Knowing The Right People

He put the bottle down and sat back down in his chair.

"Stand up, Andrew" he said to me, and I stood up, right in front of him.

"I see you're enjoying this conversation too? Or are you just stiff all the time?"

"A bit of both, Sir. But perhaps especially the conversation."

"You were stiff in the photos too."

"Yes, Sir."

"You enjoyed ... what? - being undressed?"

"It's always been exciting for me, being, you know, looked over."

Mr Meech sighed, a long slightly raspy sigh.

"Why don't you take your clothes off?" he said, and I started unbuttoning my shirt. Mr Meech watched me, both of us silent.

Once I was down to my underpants, he unbuttoned his own trousers and brought his penis out into view. As I rolled my underpants down my thighs, he started masturbating himself and I could hear him breathing now. I could hear a slight, regular squelch sound too - he was already bringing up spunk. Once I was completely nude I went over and knelt down between his legs.

He seemed twice as big as me, and his penis twice as big as mine, waving in front of my face. I worked his pants and underpants down off his hips, him squirming in his chair to help me, then pulled them off. He was still masturbating, now on a coating of spunk that made a rhythmic bubbling noise. Still kneeling between his legs, I reached out and handled his balls, massaging them gently. I slid a finger over his slimy fist to get it slippery, then I worked it down under his balls to touch his perineum. Once again, Moody came to mind, and I had a sudden shaft of enlightenment: Mr Meech had probably done Moody too. Or would.

He raised his angle on the chair slightly and I was able to work my hand back underneath him so I could touch behind his perineum, carefully probing his crack. He gave a ragged sigh again when I managed to touch his anus, and he reached for my head with his free hand, and guided me gently down, bowing down over his big stiff penis until it was touching my face as he masturbated. He brought the head against my mouth, a big, hard, shiny, slimy mushroom sliding between my lips. He increased the pressure on the back of my head and I opened my mouth and the bulbous head slid over my lips and I felt it probe on my tongue, rubbery and slippery. And again, the odd sense of it being so big in my mouth.

I bobbed my head up and down in the way I knew was expected of me and I could feel his anus clenching on my finger, a sign, I knew, that he wasn't far from coming. His fist was still round his penis, having guided it into my face and then my mouth, and now he began masturbating gently onto my face.

"Do you think of something like this when you masturbate?" he asked, out of the blue.

"Yes. I do. I think of being completely nude and being made to do things for a man."

" ... made to?"

"Yes, it's always been very exciting for me that thought." I could hear that my enunciation was slightly off because my mouth was still coated with spunk.

"And tied up?"

"I almost always think of myself as tied up when it happens. I'm completely nude and with my hands tied behind my back, and this man has got me in a quiet lonely place and he makes me take his penis in my bum, you know, slides it right up ..."

And as I said this I felt Mr Meech's whole body pause, then stiffen. His anus tightened, clenching on my slippery finger, grinding down on my hand. And at the same time he grabbed me by the hair and started pumping his penis right on my face, grunting and fisting himself furiously, and in a moment he was squirting gouts of spunk in my mouth. I pulled back after the first squirt into my mouth, and it went on my cheeks, on my eye. And then, with a long exhalation, he went limp, except his anus, still reflexly twitching and squeezing on my finger.

I knelt still and he was the same, no movement at all, perfectly silent. I detected a slow regular breathing that transmitted itself through his hand, still on my head. And in a minute it became a low snorting sound - snoring. Mr Meech was asleep!

I disentangled myself, wiped the spunk off my face with my handkerchief. I tried not to wake him, but my underpants were under his foot, and when I retrieved them he snorted and regained consciousness. He watched, not moving, as I stepped into them.

"You know, Andrew ..."

"Yes?"

"All this about Beauchamp and Hewitt and ..." he trailed off. What was his point?"

"Yes ..." I said, trying to keep him going.

"It would all make quite a good short story."

* * *

On the way back up to University, Stephanie's exquisite little French friend was on the train and she came over and sat next to me.

"Andrew, isn't it? You are Delaroy's friend. Why you were in London?"

"Oh, visiting a ... um, a publisher."

"You are a writer?"

"I'd like to be. And you, why were you in London?"

"Same, visiting. A friend."

"Have fun?"

"No. He's a little bit of a prick as it turns out. Actually."

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"It happens. You're Delaroy's friend ... and Moody's, right?"

"Yes. He's my room mate."

"Oh. Is it true he's homosexual?"

"I've heard that too."

"Are you?"

"Homosexual? - No, I'm not."

"English boys are, sometimes."

"I've heard that too."

"But you're not, that's good. Because ... now I have no-one to take me to the Ball, you know, with my friend turning out to be like that, a prick."

"The May Ball? You want me to go to the May Ball with you?" These were held at the end of the academic year. At one time that was apparently in May, but now they're in June.

"Yes, of course the May Ball."

"I'd ... I'd be delighted."

"Alright."

"One thing ..."

"... I have to have sex with you afterwards?"

"Well, of course, that goes without saying - but what I was going to say was, it's a bit of a tradition, for some of the students anyway, to have breakfast in Paris the morning after the Ball. Perhaps you'd like to come to Paris with me afterwards?"

"I live in Paris. I've lived there all my life. I might not be the person who is the most inflamed with the desire to go all the way to Paris for breakfast."

"London?"

"Yes, that would be very nice. You know, Wilson, I always wanted to get to know you."

"What's your name?"

She burst out laughing, so loud that others in the carriage looked at us.

"You don't know my name!?" she laughed, incredulous.

"No. It never came up."

"I'm Campbell. How do you do?" And she leaned over and kissed me on both cheeks.

"Enchante. In English that's a boy's name."

"In French, too. My father wanted a boy."

* * *

The May Ball was absolutely magic. Slade was the band, to this day one of the best bands I've ever heard, and certainly the loudest.

As we were arriving, Delaroy murmured in my ear

"Perhaps I was wrong about Professor Hewitt after all ..." and he nodded to the entrance hall.

There the Professor was arriving too, with a strikingly pretty girl on his arm. Everyone was looking at her. She was very slim, almost boyish, and she had a huge mop of bright yellow hair. She caught us looking at her and she winked at me.

"You know her?" asked Delaroy.

"Yes, we ... recognise one another from somewhere."

"What's she like?"

"Impure."

"You have to introduce me!" he said, whispering right in my ear so his own girl wouldn't hear.

"She's not really your type," I whispered back.

* * *