This tale is fiction, pure and simple. Enjoy... Author: Lucifer's Love Child.
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Upon my father's death, in the London Blitz of 1941, I returned 'Down Under' with my family, after nine years in England. Come September, I found myself in the hallowed halls of Normiston College, one of Australia's oldest and most exclusive educational institutions.
Though barely thirteen, I was already well acquainted with boarding school. My worst fears about Normiston were quickly confirmed; it was a tedious replica of the stuffy British system. Yet all was not lost; the associated orgiastic diversions of English boarding life were more than adequately mirrored in my new school. I would soon embark upon a fabulous voyage of discovery through hitherto uncharted waters of lust and love.
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"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Old Farka's bulbous red face seemed ready to explode as he boomed out those immortal words. This was my simultaneous introduction to Mr Farquharson, Mr Shakespeare, and my new English class. The bizarre theatrics of Farquharson's lessons were an acquired taste. The shock of this first hysterical performance aside, Farka's rendition of Hamlet had little impact upon me, at the time. However, this particular recital would ultimately prove to be a moment of profound prophesy.
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Fagging was common practice at Normiston; it was the general rule that new boys were 'the dog's body' and, as such, were fair game amongst the seniors. Fortunately, I immediately became the exclusive minion of the Head of House, George Berry-Henan, who decided—as Senior Prefect—to exercise his prerogative to fag me.
George called me to his table, after breakfast—on my first day in the house—and had me running errands by late that afternoon. We had an instant mutual affinity, which I never questioned. Yet, upon reflection, our relationship was clearly his contrivance.
I was infatuated with George. He was a cult figure in the school; natural leader, hero of the sporting field, distinguished student, and Adonis personified. He was, as Julius Cæsar once described himself, nulli secundus. Acutely aware of the kudos that his felicitous attentions afforded me, I zealously accommodated his every whim. However, with the Fifth's final exams less than a month away, George's imminent egress fuelled my anxiety.
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Though regularly in each others' company, our carnal liaison did not transpire until three days before George's departure. Summoned to assist with his packing, I accompanied him to the cellar to retrieve his locker.
Recessed in the labyrinthine bowels of the main building—and out of bounds to all but the Fifth—the cellar was a storeroom for beds, mattresses, desks, and the boarders' lockers. It was also one of the more notorious, albeit exclusive, locations where illicit acts: smoking, a little drinking, sex, and the like, were perpetrated by the seniors.
Already au fait with most of Normiston's out of bounds haunts, I was nevertheless surprised that we were soon rolling about on a mattress, our pants around our ankles.
That first encounter produced no extraordinary experience, at least nothing beyond my ken. Yet, as we toted the locker up to George's study, I was elated and still awe-struck by the prodigious proportions of his weapon and its equally copious seminal attendance. Despite my considerable expertise in matters sexual, I had never 'done it' with an older boy before. However, George was patently impressed by my savoir faire and physical endowment. As we stowed his valuables into the locker, I sensed his regret that we had wasted the last five weeks.
An ornate box of carved teak was among the items being packed. It was adorned by a small golden lock. I admired it and enquired of its function. It was George's tuckbox, but it had languished in disuse for months because he had misplaced the key. I thought it was exquisite.
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The following evening, before dinner, George was called to the headmaster's office on urgent business. As he raced past me, in the quad, he called out: "Meet me outside the con in fifteen minutes!"
In over a month at the school, I had never heard of 'the con.' I asked several students and masters where it was, but nobody knew what I was talking about. I was more than ten minutes late when one of the seniors told me that George was waiting outside the chapel. I raced to meet him and explained that I'd been looking for 'the con' but nobody knew where it was. He looked at me, inscrutably, and laughed.
"'The con!' Did I say that?" I confirmed that he had, and asked what it was. "Buggered if I know!" he laughed again and shook his head. "Come on," he grinned, "I've got something to show you!"
We returned to the cellar, though not via the central corridor of the boarding house. We secreted our entry through a long passageway that ran under the main building from the northern side of the quad. It was an antiquated service entrance, obscured from view by the Housemaster's residence. As we made our way down the dark stone tunnel, George paused and stamped his foot on several loose boards.
"This is the old well that once supplied the building with drinking water," he announced. "Is this what you wanted to show me?" I asked naively. He laughed again, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "What do you think?" Then he took my hand, and led me to the cellar.
The ecstasy of that second session transcends time; I was willing, he was gentle. The following day was still more salacious. We devoured several frantic hours, of that erstwhile tranquil Saturday afternoon, in unbridled passion. In that blissful interlude of Gay abandon George exposed me to carnal pleasures beyond my wildest erotic fantasies.
As we were dressing, George whispered, "by the end of term two I'd almost given up hope that we'd ever meet!" Then he kissed me and hugged me so hard that I thought I'd stop breathing. I was awash with such passion that I didn't think to ask what he meant.
I lay awake, for half of that night, wishing I'd sought an explanation, then cried myself to sleep with the realisation that I would probably never know the answer. I was in love, and George was leaving at six in the morning.
I awoke at seven, to discover a brown, paper parcel by my bed. In it was the tuckbox, accompanied by a brief note: "I thought you'd like to have this. I'll get the key to you, one way or another."
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It was common practice during the war, at Vespers in the chapel, for the headmaster to read the names of Old Boys lost in the conflict with Japan. I will never forget the chill that numbed my flesh, on that hot February night, when he announced that George had been killed in Singapore. Clutching the wooden relic of our all too brief friendship hard against my chest, I wept bitter silent tears through countless endless nights. I struggled to accept how and why, not yet eighteen, George would never return. Though useless, without the key, the tuckbox became my most prized possession.
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The ensuing years were a pot-pourri of success and pain. It was not easy being Gay in the forties and fifties: has it ever been so?
I had several relationships at university and in the years that followed, but I never encountered anyone like George. I pursued teaching as a profession and, after a twelve year stint in England, returned to my Alma Mater, as Senior Housemaster, in 1973.
I was amazed at the changes that the intervening years had wrought upon Normiston. The new chapel—a cherished dream of the current headmaster—was a splendid addition to the school grounds. The old chapel had been converted into the Music Conservatorium. I was shaken, beyond belief, to discover that it was known to everybody as 'the Con!'
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That year, an uncommonly attractive child, Giles Thomas, entered Form One as a boarder. Despite his stunning beauty I never understood my infatuation with him, until he returned from the long vacation to begin his final year. It was the summer of 1978. As with many of his peers, Giles had grown and altered considerably over the two month absence. I now perceived the reason for my long interest in him; he was the spitting image of George, just as I remembered him!
I struggled, for the remainder of that year, to stay aloof and professional in my dealings with Giles. However, his remarkable beauty and uncanny resemblance to George were more than I could handle. Despite my best efforts, he was aware of my infatuation.
My feelings notwithstanding, all went well until, one evening, during the Sixth's stuvac... Giles was studying in the main prep hall with the juniors. I had dismissed all but one of the boys, and was leaning over the lad to check his work. My hand was on the back of his chair.
Suddenly, something soft pressed against my knuckles. Startled by the sensation, I looked up; Giles was standing, with his groin resting on my fingers, as he perused his text. I ogled at him in disbelief, glanced at my hand then back to his face, while still talking to the boy.
Giles looked down, made a token retreat, and smiled salaciously. I left my hand on the chair and, though completely distracted, continued talking to the junior.
Within seconds, Giles had resumed his [pro]position. His groin swelled as it pressed against my knuckles. I parted my fingers slightly and gently squeezed his thickening member.
The idiocy of my response suddenly dawned; embarrassed, I removed my hand and asked Giles what he wanted. I answered his question, dismissed him, and continued checking the younger boy's work. As Giles left, I felt incredibly guilty, frustrated, and vulnerable.
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Endeavouring to put the incident behind me, I avoided Giles as best as I could. Nevertheless, he approached me after prep, a few nights later. "Sir, I can't find my locker!"
Though urged by higher logic to resist his advances, genital acumen won the day. Driven by forces beyond my control, I accompanied him to the cellar. As we searched the cavernous room, I leaned over one of the desks, with my hand on its edge. Almost immediately, Giles's private parts were serenading my fingers anew.
I brushed my knuckles against the swelling monster, as it purred beneath its thin, ashen, flannel prison, and thought of those halcyon days in that room with George. I fought to regain my composure and withdrew my wayward emissary.
"You will have to look for your locker tomorrow," I announced defensively, and moved to the entrance, waiting for Giles to follow.
As I locked the door he leaned against me, clutched my groin, and whispered seductively, "don't you like me, Sir?"
My last vestige of resistance dissipated, as he kissed me fully on the mouth. We stood in the darkness of that narrow passageway, silhouetted against the faint glow from the southern corridor. Groping, osculating á la francaise, I had abandoned all decorum.
A noise at the top of the stairs startled us. I panicked; there could be but one explanation for our assignation in a darkened subterranean corridor at this late hour. We could not risk being flagrante delicto.
"Someone's coming! Quickly... this way!" I led Giles, in a frantic retreat along the northern passage, towards the old service entrance.
As I crossed the ancient boards that covered the well, I felt them crack. Before I could stop and warn Giles, they gave way under him; he screamed. Voices at the other end of the passage grew louder; they called out, and started towards the well. I lost all control, fled along the narrow passage, and retreated to my residence.
Within minutes one of the seniors reported the accident to me. I tried to maintain my composure, but I was genuinely in delayed shock. I could not come to terms with my guilt. I was ashamed of having fled, of abandoning Giles, and, most of all, of having succumbed to his advances in the first instance.
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I notified the headmaster, then called the police. Fortunately, the senior officer was a Normiston Old Boy! The proceedings were hastily concluded; Giles's death was determined to be an inexplicable, tragic accident.
I assigned myself the vexatious penance of collecting his personal belongings from his study... It was late. I was intoxicated, though not from the single nip of bourbon, downed after the police had departed; I was in shock, and inebriated by the adrenaline surging through my system.
My shattered psyche was floating in a nightmarish world of suffering souls and gloating guilt ghouls; I was cast adrift upon a swelling sea of tempestuous emotions and buffeted by the winds of self-loathing and confusion.
I sat, solemn, silent, at Giles's desk, in the black hemisphere of shadow that pervaded the room. The battered beacon, that once bathed his studious efforts in gentle light, now marked the harsh void that engulfed my dark despair. Slowly, and quite reluctantly, I garnered Giles's possessions from locker and desk.
The last drawer appeared empty, but closing it generated a metallic rattle. Closer inspection revealed a solitary key, fashioned from gold and remarkably delicate in design. I vacuously manipulated it between thumb and index finger. Faint flickers of light darted across the gloomy ceiling, as rays from the silent sentinel flashed off the key's gilt edges.
Suddenly, an outrageous speculation overtook me. Clutching the flaxen cipher, I proceeded with all haste to my residence and retrieved my most prized possession from its brown paper mantle.
Gingerly I inserted the key into the tuckbox; a perfect fit! My anxiety skyrocketed as the gold cipher gently turned in my fingers. The lock clicked! With great trepidation I prised open the lid; Pandora's Box and a thousand other legends assaulted my shattered psyche.
There, in the box, lay a single item. I recognised it instantly; it was a Normiston Prep Diary. I felt suddenly nauseous, and shivered to the bone, as I realised that it was dated 1978 and bore the name... Giles Thomas!
I sank to my knees and wept bitter tears of confusion and profound regret. Then, reflecting upon what had transpired, I sobbed anew. However, these were tears of sublime rapture, for in one flash of stupendous insight I realised that—from our first encounter—I had been forgiven everything.
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