How an Appendoectomy Led to Some Fun

My mother, kindly soul that she was, somehow agreed to take in two Swedish students for a fortnight before they joined some of their friends who were to camp in the Lake District in August. My elder sister had recently left home so there was a room vacant, into which she put twin beds; and as I had passed my driving test she reckoned I would be able to look after them, as they were eighteen and I was the great age of 19. The idea was that they should learn English for a fortnight as it is spoken in an English home and that they should then go on to the camp to act as interpreters for their friends. On top of that it transpired that their parents were taking the opportunity of their sons' stay in England to take a month's holiday in Tahiti and Hawaii.

I remember well their arrival at my home. Their English was already pretty good and they were brought to the house by Berndt's uncle, who lived in London and spoke better English than most of us English! He was serving as the contact for both of them, just in case anything went wrong, so before leaving he gave my mother his telephone number and London address.

They were very polite, giving my mother presents from Sweden and expressing pleasure in being allowed to stay with us. They spoke their own language only in the privacy of their bedroom, which impressed us all. Hans was taller than Berndt and more communicative. He joined in wholeheartedly with everything we did to amuse them whereas Berndt was small, slim, dark-haired and less talkative. My young sister, who was 16 at the time, thought Hans was wonderful and very quickly a romance blossomed between them which my mother had not anticipated. I think she was quite relieved when the time to go to Cumberland came round. And then something drastic happened. A day before they were due to go north, Berndt complained of pains in his abdomen. It so happened that only a few months earlier I had had what was left of my appendix surgically removed. The doctor had come to the house, pulled a face when he saw me writhing in agony, tapped me with deft fingers on my abdomen and then pronounced to my mother that I was suffering from gastro-enteritis and that I might seem a bit delirious during the night but that I would start to recover in the morning. He left some medicine to be taken every four hours, but nothing seemed to work and the pain got worse and worse. In the morning I was limp with exhaustion and my mother sent for the doctor again who immediately realized I was a hospital case and ordered up an ambulance to take me to a hospital fifteen miles away where he would no longer have any responsibility for me. Some doctoring! On the way to hospital my appendix burst and I felt warm, easy and drowsy before slipping into unconsciousness. The next I knew was that I was in a hospital bed, fixed up with a drip attached to a needle sticking into my arm and curtains drawn all round my bed. It took a further operation and a month in hospital to repair me and I therefore considered myself something of an expert on appendicitis. So when Berndt complained of pain in the abdomen I was able to ask him his symptoms and to relate them to mine. They were identical! My mother therefore called the same doctor, who took one look, recalled what had happened to me, and had Berndt carted away to hospital forthwith while my mother phoned his uncle in London to tell him of the need for an operation.

Meanwhile it was judged best for Hans to leave for his camp and it became my duty to visit Berndt in hospital. I can't say that I warmed to him. He was too reserved for that and anyway he came to some crazy notion that the doctor had not actually taken out his appendix because it was still hurting in just the same way as it had done before the operation. Looking back on it now, I can see that being all alone in a foreign hospital, with just me and sometimes my sister and mum to visit him, was an unnerving experience. Also, so I'm informed by medical opinion, those who have been operated on sometimes continue to feel the symptoms which have pained them, even when the source of those symptoms has been cured. Whatever, even when he came out of hospital five days after the op, Berndt continued to complain about the pain in his abdomen. The nurse who came to our house to dress his wound assured him he really had had his appendix removed, but he wouldn't believe her. The doctor was called in and said just the same, and yet the pain he was suffering was obvious. My mother phoned his uncle who said the best thing for him would be to take himself out of himself (as he put it) by an activity which he could manage while the wound continued to heal, so it was agreed that though it would be too strenuous for him to join the last week of the camp in the Lake District, it might compensate him for what he was missing if I took him camping on his own for three days to North Wales. Then his uncle would come from London to collect him and he could rejoin Hans for the return to Stockholm.

I agreed, with some reluctance. I was pleased to do the driving and I enjoyed camping, but I didn't want to have to cope with several days of continual moans. Berndt also was reluctant to go, but his uncle was a persuasive man, so we gathered camping equipment together and set off. At least the weather was fine and the journey was fun. We found a field to camp in just up from the sandy shore of the Lleyn peninsula, with magnificent views of the Snowdon massif across the inlet of sea. We had two tents and I was very surprised, the next morning when I woke up to sunshine and a sea breeze, to find that Berndt's tent was empty. When I searched the shore-line for him he was not there and I was on the point of going to the local Police Station to report him missing when he walked into our camp and said he had been to see a doctor. He explained that his tummy was still hurting as if the appendix was still there, but the doctor had given him a thorough examination and had said more or less exactly what he'd been told back at my home. This reassured him and gradually over the three days of our camp the pains receded until he said he felt better.

It was on Day 2 that the following happened and which gave rise to this story. The afternoon was sunny, and after we had cooked lunch we lay out on towels on the sandy shore, not far from the gently lapping sea. It was an idyllic day in an idyllic spot and Berndt lay just upshore from me on the shelving sand so that my face was level with his hips. Now that he was so much more relaxed he was able to shut his eyes and dream peacefully (no doubt in Swedish). He was wearing very short shorts without underpants so that he could take a dip in the water whenever he felt like it, and he was lying half on his side so that the dressed wound would not get too sticky with sweat from the sun. And then I noticed that his dick had somehow become fully visible, plus one of his balls, where his shorts had ravelled up.

Now we never talked about sex at home and I'd never even seen my parents naked. At school topics like masturbation were rarely, if ever, mentioned so this "free" look at Berndt's dick was an interesting experience for me, And look I did - for about five minutes, before he stretched, opened his eyes and said it was time for a swim. He didn't catch me looking, but he rearranged his shorts, stood up and splashed off into the sea. That evening I re-dressed his wound, which was healing rapidly now and admired his slimness. I knew that his dick was only small, but it was perfectly formed and neatly circumcised, whereas mine (uncut) was more like a piece of wrinkly old rope when it was in repose. His, by contrast, looked innocent and somehow unused - which it probably had been for the last two weeks. (I remembered how I had not had an orgasm for a month in hospital and how wonderful it was when I reached my own bed at home again.) That night, in the privacy of my own tent, I thought about circumcision and wondered why it was practised. I could understand why it was necessary if a baby's foreskin was too long or too tight, but why did some religions practise it as a ritual? If it was on health grounds, then I had never had cause to complain of my own foreskin; and if on religious grounds, how could you explain it - unless for some strange reason it was to inhibit youngsters from masturbating (if ever it did!) or to make it easier later, when married, to have sex with one's wife. And then I thought how nice it would have been to have seen Berndt's dick stiff and cumming, and with those thoughts I treated myself to a most satisfying wank. I knew, of course, that as someone wholly responsible for him at the time, I would be abusing the trust placed in me if I suggested any hanky-panky, and anyway he had only to inform his uncle if he reacted badly to my advances for me to be in the deepest trouble of my life. But it was a turn-on, all the same, and it altered the way I felt about him. Now that I knew what he carried between his legs made me more interested in him and a more sympathetic companion. From that moment we got on fine and he was much less reserved when we arrived back a day later at my parents' house.

On his last night in our house (his uncle was due to collect him the following morning) I decided to show him my appendix scar in the hope that he would show me how far his had now healed. It only had a small dressing on it now. The weather was still warm and a single sheet covered his body when I went into his room where he was reading by the light of a bedside lamp. He looked innocent and vulnerable lying there and I wondered again whether the risk was worth taking. I was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and I pulled my t-shirt up for him to look at my scar. He was interested and touched the stitch holes and the big "in-fill" that had been created where the rubber drain had been taken out of my peritoneum. "Mine's different" he said (as I well knew), throwing back the sheet to uncover the upper part of his body. His skin was pale and smooth to my touch as I gently peeled back the dressing and let my fingers wander sufficiently to let him know that I was enjoying the feel of his body. My dick suddenly got very stiff and I had to put my hand in my pocket to hide its excitement, which meant I had only one hand left to gently massage the area around and below his wound. But he got the message and he didn't seem off-put by it, especially when I folded the sheet back a little further so that it covered him just a little higher than his groin.

And then I got a fit of nerves, wondering again what would happen if he told his uncle the next day. So I stood up, pressing hard on my hard-on with the hand in my pocket and said "You've got a lovely body" then moved towards the door as if to say goodnight. There was a moment's silence and I felt very disappointed with myself for having got so far but not far enough. And then he said "I feel wicked." I could hardly believe my ears when he said it again, with more emphasis this time. It was clearly an invitation! I went swiftly to his bedside, my hand out of my pocket now, knelt by the bed and carefully and slowly moved the sheet down another turn. He was wearing pyjama trousers but his excitement was obvious. Carefully I untied his pyjama cord and fished inside the opened front for his dick. And there it was, just how I had imagined it. Small but very stiff and glistening in the lamplight. I put my index finger and thumb round it just under the head (it was too short for my fist) and gently moved the loose skin up and down. He gave a small moan of pleasure and so I began to stroke him, slowly at first and then speeding up. He did nothing to stop me, but when he felt close to cumming he turned over onto his side - I think to stop spunk landing on his wound. (I'd had the same problem several months before.) This made it more awkward for me to stroke him to his climax, so he took over and I was treated to the sight of all the intensity of his orgasm. He may have said something in Swedish as he came, but what I remember is the sheer size of his load. He didn't spurt much, but the sheet under his exploding dick became a quivering, sticky pool of creamy spunk. Size of dick is no indication of volume of load!

After he'd recovered from his ecstasy he wanted to examine me, so when I stood up he put his hand out to touch the bulge in my jeans. To make it easier for him I unzipped them and pulled my dick out. It's about eight inches long and he was amazed at its size. Also it was dripping with pre-cum. "It's so big" he whispered as he looked at my foreskin. "Does this slide back?" "Try it" I said; and he did, sliding my foreskin back so that it stayed back behind the rim of my glans. "Go ahead" I said as I faced him, standing, my dick pointing at ninety degrees over the pool of spunk on the sheet.

He had a wonderful touch, that Berndt, and I gave him a juicy treat as my spunk erupted to join with his. When it was over he said he hadn't touched himself for a fortnight and doing it with me was a pleasure he'd never forget. I knew then that I was safe.

His uncle called for him the next day and he never told on me. Nor did we correspond, whereas Hans and my sister kept writing letters to each other for the next few months. Reserved he may have been, but he had secret depths and I've carried the memory of him for a long time. I also remember that after he had gone I went into his room to inspect the sheet. There was a large stain of dried sperm where we had both cum the night before. I hastily covered it over, thinking that if my mother noticed, kindly soul that she was, she would put it down to the fact that Berndt knew the sheets would have to be washed after he was gone anyway. But then she might - for all I know - have thought to herself "How disgusting!" You see, we never did talk about sex in our house.