Boarding Days
The idea for this just sort of slammed into me, and I had to get it all written out. Something a little different, not as much sexy time as my other stories, but it was a lot of fun to write. Enjoy!
I always woke up before my alarm clock went off. Not too much earlier, maybe ten or fifteen minutes, but it was nice nonetheless. It gave me a little moment in the day that was mine, and mine alone. I would lie on my thin bed in silence, listening to the noises of the dorm room. Nobody else was ever awake yet, or if they were, they too lay in silence. Maybe all six of us used to lie in dead silence together, unknowingly. Maybe if I'd given a bloodcurdling scream as I lay there, one day, I'd have scared the shit out of all of them. Probably not, though.
My favourite days to wake up were Fridays. I got to go home on Fridays, and spend two precious days at home, in my own bed, and enjoying my own life, before I came back on Monday morning for school again. It wasn't the best arrangement, but Dad had got a new job, in a new city, in my final school year, and neither my parents nor I wanted to risk derailing my matric with a whole new school midway through it. So, strings got pulled, and I got a boarding spot for the last half of the year. Academics, 1, interesting and fun-filled days, 0.
I hated boarding. Hated it so much. I didn't like having to share a tiny room with five other guys; I didn't like having to line up for food at pre-set times, and in pre-set amounts; I didn't like having to climb those ugly steps with the paint peeling off, and trudge down the damp corridors with the flickering lights and the stupid motivational house posters on the walls, exhorting me to attend the not-really-mandatory-but-actually-mandatory war cry sessions on the rugby field. Fuck war cry, actually. As if my reedy little voice would somehow cut through the cacophony of two hundred sports-mad parents yelling at their children, and make their hearts surge, and drive them on to victory in the face of overwhelming odds. Uhuh. Whenever I could, I'd slip away, and escape to a green room near the school theatre, and put on some Britten or Mozart or Fauré, and sit on the windowsill and read my book, and watch the little identically-coloured dots all sitting on the bleachers far down below, screaming their idiotic slogans. Go school, I'd mouth. Go win the sportsing. Yay us.
But, that was always just temporary relief. The bell would sound, and I'd have to emerge, like a little nerdy mole rat forced into the sun by a bigger, more in-charge mole rat that doesn't care about what the nerdy mole rat wants because fuck you, nerdy mole rat, do as you're told. Back to class, studies, small talk with friends, and then the day is over, and it's up those stairs and along that corridor. Into the dorm room, and then into my little cubicle within it, my lesser hell within the greater metropolitan hell. Drop my bag, and collapse on the bed -- not too hard, lest it dissolve back into the sawdust it was probably made of -- and ponder the homework to be done. Do it. Head to the main hall to eat. Come back. Sit on the sill, and look out at the lights in the valley down below, and dream of Fridays. Life, it must be said, was not thrilling.
And then, one day I woke up, and it wasn't Friday. It was Saturday. I lay and stared at the ceiling, trying not to feel so incredibly sad and alone. Your aunt, they said, and she's not well, and it's just two days. Instead of a weekend at home, eating well and doing what I liked, I was stuck in that warmed-up gulag. I lay in bed and listened to what Saturday on a deserted school campus sounded like. Apparently, it sounded like rugby. Every damn thing at that school was about sports. When I stood up, I could see practise happening down on the first field. From the height and distance of my room, it was impossible to see any detail. Just tiny blobs racing about after a tinier blob, and occasionally bunching up to fight over it. What a completely pointless activity. I watched it some more as I warmed a mug of water on a tiny hot plate, the one luxury we were permitted -- presumably, lest our characters be ruined forever by experiencing any joy.
I didn't know what I was going to do all weekend. I had some books, but they weren't gripping enough to get me through both days, and the school library would be shut. I didn't even have any schoolwork to pretend to do. It was just going to be 48 hours of life-destroying boredom. I sipped my tea and sat down on the bed again, bumping my head repeatedly against the divide between my little rectangle of hopelessness and the one behind me. Lots of long walks around the school grounds, I supposed. Perhaps I'd see a squirrel. Be still, my beating heart, and all that.
The one good thing about the whole situation was that I was alone in the dorm room for the first time in months. I could do anything I liked, without worrying about who might overhear. I was a tiny king, ruling over a musty and deeply uninteresting kingdom. I finished my tea, and lay on the bed again, imagining the infinite possibilities this opened up for me. My power might be slight, I decided, but it was there -- and with that power, came the ever-popular responsibility. It was my duty to treat it with respect and care.
So, after I masturbated, I snuck into my dormmate's rooms and went through their shit.
Put two hundred and fifty largely heterosexual young males in an enclosed space, and you're going to see a certain pattern in the items they choose to keep closest to them. You're going to find your porn mags; I think Heaving Heifers was perhaps my favourite (in a purely intellectual sense). Then there's cigarettes and booze -- naughty, naughty, don't let the housemaster find them --and, occasionally, something more exotic. Small stashes of drugs. Straight male sex toys. Condoms are less common than you'd think; I don't think anyone in high school ever got laid as much as they said they did. A stack of poetic love letters had me blushing pretty quick, and I shoved them back in before I accidentally found out what he intended to do to her "flowerin' joy". The real crime was that he'd mixed iambic and dactylic pentameter; the English master would be livid. I should have reported him, come to think of it.
But that was all, sadly. Nothing to even hint that any of the furs that I shared my space with, were perhaps as queer as yours truly. The closet would be lonely for the rest of the year. Not unexpected, but still, I'd held onto a flicker of hope. I was sick and tired of having to hide, but at the same time, I was not ready to deal with the repercussions of being known as gay in school. I saw how the few who dared to come out were treated, and I had decided that cowardice would be my bedfellow.
The vague yells and other noises from the rugby field -- braying was prominent, as one of the locks was a donkey -- finally irritated me enough that I decided to at least do something. After a little thought, I realised that, since I was entirely alone, I could have a shower. Yes, I know, what a revelation. But I love to shower in the mornings, and back then I didn't really get that option. I showered whenever I could be sure I'd be alone. I was convinced that, should anyone join me, my penis would instantly betray me, and I'd be dragged out by my mane and hooted at in derision by rent-a-crowds that would magically materialise from nowhere, right before they painted "FAGGOT" on my forehead and paraded me around on a throne made of cocks that would mock me with tiny voices from their innumerable urethras.
I had a very active imagination, and it hated me.
So, the prospect of a lovely hot morning shower, free of the need to keep an ear perked for the sounds of someone coming down the passageway outside, was actually quite delightful. But, fear was still in control, so I first visited the other dorm rooms on that floor, and made extra sure I was alone. I expected to be, since my house was for people that all usually went home over weekends. The boarding house for people who actually did stay at school all year, was in another building, and they had no reason to ever visit our sad Shawshank.
Anyway, I was completely alone, as I had thought. Perfect. I had my toiletries and towel in hand in no time, and off I went. The bathrooms were at the far end of the corridor, and because schools are designed by people who don't cut it in Prison Design 101, there were no windows along the latter half of the corridor. You simply slinked along in the shadows and then reached the bathroom, as I then did, already dreaming about near-boiling water sluicing along my body.
The bathroom was a typical school affair, with some sinks along a wall, a gap in the middle leading to open showers on the other side, and toilet stalls filling the opposite wall. All the rest was grimy tilework, suspicious odours, and a single flickering fluorescent lamp. Is it law that all school bathrooms need flickering fluorescents? Maybe there's a company that specialises in them. There wasn't even a little table for your beauty products, those monsters.
You'd pick a sink, dump your stuff in it, and use that as your base of operations for everything else you needed to do. What you weren't supposed to do was jump in shock as you turned into the bathroom, and drop everything all over the floor, like I did. Because, as it turned out, I'd overlooked one teeny tiny detail about my boarding house: the head boy, Fieran, was also in it. And he did not go home over weekends.
The head boy was special enough that he didn't have to Ivan Denisovich it like the rest of us. He was allocated his own room, a luxury beyond mortal ken, which was tucked away down a little passageway that branched off the common room. I had never been there and had completely forgotten it existed; the sudden and shocking reminder of that is what led to me offering up my face cream to the bathroom floor. A reminder that took the form of a tall, naked, handsome, muscular, entirely naked -- did I mention naked? -- stallion standing in front of a sink and carefully shaving. His room was so close, of course he wouldn't bother getting dressed just to undress again seconds later. He'd apparently just wander in, buck naked, and do whatever he needed to. I only figured all that out afterwards, of course.
The head boy was the nominal representative of the student body, in any situation that such a thing was required. However, Fieran's student body -- as it were -- was most definitely not representative of me. Everywhere that I was flat, he was curved with muscle, while my roundness mirrored his flat areas. We both had heads, and hooves; in between, our bodies had apparently been given different memos. Two memos, actually; one for the body, and then some sort of specialised one for the crotch area. I can imagine his quite vividly.
Dear Fieran's crotch area: we're going for a sort of 'loup-garou' thing here. I know, I know, he's a stallion, not a wolf, but just take the themes. We're big, and bold, and with a certain feral quality that speaks to undiscovered lusts and dangerous appetites. Make sure to throw in a lot of veins, we want any poor closeted stallions that see it to nearly have an aneurysm. Nothing too crazy with the balls, they're not the stars of the show here. Oh, and make sure that when it's all dropped out, it's the most delicious thing anyone has ever seen. We want ladies in pinafores to be fainting uncontrollably. The sort of meaty weight that makes you want to be its slave forever. Got it? Love and kisses, the place that somehow issues memos directly to people's body parts when they hit puberty.
Then I imagine the crotch did a sort of finger-gun thing and a wink, and produced a masterpiece.
Fieran looked over at me without stopping his shaving. "Sorry Tyler, did I give you a fright?" he asked, in his impossibly adorable Afrikaans accent. About half a second had passed since I so elegantly dropped everything I was holding, but my automatic gay-defence habits kicked in to save me. My eyes flew away from his cock, and I managed to give some sort of automatic response about thinking I was alone and not expecting someone. I could not for the life of me tell you what that response was, though, as my conscious mind was basically screaming the word PENIS over and over again. It was the first real penis I'd ever seen, and it would put to shame the ones I saw for years afterward. Which isn't their fault, they were all perfectly competent penises. But you can't compare a David with a This mud figure was designed by Amanda, aged three and a third.
Fieran grunted in reply and carried on shaving. I thanked my lucky gay stars for people that only saw what they wanted to see, and gathered my shit up. And then, if you would believe me, some cosmic particle or other divine ray of intervention must have slammed into my stupid young brain, because I decided to walk up, next to him, and put my things in the sink right there. And then turn to him, and smile. And then make small talk, like a real person. Oh, it was magnificent! And Fieran turned to me, and gave me a smile like the sun rising over a field of golden grain, and our eyes met, and true love was born. And we melted together, our bodies becoming as one, and we became lost to time and memory...
Or not, for instead I scrabbled on the floor like some sort of equine spider, all hooves and hands and embarrassment, and gathered my things to me, and then shuffled to the furthest sink and took that one, undergoing a low-level panic at the mere thought of Fieran standing so close...and so very naked. I felt that I just knew that if he looked over, he'd see a bulge in my pants, and the rent-a-crowds would receive the signal to get ready. Calm, calm was the order of the day. I carefully started placing my toiletries with exaggerated care. I thought I could stretch out the teeth-brushing and personal grooming long enough to give him time to finish up and leave. Thirty minutes, max, surely. I'd give every tooth a really good cleaning or something.
"Sucks to be here all weekend, hey?" said Fieran, and I nearly leapt out of my skin. My brain calmly informed me that it was not at all prepared for chatting to this insanely studly horse, and would be taking a break now. I therefore gaped at him like a pufferfish for a moment, before everything clicked and I responded with a perfect, smooth reply...
"Ya! Ya." My mind held up a scorecard with 0 out of infinity scrawled on it. I looked away quickly before my eyes finished sliding down to his cock, cock gorgeous cock did you see that cock...I reached desperately for anything else to say that didn't mention his casually swinging genitals. "My, um, aunt is sick so I couldn't get a lift home."
Snick, snick went the razor over his disgustingly perfect face. "Ag, sorry man. Hope she comes right." Sorri men, hope she coms raait. The broad, lazy accent made him sound sexier than...well, I don't recall what I thought at the time, but as I didn't have much frame of reference back then, I probably thought "a bucket of sex".
I nodded, and kept looking industriously at all the places in the room that did not have penises in them."Thanks." Silence descended for a moment. I spread some toothpaste and tried not to imagine holding that fat horse cock in my hands. The tube of toothpaste looked a little like a dick. I stared at it and imagined it attached to Fieran.
"Did you do the Latin homework already?" he asked, suddenly.
My brain clocked back in just long enough to remind me that I was not ready for small talk, oh and to still not mention his penis_._ My brain was not helping much.
"Oh, um, ya," I replied. "The Cicero translation?"
"Ya."
"Ya, last night. It was a hard one."
"I'm stuck on the last section. Can you remember it?"
"Uh...sort of?" In fact, I remembered it perfectly, but I couldn't risk dragging the conversion out too much. Everything he said might as well be verbal Viagra.
"Ya. Um...fac...fac...facere I think." Fuck, fuck, fucker-e. First my own twitchiness, now I was being sabotaged by a dead language. I really, really needed him to stop saying 'fuck'. I could only get so erect.
"Ya, no, can I come now now and show you? I need to check my work." And I needed to make sure I wasn't dripping through my underwear, more to the point.
"Ya, sure man." Silence again, and I shoved my toothbrush into my mouth to avoid any further discussion. I fixed my eyes firmly on the mirror, and brushed. Brush brush brush. Clean clean clean. Dick dick dick. Your dick looks amazing. I want to touch your dick.
"I don't care that you're gay, hey, Tyler," Fieran said, as if commenting on the sharpness of his razor. He may well have said something after that, too, but the sound of rushing blood in my ears drowned him out completely. I thought I was having a heart attack. My chest felt tight, and I felt dizzy. Every nightmare I'd ever had was coming true. I had no idea how he knew, but if he knew, did others? This was the end. I was going to be outed and everything would be terrible forever. It was time for the nuclear option.
"You'll never take me alive, you fuckhead!" I screamed at him, and -- grabbing my toothbrush in both hands -- I snapped it and stabbed myself in the heart, opening my arms to death, waiting for it to whisk me away.
Well, no, not exactly. I did wish for death, though, as we stood there in silence, my hand shaking and my tongue trying to burrow under itself. What I thought then, I cannot properly recall, nor do I wish to. It would have been the terrified thoughts of a young person that has been done a great disservice in their lives by all around them. I could not look at him, so I looked down. I forced myself to start brushing again. I tried not to cry, and succeeded. Go me.
He didn't say anything more, and we finished our respective ablutions. As he prepared to head into the shower, I somehow managed to eke out a few words.
"Please don't tell." I had intended to use my regular voice, but it appeared that someone had snuck inside me and replaced my larynx with much smaller, much quieter one. It was still not as small as I felt, though. A brief search followed for a temporarily missing tongue, and then a slightly louder echo. "Please."
I managed to look right at him, then. Any chance of being aroused now had been murdered anyway; by Mr Handsome, in the bathroom, with the Bludgeon of Truth. I must have looked terrible, though, because his expression went from alarm to impossibly understanding pathos in under a second. That instant is the moment I remember the most vividly, actually, not the penis. The first moment that I saw someone actually care about my pain; a situation I had convinced myself was never going to happen. I can't say that any sort of hope was born then, but the fear retreated somewhat, and I could gather myself a little.
"Shit, bru, I'm really sorry, I thought it was ok to say. Are you alright man?" He was honestly concerned. I couldn't believe it.
My tongue was missing again. I just nodded. Was I alright? Fuck knows. Probably not, there was a lot of shit going on inside. But rote responses were comfort at that stage.
"I won't tell, really, I promise. I...nobody knows. It's just me. Don't worry." He coughed a bit. I stared. He stared. I mumbled some sort of thanks, and he accepted it, and I said I'd better finish up, and he said do you want to touch my penis, and I said what.
He shrugged. "I mean, I don't care if you do." He looked down at himself. "I'm pretty hot, and I've seen you looking at me for, like, three years, and I dunno like maybe I sometimes like dudes or whatever a bit, so, yeah, like, go ahead if you want."
A slow-motion explosion was happening in my brain, but I was still gay, and it knew what to do.
"Y...ya. Ya. OK." Fucking absolutely please sir stud master let me touch your incredible cock right now please.
He didn't know what to do with his arms. It was adorable. He had them on his hips, then folded, then just hanging. I only saw this peripherally, of course; there was only one thing I cared about and it wasn't his arms. Although he did have nice arms. But -- focus! I had stepped a little closer and reached down with a hand to grip that equine phallus as gently as if it was a butterfly. I lifted the tip with my other hand, just stroking and feeling the warm flesh.
I don't know if you know, but...nothing, nothing feels like horse cock. First, you have the mass. Weight alone conveys authority, and the weight of horse cock declares the law to be I own you now and you will worship me. The brain, still exploding with disbelief at what is happening, blissfully agrees. Then, it's the heat: all that blood coursing through it making it feel alive. No toys can ever match that, doesn't matter how real you make them. You can watch the heartbeat in the veins, tracing a finger along them and feel like you're connected with this monstrous demonstration of raw stallion virility.
The softness, like velvet over stone, reminds you that this is actually happening, and you're not dreaming, you're actually standing in a bathroom holding the world-class cock of Fieran the incredibly hot rugby stud, and the fact that it's hardening in your hands as you watch reminds you that you love cock more than anything in the world, and then your body sums up the entire situation with a violent and unexpected orgasm that causes you to cry out and for the owner of the penis to stifle a little laugh and ask you if that felt good. And yeah, it felt really, really good.
Fieran, who was apparently a gentleman on top of everything else, was kind enough to let me have the shower to myself, to clean up. Of course, the moment his ass vanished into the corridor -- an ass that was easily the equal of the cock, if converted into ass-terms -- I just frantically jerked off again and blew my third load of the morning against the shower wall, and watched it drip down, and tried to wrap my head around the fact that what had just happened, had just happened.
I don't know how much longer I stood in the shower, but eventually I got my head right. There was still a whole lot of fear, you know, and no small amount of worry, and tension, but for the first time, all that was peripheral, not front and centre. Front and centre was simply a single idea.
I took my time getting clean. Did my mane up nicely. Took some aftershave from a dormmate's cupboard -- thanks, weird guy who always snored like someone gutting a walrus. Then I simply walked back down that corridor, and into the common room, and up to Fieran's door, and I knocked.
The weekend passed quickly after that.
"What a story, sir. Another drink?"
I waved him away. I was probably drunk enough now. Draining the final dregs of my beer, I got to my hooves, barely needing to steady myself. I clopped over to the handsome horse sitting alone on the hotel's sofa, and flopped down next to him with an idiotic grin on my face.
"Fieran, as I live and breathe. Fancy seeing you here. It's Tyler, you remember? I'm so glad. You know, I was just reminiscing about our school days..."