Allan

I power down my computer and turn in my chair to smile at Heath. He's sitting on top of the covers of his bed, reading a heavy hardback, or perhaps pretending to read it as how he can see anything with his long fringe over his eyes like that I'll never know.

"There, all done," I say.

"About time, dear boy." Putting the book down, Heath swings his bare feet to the floor, sitting up straight while he unbuttons his shirt. It's a crisp, clean, white dress shirt, as usual. He feels they set his skin off to best advantage, and he's quite right, of course. There's something breath-catching in the contrast between his exotic looks and the crisp British tradition of his clothes.

Heath is half-Filipino, his English father having impregnated one of, according to Health, a 'veritable stable of fallen hussies' he keeps in the Philippines where his business is based. Perhaps 'harem' would be a kinder term than 'stable', as the man apparently treats his women well even once they've been retired. Accidental offspring such as Heath are given a good start in life with private British education and a guaranteed career in the family dynasty once sufficient education has been achieved. Providing they do as they're told, of course.

Heath seems to accept the inevitability of his life path with more equanimity than I ever manage for mine. His rebellions are personal ones. He does what he's told and does it well, but somehow manages to be freer than I'll ever be. I've thought about this a lot and decided that this is because his freedom is internal.

The differences between us are obvious in this long thin room we share. While both sides hold a bunk, a wardrobe/cupboard and a desk and chair set, the similarities stop after that. My side has the maximum number of permitted posters, three, on the wall, a desk overflowing with papers, books and computer bits and pieces, and my jacket hanging messily over my chair. In as much as I can get away with it, I express myself in the world; I fill my space.

Heath's side, on the other hand, would look as if no one lived in it at all if not for the school books lined up neatly against the wall at the back of his desk and the ornamental cross on the wall, a treasured gift from his mother. Apart from a certain vanity with clothes -- well, ok, a considerable vanity about clothes and anything else to do with his appearance -- Heath possesses almost nothing. His father provides a better allowance than mine, but Heath doesn't spend much of it. I suspect he sends most of it back home to his mother, but I don't pry.

He doesn't mind my 'mess' though, providing it doesn't encroach on his side. We've shared a dorm room now for years and shared almost everything else as well while we were at it. Brothers couldn't be closer than we are, I'm sure. Sometimes we squabble, but like Richard and Debbie, we know it's safe. We each have a 'get out of jail free' season ticket with the other. Not that we ever talk to each other the way Debbie and Richard did at times during the weekend. We wouldn't want to.

Standing now, Heath shrugs out of his shirt, and after hanging it up carefully in his wardrobe, he starts unfastening his trousers. "And what, pray, did you tell this Grecian hero about yours truly?"

I watch the undressing carefully, partly because I want to, but also because I know Heath enjoys an audience, something I understand well enough. Giving him my attention is an easy gift. "I said that you had examined my bruises thoroughly and that you now wanted to rub liniment into them."

"Excellent." Heath grins toothily. "That will inspire this blighter to some spine-straightening jealousy, I'm sure."

Blighter? God, he's getting worse, he really is. Has anyone said 'blighter' seriously in the last two or three decades? "Only if Richard likes me that way, and as he's straight..." I sigh but don't quite let thoughts of Richard distract me from Heath's now naked body.

While he's short and slim, much like me, Heath has... allure, far more of it than I'll ever possess myself. His features are delicate, almost elfin, and his skin a dusky champagne. With a touch of careful makeup, he'd look quite otherworldly, not that he's ever let me experiment on him in that way.

I stand up from my desk chair. "Was the offer of a massage just a ruse?"

Heath raises one of his perfectly, and naturally, sculpted eyebrows. "Do you mean to say that you remain interested in this admittedly pitiful body of mine? I thought perhaps that now you have found your god..."

"There's nothing pitiful about your body," I counter, rolling my eyes briefly ceiling-ward and then walking the two steps needed to bring me close to Heath. "Richard and I are, to use his word, 'mates' and unlikely to become more than that, much though I would wish otherwise."

"Whereas I, for all my many lamentable flaws, am at least present, and I daresay, available?" Heath quirks his lips in a wry smile. I strongly suspect the expression has been practiced in front of a mirror. Most of his more theatrical ones have.

"You were the one," I point out, beginning to feel a little exasperated, "who termed what we do together as 'a sordid affair of convenience'."

"So I did, my dear Fairchild, so I was."

I frown. "Even if you were Oscar Wilde or Noel Coward, or whoever it is you believe you are imitating, I'd still insist that you called me by my first name. We're meant to be friends; you know I hate that kind of pseudo formality. Do I call you 'Chahambing'? No, I don't." Apart from anything else, I still stumble over Heath's surname at times even now.

The school made the decision to modernise its approach to names at some point before we started here, dropping the common use of surnames and much of the traditional formality. I've been sure for a while that the decision came about after the invasion of rich foreign students who are now almost outnumbering the home-grown boys at many of the better British schools. First names are usually shorter and easier to pronounce than surnames, you see.

Some of the boys ignore the policy, even so; I think they prefer the public school inference in surname use, but the staff encourage us to use first names with each other.

Heath blinks slowly, something else I know he's practiced. "Oh, surely not Oscar Wilde. My dear Allan, you wound me. Again, I might add. Ah, it may be you who bears the physical manifestations of harm, but it is I, slighted and deemed second rate, who suffers most grievously tonight. No matter." He waves a dismissive hand. "I shall endure."

I can almost hear the crash and clatter as my patience hits the buffers. I put my hands on my hips and glare. "You're getting increasingly ridiculous, you know."

"Am I?" For the first time in this conversation, Heath's down-the-nose stance falters, and I can see the real boy. It comes as such a relief that I want to hug him. "I rather thought I was being amusing." He sounds unhappy.

"Maybe I'm just not in a receptive mood," I offer more kindly as I walk over to the door to lock it. "Switch on your side-light?" After Heath does so, I turn the main light off and return to stand before Heath. "Perhaps you could be yourself until the morning?"

"But 'myself' is so boring!"

"No, it isn't." I stroke my fingertips lightly across Heath's cheekbones. "You're my best friend, and we have fun together. That doesn't make you either boring or second rate." We both know we are too similar to be a real couple... don't we?

"I was only joshing with the 'second rate'," Heath claims, not altogether convincingly. He moves forward to press his naked body against my clothed one. "Do you really want a massage?"

I put my hands on Health's hips then let one trail lightly down and around to caress a soft buttock. "Not if you'd rather share something more mutual."

"That does sound pleasant." Heath pulls back just a little and begins to undress me. Yes, this will do us both good, easing our tensions. I'm not sure what I'd do without Heath. "So tell me more about your warrior hero," he says.

I lift my arms to have my tops removed. The movement stretches my skin, tugging at my bruises. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes, of course." Heath lightly throws my clothes to my chair and starts to unbutton my jeans. "You owe me some juicy details, dear chap. Normally you return from the big city with a new technique to teach me, or at the very least, a saucy tale. All I've heard this time is a rather repetitive account of this paragon of families, the Llewellyns, and your personal Hercules who strides the streets of his London slum, dealing justice as a bawdy house deals flesh. Tell me, please, what makes this boy so special."

"He's a man, not a boy." Some males of twenty-two are still boys, I suppose, but Richard, I've decided, is definitely a man. My trousers fall to the floor, and I step out of them before continuing. "Richard is tall. He's a black belt in something I keep forgetting, and it shows in his physique. He has a perfect classical beauty and is rather better hung than Michelangelo's David." I stick my chin out defiantly, daring Heath to disbelieve me.

Heath grins, but declines dissent. "Hair? Eyes?" he asks before dropping to his knees to divest me of my underwear.

"Yes, both of those." I laugh, letting my fingers rest suggestively on Heath's black hair, but to no avail as he stands again. "The first is dark blond, short and slightly curly. The second are light brown, almost golden."

"So less of a Greek hero and more of a Viking? My dear boy, are we playing with fire? Does he look the type for rape and berserker fits?"

I frown a little. I don't think I like even humorous aspersions cast upon Richard. "He's Welsh, transplanted obviously, and with an English first name." All three of the younger Llewellyns have English Christian names; I wonder if that's significant of something. "I don't know enough Welsh myth to offer a warrior's name for you to use, I'm afraid."

Suddenly, Heath turns his back on me. "What colour are my eyes?"

Oh... good grief! I tut and sigh. "Blue, dear idiot. Your eye colour is far too unusual with your skin for me not to remember that, not to mention the fact that I've known you for five years. Now stop being so bloody silly!" I grab Heath's waist and try to turn him.

Heath obliges, turning back with a rueful look. "Well, I still insist that knowing his eye colour after less than twenty-four hours in his company speaks a veritable library about the impression he has made on you. It being less of an impression and more of a searing brand, I deign to conjecture."

"It doesn't say anything that I haven't already admitted," I retort. "Are we going to stand here all night getting colder and colder?"

Grinning, Heath takes my hand and pulls me to his bed. He slips under the sheets first, pressing himself back against the wall, and then I lie down in the narrow section of mattress left. The school does its best to ensure boys can't sleep together by giving us these tiny beds, but if they really wanted to stop it, they'd assign us all separate rooms without charging that extra however much that my parents are thankfully not prepared to pay.

Heath reaches over to switch off the light, and he remains half on top of me now I'm blinking in the sudden blackness. Skin to skin in the dark always feels so very good; it really doesn't matter who the other person is, but when the other person is male and with a hard, slender cock that he's pushing gently into my hip, then it feels... better than good.

I shut my eyes to make the darkness more complete and concentrate on the smooth skin touching mine. When Heath takes my face into his hands, I pull back slightly, scared for my nose, but he makes a reassuring noise and brings his lips gently to mine. He understands somehow.

We kiss and cuddle almost chastely for a minute or so, but this part never lasts long. Years of unlockable doors taught us both to move fast to the objective, and even though one of the privileges of the six-form is a lock and key, speed is a habit hard to break. Not that I've found the adult gay community is much different -- 'wham, bang, thank you, young sir' being the usual attitude. Maybe it's just the way men work when left to themselves.

Our hands move inevitably downwards, and almost in unison, we grasp each other and begin to stroke. I nuzzle against Heath; this feels so nice, so very welcome and friendly. We know each other's bodies so well that there's no stress involved in doing this, no unknown quantities to worry us.

After a few moments of soft breaths and other small noises, Heath murmurs, "Pretend this is Richard's hand touching you."

I whimper as the suggestion catches me by surprise, tightening something in my groin. "Don't. I'll come."

"That, dear friend, is my objective."

"Not quite this quickly. I won't even feel it!"

But Heath is persistent. "Close your eyes and imagine this is Richard's hand around you. Go on. Do as you are told."

Despite misgivings, I obey and immediately have to stifle a moan as Heath steps up the pace. "Ohh." I thrust forward into Heath's grip, willing myself to believe his slight hand is Richard's much larger one. "Yes... please."

"So polite." Heath chuckles and then seems to draw himself up as if preparing for something. "I say, my dearest pal, I had Corthbolt while you were off playing court to gilded youths. Or, I should more accurately say, Corthbolt had me. He found some small pleasure could be eked from my posterior."

Oh... it is so like Heath to wait until this moment to tell me that. "That's great news," I say, although I would much rather stay silent and continue to fantasise about Richard. But Heath has, despite his faux-casual tone, been angling after the classically handsome Corthbolt for at least a year, so this is an important achievement for him. I'd better acknowledge it. "Worth the wait?"

"Oh, I would award the fellow at least a minor accolade. A rosette perhaps."

That was all? Despite myself, I laugh. "Adequate then? Would you allow him access again?"

"Certainly." Health manages to maintain his camp tone despite what I am doing to him. "He was in fact more than adequate and quite worth the interminable wait. His technique was rather straightforward, but he -- mmm, that really is very nice, my dear -- stayed the distance, neither neglected nor abused his mount, and even helped groom the beast afterwards."

Perhaps if I speed up my hand, Heath won't be quite so chatty. The trouble is I actually do want to hear more now. "Where were you when this happened?"

"In the gym after hours. That's the benefit of fagging for a prefect; they have keys. He bent me over one of the smaller pommel horses and took me for a gallop." I open my mouth to speak and find a finger pressed to my lips as Heath adds, "Yes, he had come prepared. Safety was assured, girths tightened and all that. He confessed afterwards that he's been thinking about taking me in just such a way for months. Now what do you say to that?"

"I say that you had a damn cheek making me feel guilty about Richard when this is what you've been up to!" My hand has stopped moving altogether now, and Heath's has also slowed down to a near stop. "Or are you making this up?"

"Really, I'm not. I tell you, dear Allan, I will never be able to watch another gymnastic display in the same worthy spirit of tedium again. If my posterior pleased him enough to request a reprise, I shall suggest, hmm, the parallel bars?"

Again, I giggle. "You're bonkers. If you'd been caught..."

"Ah, but we weren't."

"Don't forget what happened to those boys from Caversham." A six-former and two fourth years were recently caught engaging in a passionate -- and rumour has it, intricate -- threesome in one of the bathrooms of Caversham House. The six-former was expelled and the younger boys severely disciplined. Rumour, that ever-generous well of information, also has it that the teaching staff are now adopting secret police tactics to discover who else might be engaging in similar 'inadvisable practices'.

Of course, the fact that sex between Heath and Chris Corthbolt -- both at least a year over sixteen -- is perfectly legal won't enter into the Montgomery College reasoning if they're caught together. The school is the law in this matter, and our parents always back the school, of course. The pair would probably both be expelled if they're caught engaging in buggery within school premises, although Chris, with his prefect's record, might possibly survive...

Ugh, these are not happy thoughts at all. My appetite for what I'm doing suddenly sours; I let go of Heath's cock altogether, leaning back as much as I can within the narrow space. Heath makes a noise of complaint. "Have I made you jealous now? Truly, that was not my intention."

"No, I'm just fretting." I stroke Heath's shoulder and arm reassuringly. "Being called up to see Bish earlier rather unnerved me, to be frank."

"Hmm." Heath's silent for a few moments before asking, "How do you imagine your Adonis would kiss?"

I make myself consider Richard, not exactly a hardship. "Well, he has a fiery temper, but he's also gentle and considerate of those for whom he cares. So... perhaps very hard and fierce with tender intervals?" I have to laugh a little. It's silly to describe a kiss in such detail... but it isn't as if I haven't been imagining such kisses on and off throughout the whole day.

My mouth is suddenly covered by Heath's, my fading laughter swallowed as I find myself being kissed viciously, Heath's free hand snaking around to hold the back of my neck. Oh bloody hell. I make a smothered noise of complaint, and Heath pulls back long enough to hiss, "I'm Richard," before the violent kiss begins again.

His hand moves on my cock, fast and hard, and I give up my half-hearted struggle. Why not go with this and follow Heath's suggestion? Closing my eyes I tell myself that this is Richard upon me.

Oh God. Immediately things start to tighten with that dragging, urgent feel. I heave in breath through my nose and cling to Heath's back. No, Richard's back, broad and golden; Richard treating me roughly, heavy on my bruises; Richard's tongue and grunts filling my mouth; Richard's hand yanking at my cock...

Oh God, oh God, oh dear God...

Heath makes a satisfied noise and gentles his kiss after I stop shuddering. He wipes his wet hand lazily over my belly and murmurs, "There, am I not a good fellow to treat you so?"

I nod even though he probably can't see me and lift my head to kiss him softly. My lips feel bruised. Ah well, they'll match my nose.

We lie still for a few moments as I luxuriate in post-orgasmic lassitude, my eyes closed and my thoughts still full of Richard. I won't let myself sleep though, not yet. Part of the unspoken contract with Heath is that if one of us comes, so does the other.

Eventually, I force myself to wriggle on my side to the very edge of the bed so that I can push Heath flat and begin to kiss him again.

Hmm, maybe I can speed this up while simultaneously returning a favour. I slip my hand down to circle Heath's cock again and begin to stroke. "I'm Chris Corthbolt, and you are in my bed," I say quietly in the deepest voice I can manage without sounding silly. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you and so I told you to come to my room tonight to help me with a task. I'm hard for you. I want you so badly..."

Heath moans, writhing a little under my attention. "Have me, please. Dear boy, I am yours for the taking."

I kiss Heath more firmly before pulling back. "I will. I intend, shortly, to turn you over and take you hard. I'm going to fuck you until you scream, Chahambing; until you scream for me.

"Oh, ohhh." Heath's thrusting upwards into my fist now. "For you. Punitin mo ako..."

"But you see the thing is, boy, I haven't any lubricant left. I need you to come first so that I can prepare you for me. Will you do that?" I speed up my hand's movement.

"Of course... dearest boy... for you..."

Heath is obviously very close. I love moments like this when the power is all mine, when my partner, for this short time, will promise almost anything to me providing I don't stop. I smile and bend to whisper in Heath's ear. "I'm going to take you so hard that you'll still be able to feel me inside you in a week's time."

There's a breathless, wordless cry from Heath and then a warm but rapidly cooling wetness splatters over my hand.

I wait until Heath's asleep before slipping from the sheets and padding the few feet to my own bed.

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