The Ram Stam Boys
by Chris Kent
SECOND EDITION
Published in the United States by
Chapter 1 "Guy! Guy, darling, hurry up or you'll be late!" I groaned and rolled on to my right side. Typical! My cock was hot, hard and throbbing in my right hand, middle finger of my left lodged in my anus; naked boys dived and swam in the cesspool of my mind—and my mother was calling up the stairs. For a few seconds I deliberated whether to pound my meat to orgasm anyway. Nope. The magic was gone. Save it for later in the day. It might be the only thing that made getting up worthwhile. For the umpteenth time that holiday I wondered whether the pittance I made was worth the effort of getting up at five every morning. Assistant milkman was a title I could live without. Then I reminded myself what the money was for. That cheered me up a lot. It did nothing for my dick which lay semi-tumescent between my fingers and thumb. I gave it a few squeezes as crumbs of comfort then swung myself sleepily out of bed. I rubbed my eyes; it was awfully bright for the crack of dawn, and the birds had given up their demented dawn chorus a bit early. The fog of sleep vanished as I remembered the date: September 10th! Back to school! Hence the extra two hours sleep. I grabbed my alarm. Seven not five o'clock! I'd picked up my last ten quid from Frank Summerhill the night before. Today it was into the monkey suit and back to school. The phrase had always had a horrid ring in my ear; at fifteen years old it sounded like a death knell. Still, it was a new term and a new year, and the place would be abounding with fresh meat. My cock stirred again. Down, boy, down, I say. I was going back to school but I was taking with me the guitar that all those early mornings had bought. "Are you coming or not?" gryled mom. "Fat chance," I thought, releasing my prick. "On my way!" I gryled. I scrambled out of my boxer shorts and paused for a moment in front of the wardrobe mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. Fifteen. Just under six foot. No, not my cock. Legs that went on forever. Big cock. Big balls. Mind you, my procreative equipment was in a state of semi-tumescence, but it was big enough to titillate the shit out of the juniors in showers, so I'd nothing to complain about. Thick black curly hair. On my pubes as well as my head. And in my armpits. But nothing on my chest, as yet. That was a bit weird. I had lots of hair everywhere else but none on my chest. Big nipples though. Bigger when aroused. I was among the sixty per cent of men who have arousable nipples. Not many people know that. You do, now. There were a couple of hairs around my nipples. I tweaked them out. Ouch! Fucking ouch! I peered at my face. Yes, I'm a little short-sighted, but only a little. A nice face, a trustworthy face. "There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face." King Duncan said that, and look what happened to him. Big eyes, thick egryashes. But not too girlish. Nose too strong for that. Nice teeth, shiny, white, even teeth (thanks, mum - though I hated the fucking brace while I wore it. Have you ever tried getting some pubic hair out of… .? Stop digressing. You didn't have time to finish your wank, so you definitely do not have time to digress. Get on with it.) Good, strong jawline. Well-defined cheekbones. A dimple (well, almost). I've got dimples in my ass. Look, if I bend over and… (Get on with it!) Back to the bod. That's a swimmer's body. Broad shoulders. Sweet pecs. Fuckin' hate swimming, but I don't mind having the body. "Guy!" I threw myself into my clothes—it felt funny having shoes on again— and bounced downstairs. Matthew was half-way through his breakfast; Jeremy was just starting. Pen portraits coming up. Matthew and Jeremy, my brothers, pains in the ass both. They'd gone back to school a week earlier, state school, and had to leave the house by 8.20 to get there on time. Matthew's 12, Jeremy's 11. They're both brighter than me (okay, brighter than I, for the pedants), so they'll probably win scholarships and follow in my footsteps. But not yet, not yet. Cute little buggers though. Mini versions of me, I suppose. And of Dad, I suppose, but we had to take mum's word for that. "Guy, can I see your guitar before you pack it up? You did get it yesterday didn't you?" Jeremy was in bed by the time I'd got home last night. "Fuck off." "Guy! Mind ‘les crudities'!" "Sorry, Mum. Okay, squirt. Finish your puffs (Sugar Puffs), then go and get it. It's on my trunk in the bedroom. Handle with care. As Groucho would say, it's F-R-A-G-I-L-E, fragilly. And keep your fingers off my plectrum." "Don't your masters object to your group rehearsing? The teachers at our school hate pop music." This came from Jeremy who was chewing a sausage like it was a Sixth Former's dick. Did my brother have talents in that direction? "That's the difference between a pleb school like yours and a patrician institute like ours," quoth I. "Our masters are tolerant, creative, imaginative…" "A bunch of wankers," concluded Matty. "Matthew!" "Sorry, Mum." "You got it in one." That came from me. "Anyway, Tony fixed that. Tony can usually get what he wants. After all, he's in the Sixth, he's captain of rugger, captain of cricket, and his father owns the place. Even the masters listen to what ol' Tone says." "Oh, Tony, Tony!" bleated Matthew, mimicking my sycophantic whine to a T. "I'm sick of hearing about the wonderful Tony and that wonder horse of his. You'd think the sun shone out of his you-know-what." (My little brother wasn't far wrong.) "Thank goodness Tony Honeyman will have left Abertay before I get there next September." "If you get there next September, you little fart," I retorted, stung by this unfair criticism of my hero who had not only explained to me the theory of fellatio but had introduced me to its practice during my first week at Abertay. I licked my lips at the memory. Down by the lake. I'd squatted against an elderberry tree, Tony's colt Ponyboy grazing a few yards away while Tony fucked my mouth. He was gentle, at first. Then he'd really given it to me, holding me by the ears and pulling me backwards and forwards onto his prick. Even at fourteen Tony was a real mouthful. I still remembered the taste. Tony'd been eating lots of garlic before inviting me for a stroll by the lake—"to see the ducks." For the next few months, I wondered why all the boys didn't taste like garlic sausage, and where all the fucking ducks had gone. "Now, boys, don't quarrel," broke in Mum from behind her Guardian. "It's just your hormones." Mum spent quite a bit of time pouring oil on troubled waters these days. It was a sore point with Matty and Jeremy that I had longer holidays than them. It was hardly my fault. "Matthew will pass for Abertay this September, Jeremy next, then we'll all have the same holidays again." "That's right, Mum!" ejaculated Jeremy, spitting out several sugary puffs in his excitement. "We'll all go to Abertay and you'll be alone. Can I go and get Guy's guitar now?" I snatched a look at Mum to see if she'd been hurt by this rather tactless remark. I had the uneasy feeling that we—or rather I, as the eldest male left at home, father having been posted to Thailand—did not give her the thought and care she deserved. In fact, my father observed Oscar Wilde's advice to the extreme. Not only was he neither seen nor heard, he was rarely if ever here. (We'd studied An Ideal Husband in the summer term, and I had a personal interest in all things Wildean.) Mum did so much for us, practically bringing us up single-handed while the Diplomatic Service shuttled my father to postings around the globe. There was no doubt; we were her hand-reared boys. Mum gave us her Mona Lisa (smile). "I shan't mind, as long as my three boys turn out a credit to me and to their daddy. I wonder what Derek is doing this very minute." My parents' marriage would not have survived the answer to that question. Daddy was in fact lying naked on a bed in Phuket while two small Thai boys, equally naked, serviced his needs, one at each end, in much the same way as the British Diplomatic Service was fucking someone somewhere all over the globe. (How I came to know this will be revealed anon.) "I know how glad…" Ah, she was still speaking. "Daddy will be to hear how well everyone is doing. I don't think we could give him a better Christmas present than success all round." My mother actually spoke like that. She looked nothing like the Mona Lisa, but she spoke like that. Further conversation was prevented by the return of Jeremy with my gorgeous new guitar. He and Matty took turns strumming it until it was time for mother to pack them off to St Michael's, a school which rumour had it was actually sponsored by Marks & Spencers, owing to a misunderstanding of what was to be found in the boys' underpants. Half an hour later, my taxi arrived to take me to the station for my journey westwards to the edge of the Suffolk border where I was to begin my Third Year.
Chapter 2 I settled down in a compartment and finished the final chapter of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park, part of my summer reading assignment. I'd started off with high hopes when I'd come across the sentence which read: "I'm going to make my little fanny feel as she's never felt before." High hopes of steamy sex evaporated as I discovered that ‘fanny' should have been capitalized, the novel quickly turning into the typical over-rated Austen ‘much ado about nothing'. Give me Dickens any day. In ‘Martin Chuzzlewit' I'd found: "She touched his organ, and from that bright epoch, even it, the old companion of his happiest hours, incapable as he had thought of elevation, began a new and deified existence." I wondered if Dickens had been pulling his readers' legs; he nearly had me pulling my plonker. The Abertay cap with its purple and gold stripes was easy to spot. When I looked out of the carriage window at Cambridge, I spotted a likely lad, a stranger to me, standing only a few yards from my door. "Oi, young 'un," I called in true Abertay fashion, "get in here if you're on your own." In real life, that is to say, anywhere at anytime outside school, we would never use language like that, but public schools, even as minor as ours, are a world apart and have their peculiar traditions. The boy, obviously new, shouted, "Right ho. Just coming." He turned to say his good-byes to an elderly crone who came scuttling along the platform bearing a brown paper bag. She clutched the unfortunate child to her scrawny bosom, and planted a wet smackeroonie on his left cheek. Lucky cheek! Selfish old bitch! The boy, blushing attractively, heaved her way, calling "Thanks, Aunt Martha. I'll be quite all right now." He threw his bag into the carriage. "Here's a chap who's going to Abertay. He'll see me all right. Bye. I'll write in a day or two." Too puffed to pant, he threw himself on the seat opposite me as the train pulled out of Cambridge. My previous traveling companions—a pregnant lady, a foul-smelling vicar (incense—High Anglican), and a Doberman Pincher—had decanted themselves at Bury St Edmunds. My companion and I had the compartment to ourselves. For a minute or so, the boy and I studied each other in silence. The newcomer, despite my earlier impression, was about my own age. Small, but perfectly formed as far as I could tell with his clothes on, very tanned, hair bleached blond by the sun. His tan made his blue eyes sparkle as if he'd been smoking one of those banned substances we'd been warned about in Personal & Social Education. When he caught his breath, he introduced himself. "I'm so glad you saw me. Are you just starting at Abertay, too?" "No, I've been there for three years," I said, slightly huffily. "My name is Tilson—Guy Tilson. Third Year." "Parker—Peter. Peter Parker," he said redundantly. "Going into Third Year, too. I've lived in South America most of my life—my parents are missionaries out there…" I couldn't keep the smile from my face. Peter sighed. "I know, you're wondering if they do it in the missionary position. Fact is, I don't know. Haven't asked them, haven't seen them." A sense of humour. That augured well for our relationship. (He was strikingly good-looking, which was the main thing.) "They thought I should come home, finish my education in the UK. Uncle Johnny fixed up Abertay for me. An old boy and all that. Still, I'm glad I've met you. Don't much like traveling alone. But then again, this is England. Much safer." I wondered whether Peter was always this garrulous. Probably just nerves. "Much safer than what?" I probed. Peter blushed. "Well, you know. Good-looking young English boy, traveling alone, foreign country and all that. I had to do a lot of it." "Fighting them off, were you?" I asked the question with a friendly laugh. "Not surprised. You are good-looking chap." Peter responded with surprising confidence. "Thanks, Guy. I may call you Guy? Didn't actually have to fight them off, but had to run on a couple of occasions." I was dying to hear about those occasions, but I was a little preoccupied. This train, same time, last year. Wonder if it was the same carriage. Good-looking bloke. In his twenties. Offered me sweets. I always accept sweets from strangers. Asked about me, about the school. I told him a pack of lies. I always tell strangers a pack of lies. Makes me seem far more interesting, at least to me. Offered me five quid. What the hell did he think I was? Offered me ten quid. That was better. But I wouldn't touch him. Nope, it was my needs or nothing. Between Bury St Edmunds and Cambridge I stood at the window. I leaned out of the carriage. I know. Naughty. Naughty. But this was the Norwich-Cambridge Line. The chances of meeting another train coming in the opposite direction were slightly better than me getting pregnant, but only slightly. I stood at the window, leaning out, sucking on his Polos. He leaned against me, crotch to bum, my bum, his crotch, slid his hand round me, into my flies, whipped me out, tossed me off for twenty minutes. It's a long, slow journey, and I was in no hurry. He huffed and puffed behind me, whispering "sweet nuthin's" in my ear. (Dear Reader, don't do it. Don't whisper "sweet nuthin's" to schoolboys in uniform, or out. We don't like them. We don't like affection and we don't like romance. We like sweets, money and getting tossed off for free. The rest is just piss in a high wind.) I handed him my handkerchief when I was about to come. Like a gentleman, he did the honours. He wasn't so lucky. I could feel his prick riding up and down the crack in my bottom—I was fully trousered!—and, unable to control himself, he shot what seemed like a huge load in his underpants, if he was wearing underpants. That killed the romance. He was off like a shot. But he left me his mints along with the tenner, so I still rate him a gentleman. "… 'bout the school?" I must have missed something. "Sorry, Peter—I may call you, Peter?—I was a little preoccupied." "I was asking you to tell me something about the school, about Abertay." "Oh, Abertay. Well, let's see. Abertay. A grand place, small for a boarding school, about 200 boys. We probably have an easier and freer life than you get at the more famous schools. It's all a bit laid-back. Topping playing fields; we're jolly good at hockey. We usually do well against much bigger schools at hockey. Ponies, too. I mean, there are half a dozen ponies for trekking over the moor. Beats walking." (A poor attempt at humour but mine own.) Lots of hobbies, too. There's a fine workshop for woodwork and metalwork. Music room, grand piano. What else?" I racked my brain. "No fags, I'm afraid. Headmaster doesn't like fags." Peter's eyes fell. He looked disturbed, almost distressed. I racked my brains. What had I said? "You're too old to be a fag anyway," I consoled him. Then the penny dropped, or rather the kitchen sink. I burst out laughing. "Do you know what fags are?" I asked. "Not the kind you smoke." Peter shook his head glumly. "Peter," I said delicately. He looked at me from those huge blue eyes fringed incongruously by light brown egryashes. "In school terms, fags are boys in First Year who ‘do' for older boys. Do services, I mean. Make tea and toast, clean their boots, run their baths. That sort of thing. The Headmaster banned it two years ago. But it's nothing to do with sex—alas…" The ‘alas' just slipped out. Peter looked at me quizzically, then burst out laughing. "So fag doesn't mean gay or anything like that." "No, it doesn't," I reassured him. "It doesn't even mean bum–chum." I think Peter was about to explore the possibilities of bum–chum when he glanced upwards. He eyed the unmistakable guitar case on the rack above my head. "Does the school have an orchestra?" "Well, no, not a proper one. A few of the chaps play things like the violin and the flute, and they have a string quartet, but I belong to a pop group." Peter's animated expression encouraged me to go on. "There were four of us last term. Tony Honeyman, who plays drums, two guitarists and me. I played an old banjo which we found in the music room. And I did most of the singing. But my voice has started to break so I won't be able to do the lead singing much longer. Brett, one of the guitarists has left. I'm hoping to take his place. That's my new guitar up there." I couldn't keep the note of pride out of my voice. "Cost me an arm and a leg. Worked my bum off all summer to raise the money." Did I blush? I might have. If I hadn't exactly ‘worked my bum off' to get the money, I'd certainly had my cock sucked often enough. The image of Frank Summerhill's head bobbing between my legs flashed on my inner eye. It became a daily ritual. After we'd delivered all the milk, Frank would drive the float up Penny Lane, glide silently to a halt and reach for me. I was erect by the time he slipped open my overalls, slipped between my legs and slipped my hard-on into his thirsty mouth. There was something satisfying about sitting in a milk float parked in the morning quiet of a country lane with only the birds watching Mr Summerhill's head bob-bob-bobbing over my straining groin. Every time his head came up, he looked like the cat that had got the cream as my spunk ran down his chin. He grinned like the Cheshire cat, too. Of course, I could have made all the money I needed in one go. Just let him have my cherry. But I was saving that for somebody special, somebody I already had in mind. "Tony Honeyman?" "Excuse me?" "I was asking if Tony Honeyman was any relation to Dr Honeyman, the Headmaster." That came from Peter. "Tony's Dr Honeyman's son. He doesn't make a big deal of it." I chuckled. "Beyond getting his own way most of the time. But Tony's such a diplomat nobody seems to mind. Would you like to see my guitar?" "May I?" I nodded. Peter sprang up from his seat and reached for the case in the rack. The train jolted and he was abruptly thrown forward. I had no choice. I leaned forward and grabbed him by the hips. The train was taking a notorious bend and continued to jolt erratically along the tracks. I held on, Peter's crotch directly in my face. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained' has always been my motto. I leaned my face into the fabric of his flannels, my nose, then my lips pressed directly into the meat of his groin. He smelled so good. Cinnamon and what was that? …yes, spice. The smell reminded me of Christmas. There was faint tang of something else, something equally nose-pleasing. Peter hung onto the rack. I deliberately ran my nose gently the length of his groin. There was a definite stirring. The train straightened itself out. Peter pulled down the case and let himself fall back into his seat. His face was glowing. "That was really something," he croaked. "Yes, that's a notorious bend," I agreed. "No damage done, I hope." "No, none at all," Peter flustered. "I'll be better prepared next time." We exchanged what I hoped were conspiratorial smiles and turned our attention to the beautiful instrument in his lap. Peter opened the case with some reverence and drew out my shiny new guitar. I relieved him of the case. "Do you play?" I asked. "A bit," he replied. "There were several instruments at the mission station. We had quite a happy group for my father's meetings." Peter ran an experimental thumb over the strings, released and tightened a couple, then played several chords. I recognised the song immediately though I couldn't name it. An idea came to me in a flash, like a burning fart in a darkened dormitory. Maybe we could get Peter into the group in the place of Brett. It wouldn't be any good unless he could do lead vocals. In any case, it would be up to Tony to decide. "Sing a little," I suggested. "…So if you really love me, come on and let it show…" Unbelievable! Even though Peter sang just above a whisper, it was easy to hear what a beautiful voice he had. Perfect pitch. Exquisite tone. Unbroken voice, with an underlying huskiness that signified his voice would soon be as unreliable as my own. "…I see your face before me as I lay on my bed…" I added a harmony just below Peter's lead line. I pitched my voice low it was safer that way. Together we sang: "…it's written on the wind, it's everywhere I go, so if you really love me, come on and let it show, come on and let it show…" We let our voices die away together and sat looking at each other until Peter coughed and broke the silence. "I thought you couldn't sing," he said. "That was beautiful, just beautiful." "Yes," I laughed, "but I don't get through too many songs now without my voice leaping an octave in either direction. Totally unpredictable. Now you, my boy, have a voice, and play guitar really well, too. By the way, what is that song? I can't get it out of my head." "‘Love Is All Around'. By the Troggs." "By the who?" I asked. "No, not by The Who," said Peter. "By the Troggs. We played them a lot at the mission. The Indians liked them. And I know most of their songs off by …" "Ah, I've got it," I interrupted. "Maybe it was originally done by the Troggs, but it's the version by ‘Wet Wet Wet' that I know. It was all over the place a few months ago. It was from that film ‘Four Fucks and a Shag'." Peter's blush reminded me he was a missionary boy, Troggs or no Troggs. "Anyway," I blundered on. "I hope you'll get interested in joining our group. With you around, we could really go places." "Do you think so?" smiled Peter. I was relieved to see the animated expression back on his face. "I was hoping to get the chance to play some music." "Of course, the final decision's Tony's," I hastened to add. "But I can't see him turning down a boy like you. I certainly wouldn't." The silence reminded me that it was my day to blunder. What the hell? I was signaling my interest in the boy before we got to school, putting my marker down, so to speak. If he didn't want to know, that was fine, disappointing but fine. I began to wonder what it would be like to share the missionary position with Peter. My growing erection warned me not to push my luck too far. Not yet anyway. "It's Tony who plays the drums, isn't it?" said Peter. "Is there a set belonging to the school?" "No, they're Tony's personal set," I said. "It's an absolutely super outfit. He got them a couple of years ago. Must have cost a king's ransom." Peter gave me a quizzical look. "I thought all the boys of Abertay were the sons of indigent parents, widows or missionaries like my folk. Aunt Martha said the school was endowed by a Scottish millionaire, especially for boys like us." "True," I laughed, "but Tony's the exception. His father's not only the Headmaster but he's the proprietor of the school, too." I went on to explain a bit about Tony and his family while Peter strummed my guitar gently. Finally the train pulled into Kennet, the sleepy little town about three miles away from the school. We had two options. We could wait for the school minibus which arrived on the hour every hour to ferry boys to the school, or we could call up a taxi. In the event, we didn't have to make the choice.
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