My first pearoast
Whilst I think of something else to write...

Our school was in quite a rich area, full of the children of lawyers and doctors, who had moved to the suburbs so they could commute into the city every day. The school grounds used to belong to an old mansion, and the only part of the original building left was an old tower, on two levels, attached to the school by a little bridge on the upper floor. The top level was Mr. Smith's maths classroom, and beneath it was a sandy-floored shelter.

The deer used to come to the round room. They would shelter under it when the weather was bad. I used to go and watch them at lunchtimes when I was going through my manic-depressive stage in third year, and wish I could be a deer, it seemed so much easier than school. Then the fourth years discovered that the walls under the round room served as an excellent hideout for all kinds of forbidden activities.

I remember the time I knelt in some deershit under the round room. It was the day I lost my innocence.

At fifteen, I was the school geek, the sad, lonely one who sat in the corner at lunchtime, nose in a book, whilst the other girls, the cool ones, chattered excitedly about boys. They all had breasts, and wore tight, short skirts, tight like clingfilm around their little hips, and they knew about kissing and what fucking and screwing meant. I was still flat as an ironing board though, known as "Holland" (after a particularly excruciating geography lesson), and had no idea what the other girls were talking about. However, when I hit sweet sixteen, I was flooded with hormones, and I discovered the previously hidden attraction of BOYS. I was besotted with one of the cool kids, one of the unattainable sixth years, with his amazing body, and clear skin, and deep voice. Unfortunately, so was everyone else, so I was left with Andy, the other geek in my year.

He was a tall, lanky, piss-streak of a boy, with greasy ginger curtains for hair, which he continually swept to the side, to get them away from his glasses. His hair was combed into a centre parting, which ha obviously been done using a ruler, so straight it was, and it was as greasy as a chippie floor. He also had the worst acne I have ever seen. A face made of pizza with extra mozzarella, which had been under a grill for too long. Some of his boils had obviously burst when he wasn't squeezing them, and a thick crust had formed over them. His nose, forehead and chin (the infamous T-zone) were like a field of boiling lava, with the constant `put! put!`s of exploding plooks. He also had a large hairy mole, which was continually being threatened with drowning in the pus, on his left cheek. We used to watch it in horrified fascination in classes, waiting for it to make a bid for freedom, but it never did.

My memories of him are full of pus and grease and the metal braces on his rodenty teeth. But it never bothered me, because he was gagging for it, like me, as horny the school orchestras' brass section (which, owing to an enthusiastic brass teacher, was exceptionally well endowed with horns that year). Like a dog with two dicks.

It was at lunchtime that he made his suggestion. It was macaroni cheese for lunch; we were in the school canteen as usual. The macaroni was being dropped onto plates by the clinical-whites clad tyre stacks that were employed solely to put pupils off their food. They all had bristles on their upper lips, evil in their hearts, and stank of sweat and cabbages. The macaroni that day was leaden in weight, and as solid as could be in consistency, like week-old porridge that has been left out in the pan, consolidated crud. It didn't taste much better, either, but we were starving. It was whilst we were eating that Andy put forward his proposal: "So, we gonna do it today, or what?" He wasn't renowned for his romantic tendencies, more for his onanism, but we were both such raging masses of hormones that we would dry hump a fence post, so I took him up on his offer. Of course, I knew this meant a trip beneath the Round Room.

We sat on the hill next to the round room, kissing wetly in the well-pounded grass, indulging in a bit of dry mutual masturbation as we waited for another couple to finish up. As we kissed, his spots were bursting, and when we eventually broke away for air, I could hear the crackling of dried pus breaking its bonds from where it had formed a little bridge between us. Eventually the other couple left, in a blushing post-coital hurry, and we headed into the pit of iniquity together.

Once beneath the high roof of the circular chamber, he unzipped his trousers, and whipped out his little willie. Well, I was shocked. These things should come with warnings - I had never seen anything so ugly before, and remember I had seen his face. It was all red and raw looking down the sides, as if it had been rubbed furiously with sandpaper for weeks (which, in retrospect, I presume it had been), but the top of it was purple and surrounded by a crust of what looked like cottage cheese. And the smell! Did you ever read those reports in the paper of a body being found after six weeks because neighbours complained of the ripe odours emanating from the room? Now combine that smell with ammonia and stale piss. I near boked then and there! However, my teenage hormones overcame the initial repulsion, and I was fascinated - did all boys have one of these? It explained so much! Andy was holding onto his little one-eyed trouser snake with such delicate tenacity, that I wondered if it would fall off and break if anyone else touched it.

He looked up at me then, and said "blow it for me". Well, what's a girl to do? I bent down, and blew gently on his mini-truncheon. "No, not like that, like this!" He told me to kneel down, and I did, putting my knee in a pile of deershit (still warm and squidgy, it seeped through my tights like soft cheese through a sieve), and he put his hands on the back of my head, and forced it towards his middle leg.

Do you remember the smell I told you about? Well it was much worse close up. Accompanied by an equally repellent taste. I couldn't help myself. I vomited. Copiously. Huge great chunks of macaroni cheese and incredibly liquid bile covered his now limp cock and spilt down into his grubby boxers and the trousers, which were crumpled around his knobbly knees. The vomit was almost everywhere on his lower body. There was a small silence before I struggled to my feet and ran away. My last image was of him standing there looking pathetic; white beneath his cheese encrusted face, flicking spew from his fingers and his marshmallowed penis.

Disappointingly, it put me off macaroni for a while.


Apologies for length, or lack of it in his case.
( ascorbate, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 13:38, 6 replies)

Brilliant story

( Bazongaloid, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 13:47, closed)

jaysus that's manky!
Boys are filthy.
Men are sometimes worse.
Not me though.
I'm special.
I never had a problem with taking two bottles into the shower.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 13:52, closed)

is that
one to stick up your arse and one to put your cock in?
( Bazongaloid, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 13:57, closed)

ah, so you're a member.
I had a feeling about you, al.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:52, closed)

that...
...was revolting, but very well written ma'am. Have a click!
(Celebgil, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 14:00, closed)

That was one of the most....
beautifully written and descriptive things I have ever read.

And I hate you for it.
(TheColonel, Thu 29 Jan 2009, 16:41, closed)