Oscar - 9. Part 9

It was the third time that week I’d taken the long way home, and like the previous two evenings, it wasn’t a decision I’d made lightly.

Walking home was never fun. I didn’t look forward to the end of the day. Each time the final bell pierced the silence of the classroom, I knew, in ten minutes, I’d be fair game, and when its shrill, metallic cry rang in my ears I knew that there’d no longer be anyone at least contractually obliged to protect me.

All I could ever do was hang around until they streamed out, pushing and shoving in their laughing packs, and wait for whichever bored, indifferent teacher to give me the look. The look that said, “for the love of god leave”.

Then it was always the same. Headphones in, but music off so I could pretend not to hear the oh-so-original and hilarious insults hurled at me from a distance without being deaf to footsteps racing up from behind.

Head down, no eye contact. All the way home.

But this week, even though the longer it took the more chances bored kids had to break more of my bones without fear of suspensions or expulsions, every extra step was worth it.

Since I knew where I could spot his car or catch a glimpse of a shaved head attached to broad, muscular shoulders or those powerful, hairy legs, it was a risk I was willing to take.

Until I find him a three-mile detour around the old creek field is the only way home.

That day, however, the atmosphere along the cold, grey concrete in the early evening dim was different. Lads walked by in their usual groups but talked in hushed voices. I felt their eyes on me as we passed on narrow pavements. Them on their way to the town centre, me the outer suburbs.

But that, as they say, was that.

No names, no shoving. No laughter. By then surely everyone had heard the news. We like to think girls are the gossips, but scratch away macho façades and you’ll find it’s a human trait indiscriminate of gender. Boys love to bitch. But, their renewed sense of indignation I’d assumed would be waiting for me, was nowhere to be seen or heard.

Another group passed. Quiet. Nothing.

I smiled. After I’d been outed, like Adam I’d given up caring what people had thought or said about me. Caring didn’t change anything. But this was interesting.

What it meant, I didn’t know, but every step on my journey home somehow felt safer already.

And what a journey. I didn’t expect that in a million years.

Adam had apologised. He’d stood there, face to face, and apologised. And then his proposal had been nothing short of genius. For him, at least.

Why stop at two when there are plenty of willing boys?

As the steady flow of headlights trundled by on the road, yellow or white toward, red away, I thought about the others.

I wondered, as the pedestrian crossing beeped overhead and exhaust fumes mingled with the steam from my breath, if they’d be up for it. Up for more than late-night MSN jerk off sessions and brief, clandestine meetings now the King had given his royal decree.

Pulling out my phone and making it incident-free past a group of chavs smoking weed and revving their mopeds by the entrance to a muddy, gravel footpath, I thumbed through my messages. My black shoes crunching onwards and the sweet, sticky second-hand smoke dancing up my nostrils.

There was Daniel. Eighteen. An inch shorter than my six foot, he was toned and muscular from years of playing football. Calves you could sink your teeth into. Amazing arse. Smart too.

Oxbridge-bound, he’d known how it had had to work. Once he’d realised I would never say a word, he’d sent all sorts. First a picture. A grainy image of an eight-inch cock in some girl’s mouth. He’d wanted to know if it turned me on.

It hadn’t taken much to get him to send more. First more pictures in better quality and more body. Then videos. Girls again followed by solo performances. Then his parents had gone out one night.

Stopping in my tracks, I pressed play on my phone screen. It was only a grainy, nine-second clip but his cock looked amazing sliding in and out of my mouth, and the amplified sound of my saliva sloshing through my earbuds made my own cock blissfully shudder.

The slurping ended and fast feet hitting small stones took its place. They were right behind me but I knew the muffled sound of running trainers. I didn’t look up as a jogger shot past in my peripheral in a flash of red. Shuffling my trousers I did the best to hide the lump in my pants and walked on.

Not far now.

Next on the list was James. Five-foot-five he was the perfect teenage pocket bottom. Bright red hair, smooth porcelain skin and the tightest, pertest arse imaginable.

I’d caught him looking at my cock in the library toilets one Friday afternoon a few weeks back.

Naturally the kid had been shy. I didn’t blame him for keeping schtum about his sexuality, what with already being ginger and basically a midget, but I’d seen the fire in his eyes. The burning intrigue as he’d looked at me, pleading to be taken into the cubicle and fucked senseless.

Logistics-wise that would have been impossible so I’d fingered him and gotten his number. He would need more practice, being a virgin, if he was going to take Adam and me, but there was no doubt he’d look superb getting stretched open from both ends.

And then there was Phil. Phil was a cum-swallower, not a cock-sucker. Taking dicks in the mouth wasn’t his bag, apparently, but slurping down big white mouthfuls was.

Not that I cared. Watching him twitch as my load hit the back of his throat and gushed into his stomach, kneeling in his parent’s living room and looking up at me with those big green eyes, made up for any ambiguity. And I was certain he would be keen for two feedings.

The ground underneath turned soft and I looked up from the glare of my phone. A large green field stretched in front, bordered on the far side by the dried-up remains of a thin, bush-lined creek and a medium-sized forest still leafy but beginning to shed its summer coat.

Above it, the weak sun was not far from setting below the tops of the trees and, in the crisp twilight, everything was bathed in an orangey-pink glow. Putting my phone in my pocket I took a seat on a nearby bench.

Quiet today.

A hundred-or-so foot to the right, a middle-aged woman in an oversized, bright blue puffer jacket threw a stick to a long-haired cocker spaniel. It bounded after its prize only to stop disappointed at the feeble distance it had travelled. Lying next to it, it gnawed on the wood and ignored its owner’s pleas to return.

Twenty feet behind, a man and woman in scarfs and hats strolled away holding hands. I could see from the pink leads draped around the man’s shoulders they were also dog walkers. In the distance two chocolate Labradors bounded and played together, directionless and free.

Lucky bitches.

To the left, a small group of young kids played football. Further on, adults sipped steaming drinks from flasks, talking amongst themselves and keeping at least one eye on the little ones. I assumed Mr. Price didn’t have any children, what with being a closet case, but you can’t be too sure. I scanned the fathers.

No shaved heads. No rugged physiques. All I found were wrinkled, tired faces and bodies let go under nice clothes picked out by dutiful wives.

Oh the joys of parenthood and marriage.

Standing I took one last look. Left to right. Right to left. No one new. No one else. Another disappointing night. Another pointless detour.

Pulling out my phone I slumped onto the bench. At least I wasn’t at a complete loss. Opening a blank message, I typed:

Hey man. I have a proposition for you. When’s good to talk?

Then I copied the text and sent identical messages to Daniel, James and Phil. Sitting, I enjoyed the last few minutes of sunlight as the cold wind bit at my neck and hands and face.

I wondered what people did before mobile phones and the internet had been invented. I thought about all the special codes and clothes men had to know and wear if they’d wanted to advertise their status without being thrown in jail or beaten or worse.

Then I made a bet with myself that James would be the first to reply. Daniel’s fondness for multimedia worked in his favour, but James was eager. He’d never failed to text back.

Not that any of them were a for-sure win. It’s anyone’s game.

No more than five minutes had passed when my phone vibrated in my pocket but, as I reached in, a pinprick of red popped into my peripheral. The jogger in the red t-shirt had reappeared, tiny on the horizon. Fixing my gaze I watched him grow, running closer and closer.

No way.

Broad shoulders. Shaved head. Those legs. I recognised them anywhere.

I’d stared at them enough, dreaming of running my tongue up the inside of each thigh and tasting his sweat. Feeling their heat locked around my head.

Grabbing my bag, I pulled out my sweater and a book. Plain black. The Monk. Then I undid my school tie and bundled it away with my blazer.

He can’t see me in my uniform.

I doubted he would remember me: I’d avoided sports like the plague. But after what had happened between him and Adam, it was impossible to know how he would react to another school boy with hunger in his eyes.

Besides, this was a reconnaissance mission, through and through. I needed to confirm his location. That’s it. Then, another day, I would launch an attack. How and when I wasn’t sure, but then and there, all I could do was throw him a smile or a cheeky wink if he looked my way.

No more.

Placing my bag under the bench I shuffled my feet in front of it, hunched forward, tensed my biceps and opened my book. I was just a young guy, reading in the park after work. Nothing unusual about that.

I looked up, casually, and my heart skipped a beat.

He looks sensational.

No more than twenty metres from me, he had slowed to a walk. His red t-shirt clung to his wide, bulky but toned torso, wet with sweat. Clouds of steam billowed out of his mouth, hanging open and panting for air. His muscular arms bulged with thick, succulent veins and his large hands rested on his waist.

His heavenly legs stamped, step by step, closer and closer, tired but still powerful. His giant, hairy quads stretching the rough, black fabric of his tiny rugby shorts. Haloed by the setting sun behind him every inch of his body looked more amazing than I could remember.

He stopped five metres from me and stretched.

Bending forward he grabbed his ankles and held the position. For a big bloke, he was flexible. Three seconds turned into five. Eight turned to ten. Then he stood up straight, slowly, twisted left and twisted right, reached into the air, stood on tip toes and then stood back down and swung his arms down and around. Then he locked his eyes on me.

I smiled. I winked.

No reaction.

Or if there was, some subtle sign of recognition or excitement or anything at all, he was too far away to tell. He just looked away, passed slowly and continued his jog back down the gravel and away from the field.

Fucking tease.

Pulling my bag from under the bench I stood up and flung it over my shoulder. Watched his bubble arse rise and fall as he ran. Mission successful.

My phone vibrated in my pocket again. New Message from Ginger James.

Mission successful indeed.