THE MARTIN FILES
The action now shifts South to East Anglia in England, Martin's childhood home and we scroll back about seven or eight years.
Note : Chapter 8 concerns the sexual awakening of Martin as a schoolboy. If this is not to your taste, you can scroll to Chapter 9 and start there.
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Chapter 8
I've kept a diary since I was thirteen. You'll discover my turn of mind when I tell you what prompted this literary endeavour. No, not the discovery of diarists like Pepys or trips to the local library. It came to me one day in the showers after gym. There were thirty of us piled into a small space after sports. Looking back you remember how small your world was at thirteen when going to visit relatives close by seemed like a big expedition. I quake at the knees to remember the showers. What struck me was the fact that I was the only guy in the class to have developed a thick knot of black hair round my cock. Well, me and another of the geeky boys. But for some reason he was the one to get ribbed because his looked all wispy and half-formed whereas I had passed over into manhood, so it was deemed. I guess they thought if I was ribbed, I had the last laugh. Anyway, it seemed to demand that I record for posterity this, my first time at the top of the class.
I've always loved animals. Unfortunately, the flat in our east Anglian town was forbidden to accommodate a dog or even a cat. But that was one reason, I think, why I struck up a friendship with Stephen. We were in the same class at school and although he lived close by, I hadn't noticed him much until on occasion he would walk by our house with his dog and I would fuss over it good style as it greeted me.
In our neighbourhood there was a lovely little park where we would then walk Stephen's dog. For children it was a Shangri-la. In that era, there was a bandstand where actual events took place in summer – concerts and, now that I remember, Punch and Judy shows. But for me, it was where the joys of sex entered my soul. And I blame it all on Stephen. It was all about the usual questioning and discovery of 'what went on down there and how it worked'. But his fascination was round the back, as it were. There were serious questions about that orifice. What about itches and how did you deal with them? What did it mean if you were hairy in there? Did you feel good scratching when it got itchy deep down? Our innocent schoolboy minds probed these important matters like we were Plato or Aristotle debating philosophy on the steps of the Parthenon.
I was ecstatic when the school planned a trip to Austria. It would be my first time abroad and secondly we got to choose a room mate from our class to bunk up with in the hotel we would be staying. A lot of the guys (I'm talking about a Boy's Grammar School here), out of habit settled on the tribe or gang. So the sporty ones in the Rugby Club teamed up and I didn't give the hotel much chance of escaping without damage when the five of them spent a week in the same room. Then the four maths nerds got together and then there was a group of the arty boys.
For me, the choice was simple. Stephen thought it a great idea. Peace and quiet with just the two of us and we could enjoy the holiday all the more. The overland journey there was interesting, including a tour of London, my first time there. But the channel crossing was a nightmare. I should have taken the hint when the teachers passed out sea-sickness pills as we arrived at the port. What, I thought, I've been on a ferry before and managed? I'm not kidding, the world out there on the sea was steely grey from the boat to horizon and in the wind, she was tipping up and down twenty degrees at least, I'd say.
But it was worth it to arrive by a long train journey in Austria. Our first couple of days took up touring. Interesting, but not my idea of fun until the absolutely scary chair lift ride up a mountain with legs dangling over a 150 foot drop. Maybe that trip gave me a taste of the mountains, for the first free day, Stephen and I decided to walk up into the hills and sunbathe.
I think I've omitted to describe my first childhood friend. He was slightly smaller than me, brown hair to my black, but easily one of the sportiest boys in the class, but not quite as clever as me. Looking back, I'd say our only competitive edge was our hair. When you're thirteen you should really be more grateful that providence gives you great hair, without any intervention on your part. The trouble is, at thirteen, you think it's because your wonderful. Mine was jet black and fell down equally over my head all the way round, ending in a fringe about an inch above my strong eyebrows. It didn't need training and flew about wonderfully when running or riding the bike. Magic. Stephen's was just as full but strangely came down over his forehead and took a sharp turn west just before it reached his eyebrows. It needed constant flicking to keep the mass out his eyes but to him it was, as we say today, cool.
We found a good spot up in the hills with a very nice view over the valley where the hotel was situated. We stripped off t-shirts and used them as protection to lie on. "We should have put on shorts," I suggested to him after we started to roast in the sun. "It's quiet here, why don't we just take off our trousers?" He seemed to ponder this for a long time and, without reply, just took off his trousers to reveal shorty, skimpy pants reaching up to only about two inches below his belly button.
I followed suit and we lay there for a while. I leant over to chat but in doing so put my arm round his head and started to play with his hair distractedly. He seemed to like that so I turned the conversation to the bodies now revealed before us.
"Hey, I've got more hair under my arms than you." He looked at both, laughed a little and agreed. I pressed on and tried a bolder tack.
"You've got no hair on your chest either?" I reached out and rubbed round his, admittedly small, nipples. He looked at me questioningly and said no.
"But look, I've got lots of pubes." My exhibitionist took over and I pulled down my pants to reinforce the statement.
I don't know if he recalled the previous cock show in the showers but as he lifted his pants to check, I encouraged the process a bit by helping his pants down a bit.
"Wow, really smooth in there," I said as if very impressed. And I was, not having expected much from this encounter.
But then the happy circumstances came to an end as we heard a group of walkers chippering away in the distance. We couldn't really tell where they were exactly but thought we should kit up again. Oh well.
So that was where Plan B came into operation. After supper and the teachers had checked us all present and correct in our rooms, I got out the pack of cards for the game of strip poker that Stephen had not needed much persuasion to try out. I will not bore you with the details, safe to say we both got quite excited over the game and I can report that my erection was a deal bigger than Stephen's. I thought that enough for the night and we happily bunked down for sleep.
The next night playing the game of strip poker was now just routine. I was getting really excited in the process and tried to reach over and feel his cock a bit. He squirmed away. Chucks. I tried to look unperturbed and as we finished our game I sat down beside him and got close.
"You know, I used to go into my parents bed when I was young and I felt scared. Have you ever tried it?"
He looked startled.
"No, I don't think so. Was it good?" he asked.
I weighed it up.
"Sure. Nice and warm. Want to try it?"
"I don't know, how exactly?"
I tried to reassure him.
"Say if I set my alarm for 2am when it's quiet and I'll come over to your bed."
He agreed. Yippee. We both stripped for bed but as we were ready to turn out the light I said to him, as if in an afterthought,
"Oh and just wear the pants you had on up the mountain, cause it will be warm."
He did so and I set the alarm and tried to sleep.
When the alarm rang, I couldn't figure why. This was the first time I had woken at 2am. I felt so sleepy, but then I remembered the strategy and forced myself to wake a bit. I sat up. There wasn't a sound to be heard and now I started to worry that the slightest movement would be heard outside the room. I rubbed my hair and looked over at Stephen's bed. I saw a slight movement but couldn't work out if he was actually awake or not. I walked across and then realised that what was required was a very quiet word close up to his ear. I sat on the bed next to him and whispered.
"It's me, move over a bit."
There was a groan and straining my powers of deduction, I took this to be a waking groan and not a sleepy one. I climbed in and, of course, he hadn't moved, so I pushed a bit until I could get my centre of gravity over the bed. It didn't feel very comfortable.
"You're cold," he replied in a similar whisper.
Then I realised I must have been sitting on my bed for a few minutes.
"Sorry," I replied. Then the conversation kind of dried up. I reached over and rubbed his arms as if to warm him up and I'm sure I heard a small snigger from under the sheets. So I tucked my arms around him as if to go to sleep. I sat there for a few minutes and realised if I didn't do something I would fall fast asleep. So I tried a bit conversation.
"Are you warmer, I wont stay long?"
"Yea," he said, "It's ok". Getting bolder, I suggested my big gambit,
"Turn round."
In doing so he almost knocked me out the bed but I reached up to the bedpost and clung on. We were inches from each other so I leant over and gave him a big wet kiss, not moving away. At the same time I crept my hand round and rubbed his tight bum. In fact, I remembered his chat from the park so I slid my hand under the briefs and started to push into the orifice.
"Ouch," he moaned, "That hurts."
I desisted and settled for a close cuddle. And that must have been when we both fell asleep. I had planned to reset the alarm so we could be all squared off by morning in case anyone came in but I had completely forgot. The first thing I remembered was a knock at the door. I had a thrill of horror, disentangled myself from the still sleeping Stephen and flung a towel round myself and went to open it.
Thankfully, it wasn't a teacher but one of our maths nerd friends wanting know if we were going on the pre-breakfast walk – the sort of silly thing that happens on school outings.
"No," I insisted. Then focused a bit. "What time is it?"
"It's 6am already."
I sighed in relief and gave him a pat on the shoulders in thankfulness and went to rouse Stephen for the day ahead.
Chapter 9
That was the best holiday I had when I was young. After that I became embroiled in school work and exams so my romantic life took a back seat. But I was still friends with Stephen. About that time, there was an incident that, in hindsight, changed the direction of my life. At the time it felt like it was for the worse but events turned out differently. He and I would travel home together, when we weren't attending one of our clubs. It was our last year in school and, whether out of jealousy or hatred, we would get some ribbing from some of the rugby crowd I mentioned earlier. They put two and two together and came up with five. Although, as I said, our relationship devolved into a good friendship, I guess it looked different to them.
We had to take a small bus journey home, the local authority didn't provide a school bus in those days. Some of the rugby crowd travelled to school on the same route as us and we ignored their verbal comments mostly. But one day, on the way to school, we all piled to the front after the driver opened the doors, but this day, the bus was still moving and I fervently maintain, Stephen did not fall off the bus but was pushed by one of them. We were approaching a lamp post and, despite seeing it coming, there was nothing we could do. It knocked him out cold for a moment but then he got up. Like boys, we assumed he was ok and went on but a passer-by had seen him injured and stopped us.
"Are you alright?" he asked, looking at the now swelling bruise on his forehead. He examined it closely and frowned.
"You should go to the hospital and get that looked at," he said. To us two then, he looked old but must have been about thirty-five. "I'll take you." We walked after him and, to cut a long story short, Stephen was off school for weeks. The man waited with us, bought me lunch and walked with me back to the bus in town. I'll never forget what he did. After that, Stephen left school and decided to take a gap year. I must have been bad company then, for our family life changed as well. Perhaps when my parents saw my moods, they decided on a change they had been planning anyway. My father got a great job at a nearby Agricultural College but we had to move house.
We got the chance of a tied house so we kept the flat and rented it out. But to me, I could have been in another country. When I finished school, I decided to go to University far away from the area and start fresh. That was when I moved to Scotland.
Pitloch University is beautiful. When we moved out of town last year down in England, I enjoyed the countryside and went for endless walks to get away from all the hassle and pressures of school. So coming up here I decided to join the University Hill-Walking club for the exercise and to meet some new people. My parents were helpful and rented a very small flat for me in a nearby small town called Bridge of Allander, just for my first year until I settled in. Of course, there was something missing still, but I was hoping to fix that soon. The chance came sooner that I expected.
You hope for kind neighbours when moving to a new house. Most of them seemed to be either retired or single mums. But I quickly noticed an older guy in the same block of flats coming and going occasionally. Something clicked inside me. It was an unspoken feeling when several factors sort of join together and give you a shivering feeling of anticipation and hope. One of these was the fact that these flats were all small, one bedroom affairs so chances were that this guy was living alone.
I didn't get to speak to him until one Saturday morning when I was going to join the club for a walk all kitted out with rucksack and walking boots. I was dumping my trash in the bin on the way out and, turning round, there he was. Of course, I had forgotten that the University attracted visitors from overseas for study here and he shouted Mediterranean sun.
"Let me help you wiss zeess," he said as he helpfully leant forward, picked up my rubbish and flung it in the bin with his own.
"Oh, you are going eel walking, very nice. I, too, like ze exercise."
He patted me playfully on the shoulder, smiled and was gone, leaving behind only a smell of some discreet perfume. My mind boggled at his morning toilette of shower and careful grooming. He must have been about forty with dark hair, the open shirt and, damn, I was too startled to notice any chest hair, but he was tall. I suppose he was too tall for my liking but I pondered his accent. I'm not great at these. He looked Italian but his voice said France or maybe South of France with that tan.
Then when term started in earnest, I was busy and I guess he was too. We would pass occasionally and he would always smile. Then one day a few weeks later I was out on the drying green at the back of the flats and he introduced himself.
With the usual smile, he held out his hand.
"Hello, François, and who are you?" he asked.
"Martin," I replied in a slightly put on deep voice.
He asked about walking and where interesting places could be found. I explained that the hill behind the campus extended East into a long escarpment for about twelve miles and ended with a nice valley where there was a pretty, magical castle up in the gorge where a river plunged down from the plateau.
"Nice," he said. "We must walk there some day. I am studying for a Masters this year at the Aquacooltoor."
I hesitated for a moment and then picked him up. He was researching new methods for a fish farm in the South of France, he explained.
"Ah, yes, I am in the next building along studying Sport Science."
"Why don't we say next Saturday?" he asked.
"Fine," I said and forced a nervous smile.
In the event, it all went off really well. Although we were alone up in the hills, it was obvious to me that he wouldn't try anything on, that seemed too vulgar for the man of the world that he seemed to be. In any case, we both had private flats. That first day he invited me into his flat for a beer and he showed me the feature of his living room, which was a huge aquarium set up, lit from above and with the biggest, colourful variety of fish and plants you could imagine.
"Why don't I make you dinner one day – next Saturday?" he asked as I left.
I pretended to scan my memory in case I had a previous engagement with a tall, dark, handsome stranger that day, but, no, I was free so I tried to coolly agree without seeming too enthusiastic.
As I knocked the door that day, I felt a bit like a teenage schoolboy going in to meet the headmaster. I was more apprehensive than eager but I suppose I needn't have worried. Hey, I was nineteen. He recognised my mood right away, of course. We sat and chatted with a light beer for a while and then he left me with some Mozart while he headed off to the kitchen to prepare.
The fish in a lemon, parsley sauce was great with a nice bottle of white wine and I managed to stop myself from asking if any of the fish in the tank had sacrificed for us. But he was relaxed and I managed to make him laugh once, which seemed to be the right buying signal for what was to follow.
He dispensed completely with chat up lines and instead, as we sat together on the sofa, he put his arm around me while he described how he was just here for six months and what he liked about Scotland. This while he gently twirled my hair as if all my concentration would be on his words and not where his right hand was.
"Ah, you are eenterested in my airy chest?" he asked as I quickly diverted my gaze away. He smiled and pulled off his t-shirt to reveal a moderately hairy forest round his tight, hard nipples.
"Now you show me what you aav," he suggested.
Well, I didn't have much, nothing like his, but he was suitably impressed and started to rub my chest. At that point, we both started to swell mightily and, moreover, our breathing got laboured as we stared into each other's eyes. He reached over and cupped my chin in his hand and started a long, slow exploration of my mouth, his hair falling over my face. He grabbed my hand and led me into his bedroom where I got my first order.
"Go on, Martin, undress me."
I slowly undid the buttons on his trousers and made a play of pulling down so, so slowly. His huge cock sprang out and revealed a little hair, almost to match his chest. Nothing was said, he was waiting for something. I reached over and grabbed his man cock and felt the heat of it radiate upwards. I gulped and looked up at him as he smiled gently. It took me at least ten seconds to feel every corner of the throbbing mass in my hand. I looked up again, leaned in and pressed a gentle, pouted lip over it making a big show of stretching to push the whole thickness of it slowly into my wet mouth. He moaned and then pulled off what was left of my clothes until we were standing there naked.
He gestured me to continue until the smell of man sweat and his light perfume enveloped my face.
"Zat is wonderful, Martin, you are an expert," he said. "Now we try something different."
I think I knew what he meant.
He pulled me on to the bed and while I flopped on my back, he reached over for a tube of lube, almost at the same time jamming my legs up with his thighs and preparing us for action.
"I will be gentle, Martin," he said as the thrusting began, more and more, he wasn't going to be satisfied with a little poke and neither was I. He carried on as I effected my most helpless, teen whines of distress and he had his pleasure.
Well, I didn't record the rest in my diary, except that the neighbours probably had more entertainment than EastEnders. Perhaps it was a blessing that his English was not so good for I really didn't have the words to chat or express how I felt each time I visited for dinner. February arrived and he left. I do have something to show for it for he bought me a nice, small fish tank carefully prepared by him. Visitors always remark on it and I always smile inwardly when they ask what made me take up that hobby.
If you've enjoyed this story (or maybe not!), let me know. If you've arrived here before part 4 is written, then you have the chance of a lifetime to influence the direction of this story. We left off as Richard was pondering his career. Let me know what you'd like to read next.
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