Easter Rugger Tours
Before and After  

By Joel
Chapter One:        Before

In the early 60's when I was 16 I was chosen to go with the school's 1st XV on their four-day Easter tour.  I'm James David Tanner and in those days was a still growing 5'11'' and fairly hefty but I could also run fast.  But before I get onto those adventures I had better give you a bit more of my history.

I was born in January 1947, the result of my Dad's return from the War.  My two elder sisters were born before the War so I suppose I was what is known as an afterthought.  Not that I wasn't wanted.  My parents obviously loved and cherished me and my sisters, aged 11 and 13 when I was born, also mothered and cared for me.  Dad had a successful business and Mum worked part-time for him so, once I went to school, I had lots of care and attention from my sisters until they each went off, when they reached the age of eighteen, to a Teacher's Training College in London.  They both  married soon after and moved out of my little world.   

When I was six, our elderly neighbours next door moved and a younger couple named Phillips, moved in.  Their son, Paul, was eight and we hit it off straight away.  We went to the same Junior School and we played together almost every day and on more than one occasion examined each other's equipment when going for a pee behind the shed in my garden.  

However, all the playing together stopped once Paul won a scholarship to the local Grammar School at eleven and I, aged nine, was bereft.  He had new friends now he was more grown up and not at Junior School any longer.  I did have other friends, especially young Billy Hall who had shared many of my early adventures, but I missed Paul very much.  He was still very affable and our families always celebrated Christmas together and once did go on holiday together, without my sisters, when I was ten and he was twelve.  Paul and I shared a room and I did catch a few glimpses of his now slightly longer cock and a few wisps of hair round the base.  Nothing more.  Nothing was said.  We just explored and built sandcastles, ate and played cards, undressed and slept.  I was very happy in his company and he seemed to like me as well but all stopped once we were back at home and with our own friends.

I was determined to go to the same school as Paul so I worked hard and was entered for a scholarship as well.  I passed, very highly by all accounts, and the next Autumn Term joined the school at the age of eleven.  Paul was then thirteen.  As so often happens, two years difference at that age is seen as enormous.  Thirteen-year-olds are beginning to get bigger and more rowdier once they are in the Third Form and know the ropes.  First-Years are lesser-fry, to be harried and chased or ignored.  I never spoke to Paul at school even though we might ride to school together or, even, if I could manoeuvre it, ride home afterwards.  He was a distant idol, especially when he was appointed Captain of the Junior Rugby XV when he was fifteen.  Paul at fourteen had been well into his growth spurt and by fifteen was a good 5'10 and extremely well-built.  At thirteen I was still a shrimp, not even five feet and skinny with it.  

Then it happened.  My growth spurt began early when I was thirteen and a half and in one year I put on more than six inches.  What pleased me even more was that my cock and balls also grew in proportion and my spurts in other ways also started in earnest.  In fact, from the time I discovered how glorious wanking was my hand was never very far from my engine of delight.  My only disappointment was that I couldn't share my discovery with Paul and I spent many nights wondering whether he also jacked off and found it all so enjoyable as I did.  That summer I watched feverishly, from my bedroom window at the back of the house, every movement of Paul in his back garden seeing him effortlessly lifting paving stones and slabs when his father was relaying a patio.  He was clad only in an old pair of rugger shorts and every movement he made magnified the muscles building up in his back, arms and legs.  He rested after his exertions by lying out languorously, just in his bathing trunks, on a large towel right in my line of sight.  I beat off relentlessly with these images of him in my mind's eye.  

His Dad and mine used to play golf together so I was assailed with the tales of Paul's academic and athletic prowess.  He passed his `O-levels' with high grades and entered the First Year Sixth at the age of sixteen as one of the Form's younger pupils.  I was determined to do as well and really did swot-all without Paul or my own friends knowing.  My father commented on the fact that Paul was in the First Fifteen in the Fifth Year so I made the effort and was rewarded with a place on the wing in the Junior Fifteen while still in the Fourth Year.  I found out Paul and I both hated the same thing, cricket.  I loathed and detested the summer afternoons wasted by running after a stupid little ball or sitting waiting to knock the silly ball skywards.  I generally tried to sky the ball so I would be `out, caught and bowled' early on.  I noticed that Paul used to skive off and on Tuesday summer Games afternoons would lie out in his back garden in his swim trunks sunning himself.  I emulated him and did the same on Thursdays and nobody seemed to miss me from the infernal cricket.  I longed to find out more about Paul and must admit, while sunbathing on a couple of afternoons when noone was around, having a surreptitious wank, shooting my cum up over my chest, thinking of him.  

At parental insistence I joined the Scouts at age thirteen.  No, not because Paul was in the Scouts but because my parents thought I should mix with others than my schoolmates.  Mainly the `others' of my age turned out to be five of my class but there were quite a few lads from the local Secondary Modern  School.  Once we were in our Scout shirts and shorts there was little difference between us Grammar School `swots' and the Sec.  Mod. `oiks' and there was even less difference when our shorts and underpants were lowered, which happened with increasing regularity as I got to know my newfound friends.   The main mixture with us was the combined spunk we shot during the circlejerks at the summer camp that year.  I had found out I could come just after I was thirteen and a half but a couple of boys from my form in our circle came for the first time then.  

After that there was no stopping them.  Both Tony Pearce and Gerald Simms came home with very red, wellwanked dicks and I must admit I and the other three in our tent weren't very far behind.  In fact Gerry and I became great friends and ardent wank partners and tossed each other off, when school resumed, at least three times a week behind the bike sheds or in the woodstore.  There were always furtive couples behind the bikesheds and the wooden walls were coated with generations of cum preservative.  That was, until some clots in one Third Year class decided to measure some kid's dick and were almost apprehended by a beak who found the blubbing child.  The master apparently noticed the trodden down grass, must have put two and two together and made seven and a fence was erected to prevent further other erections on the hallowed spot.
Gerry lived very near the school so we moved our venue to the cellar of his house where he had sole run because he had a very powerful and loud sound system.  Our almost daily wank sessions would be conducted to the strains of the latest pop single so we fisted each other's fleshy members to many assorted rhythms which kept monotony at bay.  Quite often on Saturdays he would come to tea and stay the evening as my parents were frequently out gallivanting.  Actually, Dad was an important cog in the local Chamber of Commerce and the Masons and had to attend all sorts of functions which Mum went too, sometimes not too willingly.  At least it left me and Gerry with more prime wank time.  

Membership of Scouts also provided many other wank partners.  Every Monday night and  again on Friday evenings after our meetings there would be a general pairing off and a retreat into the local wood where sometimes twenty or so boys would spill their seed with reckless abandon, with the rest, presumably, practising solitary sex in the privacy of their bedrooms.  I didn't experience any of the other more daring practices which were whispered about although a sixteenyearold Patrol Leader with very hairy legs said I could suck his cock if I wanted.  I refused the offer when he dropped his shorts as I didn't want the thick bush of hair which was revealed surrounding his dong tickling my fourteenyearold nose.  I just brought him off to a really good squirting conclusion which he, quite happily, reciprocated not only then but on numerous other occasions.  He said he thought I had the best grip and rhythm in the Troop.  I didn't tell him I thought that was due to the musically accompanied sessions with Gerry.  So, by the time I became a Patrol Leader at the age of sixteen I must have tossed off near enough forty  willing lads, plus quite a few others from my class and had felt an equal number of young fists round my shaft.  But, all this time with all these, or, even more so during my solitary wanks in bed, I still thought only of Paul and the great desire I had for him.  

I had a visitor during the Whitsun week holiday  when I was fourteen and in the Third Year.  Our school had a yearly exchange with French lads from a lycee in Lyons.  The first time JeanPierre came over he, like me, was fourteen and a bit.  He was then about five foot nothing, wiry, blackhaired and with a winning smile.  My mother adored him, especially when he called her `maman'.  I discovered then that French boys were just as enthusiastic wankers as we English lads were.  I found that out the first night.  He was sharing my room and, naturally, my bed and we'd started off, rather hesitantly, trying to increase our vocabulary.  My inventiveness gave me the idea of  naming body parts.  The first few were easy.  `Nose' `nez', `eyes'  `yeux', and so on as we travelled downwards.  It wasn't long before `navel' `nombril' was reached.  I then took the initiative and shoved my hand in the open fly of his pyjamas and announced `balls' as I grabbed his fairly pendulous knackers.  He giggled and said `oh, mes couilles', grabbed my dick which was conveniently rigid and sticking out of my pyjamas and began to wank me while whispering a whole list of French words and expressions and only shut up when I proceeded to grab his equally engorged prick and wank him as well.  I think we tossed each other off four times that night and by the time his week with us was at an end I had learned a lot of not very polite French and had also come even more times than usual!  

My visit to Lyons at the end of that Summer Term was spent mainly with his dick in my hand and mine in his mouth.  The next year when he came over he'd grown two inches to my five but his dick had increased more than  mine.  And so had his insatiability.  I introduced him to Gerry who had a French lad staying with him for the first time.  We discovered that Jean Pierre and Claude were also wank buddies so the afternoons that fortnight in Gerry's cellar were devoted to extending the Entente Cordiale with English flair and Gallic enthusiasm.  

I went into the Fifth Year in September at the age of fifteen and in the January celebrated my sixteenth birthday.  The rite de passage for our class was that the birthday boy had to buy cigarettes for everyone else and be subjected to some form of torture in the showers after PE or Games.  I was now bigger than most of the class, except for Gerry, who had also sprung up to around my height and weight.   So, it would take more than a couple of them to hold me down and paint my balls blue as they had done to Micky Nevens the week previously, or tickle my knob end with a feather as Phil Mooney had experienced at the end of November.  That tickling had produced a fine show of spurting cum much to the amusement of the onlookers.  Like Tony Pearce, Georgie Phelps had also had half his bush shaved off just before Christmas but Georgie nearly screamed the place down when the wielder of the razor nicked the flesh at the root of his cock.  He was only silenced by the heavy hand of Billy Hall over his mouth and he would be sixteen the week after me.  I threatened Billy with hell fire if my torture was painful.  

I had also forgotten I would be dealt with after Rugger as I was sixteen the day before and was a bit slow in going into the changing rooms.  Actually I was late because the master in charge of us that afternoon called me over and informed me I was to Captain the Junior Rugger team for the rest of the year. So, it was with a feeling of elation that I entered the changing rooms.  My elation was quickly dampened by what happened next.  

I was caught completely offguard as about five of the class, egged on by some twenty others, grabbed me, upended me, and swiftly removed my rugger shirt, shorts and swim trunks and presented me belly upwards to a waiting Billy Hall.  The sod had a row of little jars perched on the window sill above the bench I was held down on.  Then I recognised the jars.  They were different coloured bottles of nail varnish.  What the hell were they going to do with that.  I didn't relish going home with my nails painted and I didn't think that was their intention!  It certainly wasn't.  Billy unscrewed the first  a violent pink colour and applied the brush to the root of my cock.  Well, the immediate reaction on my cock's part to any unfamiliar, or familiar, stroking was to begin to get stiff.  As Billy lifted my cold, limp dick and circled it with the wet, pinkladen brush I went gradually and gloriously rigid.  At least I wasn't ashamed of my cock.  It had been measured against those of most of the onlookers and either matched or outdistanced the great majority.  But, what I wasn't used to was the painting of rings of different colours, pink, brown, pillarbox red, turquoise and a vile green around my stretched out prick.  Billy held it aloft as he painted steadily a sequence of two or three millimetre rings from the base right up until the tip of my foreskin was also ringed finally with the brightest red possible.  There must have been close on fifty bands of colour round my rigid six and a bit inches. A round of applause from the watchers who had stayed greeted the ceremonial lifting of my prick away from my belly by the pseudoPicasso and the exhibition of his handiwork.   

 They let me up and my dick remained upright, bent back towards my belly, as was its normal stance when in a state of excitement. The remaining onlookers scattered to their own toilette, beaming happily as Gerry magnanimously handed cigarettes all round from the couple of packets of twenty I had stashed in my blazer pocket, and satisfied that another schoolmate had reached the hallowed age of sixteen with a good show. What I hadn't bargained for was that the nail varnish would dry pretty quickly, especially with the heat emanating from my engorged dick.  Christ, I needed a wank urgently but the varnish was like a second, unyielding skin.  I didn't go into the showers even though I had very muddy knees and a dirt encrusted left arm from when I had slid over the ground  tackling an elusive Joe Weinberg.  I thought it more expedient to dress and take my filthy and decorated body home and bathe there.  Gerry had scuttled off to the showers and returned grinning.  I was pulling my underpants up as he came up beside me.  My rigid dong felt as if it was set in concrete and there was no sign of it softening naturally.  Gerry said the only stuff to use was acetone, commonly known as nail varnish remover.  `Oh my Christ,' I thought, `Is there any at home?', and then recalled that there was a large bottle in the cupboard in one of my sisters' rooms.    

Gerry volunteered to come home with me and I finished dressing and we set off.  Riding a bike with a  hardon is not very easy for an easily embarrassed boy who was newly sixteen.  Mine, to me, must have been visible to all the pedestrians we passed.  I kept my school satchel balanced on the handlebars to hide the evidence while Gerry kept up a continuous outpouring of inane chatter, sotto voce, designed to keep me even more embarrassed in case the said pedestrians heard what he was saying.  I was determined to get my own back especially when he told me that the garish pink varnish was pinched from his mother's dressingtable!  I, at last, managed to tell him my good news about the Captaincy and I will say he looked very pleased for me and congratulated me warmly.  This didn't stop the chatter and I was glad there was no one in when we arrived at my house.  

I raced up the stairs, leaving Gerry to make some tea, shed my clothes, rushed into Jenny's room, found the bottle of remover and ran the bath.   God, I used up half a pack of tissues and my dong was still blemished.  No longer in neat circles of colour but a murky, brownish hue.  And my dick stung like buggery.  At least I hadn't experienced that firsthand so far but it was a common saying!  I got in the bath and was soaping my muddy self when Gerry entered bearing a tray with mugs of steaming brew.  He took one look at me in the bath, shucked off all his clothes and lowered himself into the foaming water at the tap end.  We drank the tea luxuriating in the heat of the bath and he laughed as I waved my discoloured dick at him.    

I had drunk my tea first and had already put my mug on the floor.  My opportunity for revenge came as he leaned over to put his mug down.  As he was offguard I grabbed his legs and pulled him towards me.  His head went under the soapy water and he spluttered.  I raised myself and knelt between his legs with him struggling to keep his head above water.  My dong was rigid again and as I lay over him I pulled the plug and, simultaneously, aimed my dick end at the crack of his arse.  He was all wet and soapy and I felt my knob connect with his puckered ring.  I pushed quite hard and with a grunt from him my foreskin was pushed back as my knob entered him.  The look on his face was indescribable.  Surprise, then a huge grin.  

"Oh my God, Jamie, I thought you'd never do it,   shove it in harder," was his hoarsely whispered response.   

Surprise was writ on my face as well, then I grinned and shoved.   My shaft disappeared up his tunnel only meeting token resistence somewhere along the way.  I don't know what he'd been doing to himself to make it so easy because when I had experimented with one finger against my own ring, even with plenty of spit on it, I found it very tight to enter myself.  

"Go on, fuck me!" he whispered.  

I did, but, because I was randy as hell to start with and his ring and inner muscles tightened around my shaft, I managed only about six thrusts before I shot an enormous load somewhere deep inside him.  I more or less collapsed onto him and I felt his rigid dong press into me.  All the water had drained away by now but, luckily, there was a rubber bath mat under Gerry.  I leaned up and grabbed his shaft and jacked him very fiercely.  After about twenty or so strokes he let out a groan and fired his wad up, over his chest, splashing on the end of the bath above his head.  He put his arms round me and hugged me tight.  I was stuck to his chest by the warm spunk he'd shot, my still hard prick still inside him.  

"I've wanted you to do that for ages," he whispered in my ear.  "I didn't dare ask.  Was it good?"  

I could only nod.  It was bloody marvellous!  

Without the water in the bath I was getting a bit chilly.  I withdrew my still quite firm cock which was even more colourful now coated with the remains of the nail varnish, his shit and my cum.  He looked up and remarked it was the wrong colour for me as it looked more like Kishen's.  He was an Indian lad in our class, known universally as Kish, whose darker skinned, whippy young rod  had been eagerly held by most of us at some time.  I stuck my tongue out at him and climbed out of the bath.  I washed my chest and then my dick at the sink and then Gerry washed his front and straddled the sink backwards and cleansed his arse.  

I asked him why he was so easy to enter.    

He grinned and coloured up a bit.  "If I tell you, it's our secret, eh?"  

He then described how he'd found a discarded vibrator which a rude friend had presented to his mother sometime and had been practising shoving it up each night to accompany his goodnight wank.  Crafty sod, so he was having probably two or more wanks a day.  He confirmed this and then I had to admit I was coming the same, even without the aid of a vibrating artificial cock.  I thought I must have a look at that implement next time I'm round at his house!  

We got dressed and went to my room and did our homework in record time. Mum came home, sniffed a bit and I had to excuse the smell of acetone by saying I'd got some paint on my hands which I'd had to clean off.  Consummate liar!  Gerry stood behind her simpering and screwing his face up to try and make me laugh but he didn't succeed but Mum did say Gerry could stay for supper.  He left about nine o'clock whispering sotto voce that he'd better be off as he still had some more unfinished homework to complete.  So had I,  I would also be having another wank but, before that, another attempt to clean the sodding remnants of the nail varnish off my cock.  

School next day started off with several of my classmates and other interested bodies asking if my dick was still decorated.  I purposely went for a pee and brandished my now almost cleanedup prong at a small audience, including Kish.  I said I'd cleaned the muck off with nail varnish remover and my cock resembled his after the first attempt.  He very sportingly exhibited his slim member and we compared colours and he said mine didn't look as suntanned as his, just redder.  Several of the others waved their very white English dicks and Kish said they wouldn't last a minute in the Indian sun.  

Gerry  slapped Kish on the back, "You're wrong there, me lad, it's mad dongs on Englishmen go out in the midday sun."  

My admiration for Gerry went up even more notches, I liked his wit.  

That was Friday and on Saturday morning we had the first match, for which I was Captain of our Junior XV, away at this other grammar school.  Luckily we won, Kish scored a tremendous try early in the first half and I converted it.  The other school was shit and we managed to score two more tries in the second half and Gerry kicked one over beautifully but missed the other one.  However, they did know some dirty songs which they sang, much to our amusement, in the showers.  That was, until their games master, an irascible Welshman, stormed in and shut them up.  One of their side told me he was an absolute hypocrite as his brother played in the same team as the master and he always led the singing in the bath afterwards.  I learned two things that afternoon, the words of three verses of `Four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness' and that in senior Rugby clubs they didn't have showers but had communal baths instead!  I shared this knowledge with Gerry when we got back home to his cellar after lunch at our house.  His first response was "Rub a dub, Rub a dub, Thirty men in a tub, How unhygienic!" but our minds boggled at all the antics we could think up which could happen with thirty in a bath together!   Our antics that afternoon included my first experience of the stimulating effects of the vibrator.  

This turned out to be an eight inch simulation of a cock with an end that buzzed about when you pressed a button on its base.  My initial experience of its insertion caused an almost immediate ejaculation with no manual stimulation whatsoever of my cock.  I told him I much preferred the real live Gerry's insertion that followed shortly which caused a second outflowing of my precious seed with just a little help from his hand.  He said the same but was of the opinion that when there wasn't a James in attendance then he had to rely on his surrogate partner.  The excitement of winning the Rugger match must have stimulated our sexual output as we both came easily three times that afternoon.  

Sunday morning there was a ring on our doorbell.  I went to open it and there was Paul with a great grin on his face.  Mum and Dad had gone out for the day and I must say I went a bit red before inviting him in.  I went red because I had been contemplating having a midmorning wank and had been thinking of him as I had the night before when I'd had my fourth wank of the day.  And here was my idol on the doorstep!  Anyway, he said he wouldn't come in as he had to go off somewhere with his Dad but, with a further grin, said he'd heard of my ordeal.  I blushed even more.  He then said he really wanted to congratulate me on my Captaincy and had a present for me.  

He handed over a plastic bag from Marks and Spencers and added  `Sorry it's not new, but I think it'll fit OK.  Old one of mine'.  

With that he gave a cheery wave and disappeared down the drive.    

Puzzled, I took the bag up to my room.  It rustled a bit so I was very curious.  I tipped it out on my bed.  The rustling was caused by layers of tissue paper which I unfolded carefully.  Inside  was a jockstrap.  I didn't have one.  Only a couple of other lads in our team had them, passed on by elder brothers.  The rest of us generally wore underpants, or in my case and one or two others, swim trunks.  What a gift!  Paul's jockstrap!!  My dick went rigid just looking at it.  Think of it, his prick and balls had nestled and sweated in it.  I stripped off, had a wank, spilled my spunk into the heap of tissue paper and wore the jockstrap the rest of the day.  How could I thank him?  I was too embarrassed to confront him personally.  So, I wrote a very careful thank you note and slipped it into their letterbox. Oh, Paul, if only you could have stayed, I mused that night as I clutched the jockstrap in one hand and wanked myself to climax with the other, what might we have done together?   

I didn't see anything of Paul the next week, he either went to school earlier than me or had other engagements after school.  It certainly wasn't the done thing for a mere Fifth Former to approach a Second Year Sixth Former unless sent by a beak!  So, it wasn't until the weekend that we bumped into each other as we were both leaving on Saturday morning to go to two different schools to play in Rugger matches.  

"Hi Jamie!", he said very affably, then with the grin, "Hope you have plenty of support for your match today."    He rode off on his bike so quickly before I could  think up a suitable reply other than a mumbled thanks.  By the look on his face he obviously guessed I was already wearing his present.  

Our team was doing well,  we won that match and the one the next Saturday, both with me proudly wearing Paul's gift.  Winning matches was quite unheard of as our Junior XV had been the pits for about three years previously.  Team mates scored five tries in the two matches and I kicked all the conversions and didn't miss one, perhaps the magic jockstrap helped.  The team got special commendations from the Head and we got let off lessons in the week after to play a hastily arranged match on the Wednesday afternoon against a very fancied junior side from a minor Public School at the edge of the town.  Jubilation, we won again.  Kish scored two tries this time, I converted both and Gerry and I invited him for a celebratory tea at my house.  I knew Mum had left a good deal of food in the fridge as she and Dad were out that evening so we three polished it all off and then went to my bedroom where we showed Kish the joys of having his circumcised dick sucked.  Kish is now a great friend, fascinated with Gerry's and my foreskins and can't wait for more enlightenment as I let on about Gerry's vibrator.  

The next Thursday was Games afternoon again and also the celebration of Billy Hall's sixteenth birthday.  I'd forgotten Billy's father was the local greengrocer and, obviously, my classmates thought Billy had got a taste for the esoteric.  

Again I was delayed by our Games master wanting to prime me about our next match so I missed the beginning of Billy's ordeal.  When I went into the changing room Billy was being held spreadeagled, as I had been, over a couple of benches, but this time with his legs held up in the air.  Kish was rubbing something rather gooey and sticky in the crack of his arse.  Then his legs were pulled apart a bit and more of the goo was liberally rubbed onto his ring.  There was a hush of expectancy, I deemed it prudent not to get closer and watched as Billy wisely kept his mouth closed and looked  relaxed until something very hard and rather large in diameter was pushed squarely against his pucker.  He reacted by twitching the cheeks of his arse which, somehow, on the rebound made his ring open and the object slid in.  Not far, but it was in.  It stopped a moment then there was another thrust and much more entered.  

 "Oh my God that hurt", he mouthed almost silently, but, being stoical as Billy usually was, even when falling beneath a mound of opposing players, he just took a deep breath and thought of England.  (That's what he told me afterwards.  He said he copied Queen Victoria!)  

The object was then moved back and forth and his buttocks twitched in sympathy.  I could see that the end of the object must have hit something inside his passage and I remembered the same thing had happened to me with Gerry's implement and that had then set off a great wave of vibrations deep below my cock.  Someone nudged me and whispered, "Christ, look at the size of his cock!".  It was a hefty shaft and was now rigid up his belly.  Because he was bent over a bit his knob end was further up than his navel.   I bet he had a hardon to beat all his previous hardons.  The object was slid back and forth quite slowly and wave after wave of combined pain and ecstasy must have hit him solidly behind the balls because he suddenly let loose the mightiest load of spunk he must have shot in his short wanking life.  As his head was bent over and held by someone's arm around his neck that arm received the full force of his wad.  

"Shit!" said a very aggrieved voice.  I recognised it as one of my fellow Scouts, the unkind sod.  "He's shot his fucking load all over my sleeve."  

There was a hoot of laughter and Billy was let go as Tony Evans waved his spermsoaked sleeve in the air.  Billy grabbed Tony's Rugger shirt and pulled it out of his shorts and used what he got hold of to wipe the gobs of come which had missed Tony and had hit Billy under the chin.  I was still mesmerised by Billy's reactions so hadn't discovered what the object was still stuck inside Billy.  Billy must have felt a sharp tug down below and a sense of great loss as the object was swiftly removed from his fundament.  I looked and realised that a grinning Davy Carter was brandishing the longest and thickest carrot I had ever seen.  In fact, the bastard had carved the end to look like a knob end.  Billy went to grab it then realised it was liberally coated with some sort of grease and his shit.  He said in no uncertain terms that he would shove the thing down Davy's rotten throat if he got hold of it.  But Davy, also in the Scouts, just laughed and said he'd been that morning and bought it specially from Billy's Dad's shop.  We were all in fits and Billy had to admit it was the biggest and best wad he'd ever shot.    

I rode home with Billy after that episode and told him about Gerry's vibrator so on Saturday afternoon, after winning our next match, Kish, Billy, Gerry and I celebrated by taking it in turns to experience the delights of that awesome instrument down in Gerry's cellar.  

There was one thing which I have to admit time and time again.  As much as I enjoyed all my encounters with my school friends, or my mates at Scouts, I still, every night, when I had my lonely last wank of the day in bed, thought of Paul next door, hoping he was tossing himself off at the same time and wishing I could be with him.  I pined for Paul, I wanted Paul, I craved for Paul, I needed Paul, ahhhhhhh, I came for Paul!