never before experienced, I had almost forgotten about.
"That feels like a cock any girl would be proud of ", he
whispered in my ear as his stubble returned to chafe my
neck.
Just two pumps with his hand and I came, gushing all over
the panelling of the kitchen bar.
"Someone is a very excited girl", he whispered. "But the
best is yet to come".
I felt his urgent, excited cock searching up and down my
crack for its quarry. And then it found it.
Without letting his cock move from my anxious rosebud, he
leant over me and clutched a tube of lubricant I'd not
previously noticed. With practised moves he temporarily
removed his cock from its starting position, suddenly
inserted a heavily lubricated finger into me and then
returned his cock to the ready.
"Are you ready to be fucked pretty girl?".
I had no chance to respond before I felt the tip of his
cock breach my puckered sphincter. I let out an involuntary
gasp and he stopped.
"You are a virgin aren't you darling?".
I could only move my head in a manner intended to signify
'yes'.
Very slowly, very gently he inserted more and more of his
cock into me, stopping frequently to allow my body to
adjust to the unaccustomed but welcome visitor, and
assuring me that I was the most beautiful girl he'd ever
fucked.
He'd done it. He was fully inside me. He filled me. The
temporary pain was gradually passing, my body had welcomed the
intruder and I could feel his hairy balls resting against
me.
"Fuck me please", I pleaded in my best little-girl voice.
"Fuck me with your cock", I begged redundantly.
He did. Starting slowly, it took only seconds before he was
pumping me with the force and frequency of a battering ram.
I had never felt anything so wonderful. I arched my back
and began pushing myself against him to match his individual
thrusts. He brought his hands back to my shoulders forcing
me onto the bench and leaving me helplessly prone.
I could feel his purple helmet punching its way into and
out of me, first leading, then following his cock shaft.
Once, his thrusts were so frantic his cock popped out. I
let out a little cry of anguish at having lost him but his
re-entry was so glorious I almost hoped he might pop out
again. My own cock had completely recovered from its
premature excitement and I could feel my cum welling up
once more. I tried to free one of my hands to comfort my
own cock but Greg was too strong and too determined to keep
me exactly where he wanted me and I was gasping for every
breath.
As suddenly as he had begun, he pulled back and out of me.
I stayed, splayed across the bench top expecting him to
continue my fucking but he lifted my petticoat which had
slipped down across his cock and with a strangled cry
spewed his hot, thick cum across my glowing bottom and
between my thighs. I was drenched with his hot sticky cum.
It oozed gloriously down the insides and backs of my long,
slim legs. I reached back and grasped his still pumping
cock as he continued to hold my slip aloft and, with
just a brush of my slip against my own cockhead, I
came again, redecorating the kitchen bench.
Thank goodness Greg's mama wasn't home."
EWEN'S STORY: CHAPTER THREE
When I woke in the morning, I was soon conscious that I was
not alone in my bed.
My cock, as always, was hard as a rock. But it was not my
fist that was holding it.
My face was in a forest of hair. My nostrils were filled
with the scent of Opium and boy. One arm was stretched in
front of me under the pillow, the other limp around the
torso of my houseguest.
Little twitches were playing on my rigid cock.
Little by little, I realised that this wasn't a dream. I remembered that Kate had spent the night with me. That we had made love until perhaps just before dawn.
Now she responded to my almost imperceptible movements
inside her pussy.
Had I really been inside her all night?
Had I been hard all night?
How often did I come?
"Kate?"
There was a languid response. "Mmmmm? . You wish
something, my lord and handsome hunk. And dream fucker.
Don't move, my darling, I shall just slip off you
... so that... I can...
... kiss ... your beautiful mouth."
As Kate turned over, his beautiful cock clashed with mine.
"Ooooh!"
We were in a state of total relaxation.
For the first time we were able to study each other's face.
Then kissing, each mouth brushed the other. A slow, oh so
slow erotic dance. Our breathy music the only
accompaniment. The sound of bedclothes and limbs, a sound I
discovered is only ever heard the first night of a liaison. The sound of lovers bonding.
Little, little kisses. Pecks. And tentative touches. We
made ourselves comfortable as we had not done the driving,
desperate night before. Our fucking had lasted through the
night. We had been nymphosatyriasic. We had, by turns, been
one being. Then two. Then one again. Enchanted creatures.
Beings from another realm.
We were serpents. Then lion cubs at play. Then fuckers.
Blindly fucking. Falling quiet at sunup only when my vigour
failed me.
Kate had been a virgin half a day ago.
A nymph become a nympho.
Unable to get enough of me.
When I had come, near-exhausted, for the last time, and
brought her to final and weary orgasm, she had stopped me
withdrawing.
My limp dick was trapped inside her.
When I woke she had brought it to full magnificence once
more.
"Do you smoke?"
"No, I gave up."
"Do you do dope?"
"No, makes me paranoid."
"Suck my cock. But don't inhale."
Laughter. Teasing. Pleasure. Delight. Discovery.
God, how I loved this boy called Kate. He/she was so
ultimately sexy. So completely feminine. And yet he was
sufficiently male to be instinctively in touch with my
desires and pleasures.
Of course, it was more than knowledge. It was the insight
of lovers, rarely found.
Still in a daze of discovery and utter delight with each
other we played and probed each other. Now and then we
would doze.
Once I woke with Kate's finger under my foreskin.
It was so intimate.
She withdrew it and brought it to her nose.
"Smegma. Yours smells good enough to eat. So good for the
skin. And much more erotic than Opium or Poison, darling."
We continued our 'little morning piece' (as I've heard it said in Jamaica).
Ears, mouths, noses, eyes, brows, chins and cheeks.
Our mouths would seek them all.
My tongue would seek out her ear.
Trace down her jaw.
Find the pouty overhang of her lower lip.
Then up and over and into the warmth of her waiting mouth.
Kate would bite my nose. Toothy teasing that turned to the
soft seduction of more sighs and kisses.
Here we were, Adam and Yves. Ewen and Kate. Boyfriend and
Girl. GirliBoy and LoverBoy. Two happy souls.
In love.
In bed.
Inattentive to anything or anyone save ourselves. Nothing
beyond the silk sheets on my big brass bed.
Kate ran a finger down my nose.
"Greg, that was the most wonderful night of my life. I love
you. I've loved you from the moment I first saw you. I was
twelve years and three days old. And you were wearing blue
Speedos at the pool. You didn't even know I existed."
"Oh, but I did, missy. I saw you in your bedroom one
morning. I thought you were a girl. Couldn't see properly
before I got the specs. Saw you brushing your hair. Don't
remember the meeting at the pool."
Kate smiled that unbelievable smile. Then put that pungent
digit to my lips.
"Sssshh my love. Love me and rouse me; seduce me and fuck
me.
"And, Greg, my angel, never stop. Never. Not ever. Fuck me
all day. Then turn me over and fuck me all night.
"Fuck me today.
"Fuck me tomorrow.
"Fuck me, my darling, until you hear me dying.
"Then, and only then are you to stop."
And so it was to be.
And the evening and the morning were the first day.
Would you like to know what happened from then on?