The feel of Orlando's cock under my hand was my first taste of sex with another person. Sex with myself had been a no-go since I first began to yearn for it. The 'Supercollege,' the elite post-sixteen establishment which cost my parents half a million a year, was more like boot camp than the sixth form college it was supposed to be. It rang with masters' vitriolic denunciations of boys caught 'laying lascivious hands upon themselves'. My fellow prefects in the upper sixth emulated the masters in their zeal to put down such habits among the lower sixth; though everyone knew what some of them got up to in private. Not me though. I was far too guilt-ridden at the mere awareness of desperately wanting to. But how would I ever consider myself 'grown-up' if I even wanted to do things like that?

The High Masters' weapon of choice was the cane, but lesser masters and prefects were fluent with the slipper. What they enjoyed most was bare hand striking bare ass. We upper sixths weren't immune. There was a third year of 'super prefects', who'd failed their first A-levels making them all the more grudging of us brighter ones. As for those who stayed a fourth year, they were so brutalised their only pleasure was sadism.

At home, parents were only a degree less vehement. The proverbial consequences of 'self-abuse'; blindness, stunted growth, and an inability to relate to the opposite sex, were nothing to the apocalyptic (if vague) punishments, were I ever to be caught 'playing with myself.'

Horror, vitriol, sadism. My main memory of 'Supercollege' was of constant noise. Railing against offences such as wrongly buttoned blazers, unbrushed hair, sloppiness—a boy was storied to have earned the slipper by touching the banister rail while walking upstairs. So you can imagine our terror of being caught in unnameable hormone-driven indecencies.

My only moments of serenity were the literature lessons; a select class of six boys with Mr. Fothergill, a master far too much in love with his subject to care how we behaved, with the result that we behaved impeccably for him.

It was after a class, sitting alone with my friend Orlando, enthusing over Hardy's countryside descriptions, that we realised each had a hand resting on the other's thigh. But we both knew that wasn't where we longed for them to be.

I'd never given a thought to doing anything like this with Orlando, and nor, I'm sure, had he with me. But I felt his hand on me, alive and electric over my pants as if it had been inside them; which of course it soon was, and mine in his.

It wasn't at all as you might imagine. Excitement wouldn't be the right word, and there was no 'gung-ho, we've broken your rules.' Feeling his hand inside my pants was tender, close, above all, soothing. All the tension and frustration built up since that very first 'if-ever-I-catch-you-playing-with-yourself' melted in the almost liquid sensation that rushed through my body from that warm touch inside my trousers.

The touch became a clasp as our hands drank in the intimacy. Mine nestled between his thighs, snugly against his balls, while his fingers teased my penis into stiffness, gently stroking it as it responded.

Everything about him seemed to say 'Yes, you can.' Everything about me responded, 'Yes, you must.' His hardening, lengthening shaft said, without any words: 'Yes, you're giving me pleasure I've longed for.'

The world was stilled into a rapturous, soothing oasis, a haven in a school that even one of the masters had described as a 'bear garden'.

Safe where we were, but now utterly careless of consequences, we each slid our pants away and for a moment worshipped the secrets we saw and all they promised. Both our cocks were fully erect now; there was no doubting his penis was bigger, thicker than mine but the knowledge only made me, even more, yearn to hold it, stimulate it and honour it.

I reached out a hand and gently traced the skin that rippled over his ribbed shaft. I caressed his foreskin and tentatively eased it back to reveal a tip fleshier than mine with a more pronounced helmet.

In almost hypnotic delirium, I thought I was going to lose consciousness as I felt one of his hands cup my balls while the other mirrored over my cock the movements of my hand over his own dick.

How could anyone ever say this beauty was punishable?

I looked towards him. He returned the glance and we kissed, still holding on to our new-found treasure troves.

We ministered to each other, our hands instinctive in their invention of new stimuli; stroking, tapping, squeezing, loving. Now teasing a tip, now caressing the balls, ever discovering new exquisite responses. Orlando had a sensuous, heavy sac that made his treasures a delight to clasp, and it had been unimaginable to me how much love could be conveyed by the lightest touch of a finger between my thighs.

Then we could hold back no more. Soundlessly, my cock was screaming out for him. And I wanted his. Our hands obeyed our hormones. Now we were anything but soundless. We kissed again. Our tongues became as active as our hands. Until, simultaneously, we found release. What had seemed a lifetime of magisterial tyranny and parental disapprobation was blown away in a moment of pure ecstasy.

We sat back. We were happy.

It was only later that night when the guilt set in. Deep, long-lasting. For four days, I did not dare talk to him. For three nights, I tossed and turned. My sleeping dreams resounded with the barks of masters, parents, judges, magistrates, reproaching, shaming, condemning. Then I'd wake to waves of relief knowing it was a dream. I hadn't done anything wrong; I wasn't going to prison. A mere moment later I'd be overwhelmed by the consciousness that I had indeed done something heinous.

And yet, I longed to re-experience that hour of solace, that paradox; arousal which comforted; stimulus that soothed. Just to feel the touch of his hand on my loins again. To feel the clasp over my balls, and the feathery touch behind them. On the fourth morning I awoke, vividly imagining his presence. It wasn't just my penis; everywhere seemed to thirst for him. Everywhere tingled. Even my ass felt strange new sensations.

I had to see him again.

He was only too pleased. He didn't wait for me to speak.

"Justin. I haven't thanked you for Monday. You've no idea what you did for me."

"The same for me. I…"

"On Saturday. Free afternoon. Meet me at Firmount Woods. The North East bridge."

We met. The forest is huge, and as tourists never wander far from their cars, anyone with a modicum of energy can find privacy within minutes.

And we had plenty of energy. Physical, emotional, sexual. Watched only by the trees we flung ourselves into each other's arms. As we kissed our cocks reached towards each other, hard with longing, pressing against our bellies, making their requests known. My arms held him greedily while I felt him embrace me totally, an arm round my shoulder, the other around my ass. He clasped it so tightly I could feel both our dicks throbbing with anticipatory ecstasy.

Already, I was wondering what he would look like naked. I knew what his cock looked like. I loved his cock. He felt the same. We almost tore each other's clothes in our desperation.

I had to stand back in stunned admiration. He looked beautiful. To me, his ass was perfect. His slender body allowed his thick, aspiring penis to show to full advantage. Neither it nor his supple, heavy sac were obscured by the setting of soft, dark curls that surrounded them. I felt his eyes over my nakedness; inquiring, appraising and then simply loving.

Generally speaking, we were well-matched in size and shape, though I would have loved to have my dick just that slight touch bigger, and to have had the succulent head that he had. But he didn't seem to mind, and he seemed to glean as much pleasure from tending my balls as I had from just looking at the rich satin of the sack that held his heavy treasures.

Had he learnt from an expert or was it instinct when he bent and put his lips to my dick? Under his spell, it was already standing so straight that he didn't have to hold it and could play with my balls while he covered my cock with little feathery kisses. As he delicately nibbled my foreskin my penis slid into his mouth. He played over its tip with the tip of his tongue before his tongue rested against my glans and continued to play conjuring tricks all along the length of my ecstasy. I began to be terrified I would come before we had properly started.

But he knew. Abruptly he released my penis with a gesture that said unmistakably: 'Now, you know what to do.'

He was a good teacher, and judging by the noises he made, I was evidently a good student. First, my fingers, then lips, then my mouth, repaid all the gratitude at what he had done for me. In my mouth his cock was stiff, succulent, and sweet. At last, I was able to come close and kiss the heavy-laden satin between his thighs. His sighs of appreciation left nothing more to be said.

We lay, side by side, on the forest floor. Had he known of my dreams and waking feelings? Had he observed me and read my mind, an invisible presence in my bedroom as I discovered all those new feelings; those warm, tingling yearnings in my ass? He was stroking it now, inspiring anew the very sensations. He stretched my cheeks apart. I didn't know why. I just enjoyed with a puzzled pleasure each new experience. He had taken control of me; laid me on my side in front of him. His fingers played with my ass. He sought out ecstasy that I'd thought could only be felt by a penis. Now it was my turn to moan, to cry out. Just as I thought nothing could be more overwhelming he withdrew his fingers and introduced the sheer magic of his cock into me. He had prepared me so beautifully that it was hardly painful. My only thought was that we were made for each other and I never wanted it to stop.

As he rode me, his hand reached forward around my penis again. Expertly he ministered to it while his own cock poured exhilaration into me. We cared not who heard the cries that echoed as we both climaxed.

For minutes neither spoke. We lay side by side. Contentment poured over me. Its balm cleansed everything that would sully this perfect moment, neutralising all the poison of vitriolic masters and caustic parents. I think for a time we both fell asleep. I felt I sank into an ocean of silence, stilling every clamour and reproach of home or Supercollege. Floating on my back in this healing ocean I was aware only of the warmth and radiance coming from this loving presence beside me.

Over the sunshine of my mind passed a fleeting cloud of doubt. What if the guilt returned?

Then the happiness flowed back, its warmth banishing every desire except one: that I should be able to do for Orlando what he had done for me and make him as happy. He accepted my offer. 'Perhaps, next Saturday?'