Date: Wed, 28 Jun 2006 08:18:21 -0400
From: Jeff A <parrafan@ureach.com>
Subject: the boxer rebellion

The Boxer Rebellion

a story by parrafan

Disclaimer: This story is fiction, for the entertainment of
adults only.

Consumer Product Warning: This piece of writing contains less
than ten per cent sex. Readers who require a higher component of
sex in their reading diets should consider a supplement.

Dedicated to schoolboys everywhere.

* * *

The Boxer Rebellion

by parrafan

It's funny sometimes how one person, in a position of authority,
can make a big difference to a lot of lives. Take the amazing
story of the year Six students at Wilkinson School for Boys in
that fateful summer of '97.

In their first five years at the school, these boys flourished
under the benevolent dictatorship of Mr Lawson, their revered
school Principal. The Wilkinson Principal's position was the
crowning achievement to Mr Lawson's thirty-five year teaching
vocation, and he brought to the job all of the wisdom he had
gleaned over his long career. He knew when to let the boys have
their heads, and when to apply the brakes. Just as on the
freeway, a gentle tap was usually enough. Slam on hard, and the
car swerves out of control. Mr Lawson knew that well.

But school principals do not last forever, and Mr Lawson's
sixtieth birthday arrived at the end of Term One, 1997. He had
asked the Education Department for permission to stay on until
the end of the year, but sadly, his job was already earmarked
for an up-and-coming new man, and Mr Lawson was promptly given
the handshake and gold watch, and shown the door.

The new man was Mr Parkchester, who had until then occupied a
managerial position in the Education Department's Policy Unit.
Although he was at the same pay level as a school principal,
this was his first appointment in an actual school. He had
joined the Education bureaucracy by way of an MBA in Educational
Policy from Harvard, and had never actually taught in a
classroom, much less been in charge of a whole school.

The staff gave Mr Parkchester a polite but cool reception. Some
of the teachers had already crossed swords with Mr Parkchester
when he had issued several policy directives to the school
district, to be strictly followed by all schools (including
Wilkinson).

"What's this crap?" was the usual phrase with which staff
greeted any of Mr Parkchester's initiatives. It was Mr
Parkchester, while head of the Policy Division, who decided that
no student was to be permitted to ride his bicycle to school,
because the Department's insurance policy could not afford to
cover loss by theft. Again, it was another of Mr Parkchester's
reforms that saw all baseball bats, whether wooden, plastic or
metal, banned from all schools, because he perceived them to be
a potential danger to staff and students. Mr Parkchester was
also instrumental in having white chalk banned, on the grounds
that its use by teachers could perpetuate myths of racial
superiority.

At first, Mr Parkchester's presence in the school, from the
start of Term 2, caused hardly a ripple, mainly because no-one
but his secretary ever saw him.

"He's still settling in", she would say, when asked by teachers
whether Mr Parkchester would ever emerge from his office. His
predecessor Mr Lawson had made it a personal duty to be at the
front gate of the school from 8:15 to 9 o'clock at least three
mornings out of five, to greet students by name, ask them about
their lessons, their pets, their grandparents' health, or just
to chat. Mr Parkchester, by comparison, seemed to regard the
students in much the same way as a ship's captain regards rats -
the whole enterprise would function much more smoothly without
them, but they are so hard to get rid of.

Three weeks into Term 2, and the only sightings of Mr
Parkchester on school property had been at the weekly
assemblies. That was another change he had instituted: the
Friday afternoon school assembly under Mr Lawson was a welcome
occasion: selected classes would perform musical or dramatic
acts; deserving individual students would be singled out for
lavish praise of their efforts; administrative announcements
were kept to a minimum; and if the program ran ahead of
schedule, the whole school received an early mark. Under the
Parkchester regime, weekly assemblies consisted of a ninety
minute harangue on the evils of tardiness, the general
slovenliness of today's youth and the importance of picking up
one's litter in the schoolyard. There were no early marks.

Aside from the assemblies, which the students found eminently
forgettable, Mr Parkchester did not actually impact on the
day-to-day running of the school. That is, until Week Five. When
they looked back on the year, the students regarded Week Five as
the beginning of the whole debacle.

The first hint anyone had of the coming calamity was an
innocuous notice pinned to the main notice board. It had always
been an accepted school policy that every student should find
two minutes in their daily schedule to check out the official
notice board, located outside the school canteen, in case there
were any vital pieces of communication from Administration to
the Student Body (and indeed, to the Staff) that couldn't wait
until the Weekly Assembly.

The notice read:

	"From the desk of the Principal:

It has come to my attention that several students,
mainly those in the upper grades, have taken to
wearing their trousers well below the level of their
waists. This habit leads to untidiness of dress, and
implies a general disrespect of authority. The practice
of wearing trousers below the waistline shall cease
immediately.
Signed
H F X Parkchester, MBA
Principal."

The younger students read the notice and were nonplussed - after
all, it was only the boys in the upper grades who followed that
silly fashion anyway. The older boys, however, took a different
view. They saw the notice as an attack on their sense of style.
The boys of Year Six, in particular, were incensed by it. Theirs
was the only grade in the school which had a male teacher, Mr
Presser, and he had instilled in the boys a strong sense of
their individual rights and freedoms, as guaranteed in the
Constitution, which they had studied in depth since the
beginning of the year.

"Can he do that, Sir?", Gregory Finney asked his teacher,
resting his hand on the teacher's bare arm to gain his attention
(Greg was a touchy-feely sort of boy). Not that he needed to
resort to such an action - Gregory was by far the prettiest boy
in the class, and Mr Presser secretly carried a torch for him.

Mr Presser was seated at his desk grading some papers before the
afternoon lessons began, and Gregory had arrived before the bell
for end-of-lunch had sounded, to ask his teacher about the
notice.

"Why should you worry, Greg? You don't even wear your pants low
on the hip", he replied.

"I know, Sir, but what if I wanted to? Isn't it my right to wear
them however I like, as long as it's not rude?", he countered.
His best friend, Tim Calahane, wore his trousers almost under
his buttcheeks, but Greg had never followed that particular
fashion.

"Well, Mr Parkchester likes to have things done in a certain
way. It's not a big deal, is it?" Mr Presser mused. "After all,
he expects me to wear a tie to school, even though the female
teachers don't have to. I don't much care for ties, but he's the
boss, and sometimes in this life you just have to knuckle down
and do what the boss says", Mr Presser explained.

Greg pursed his lips, far from convinced. "God, he looks
beautiful when he's got that stubborn look on his face", Mr
Presser thought.

"It's not the same for you", Greg argued. "You're an employee.
Maybe he is allowed to tell you teachers what to wear and how to
wear it. Kind of like a uniform, I suppose. But I don't think he
can tell me how to wear my clothes. I'm going to find out what
the other boys think of it". With that, Gregory flounced out of
the room a minute before the end-of-lunch bell rang, giving Mr
Presser a chance to adjust the front of his trousers, which had
become a little tight while Greg's hand lay on his arm.

The boys filed into the room reasonably quietly, just as Mr
Presser expected of them each day. When they were seated, Mason
Davieson, a skinny freckle-faced boy in the front row raised his
hand for a question.

"Yes, Mason, what is it?", Mr Presser acknowledged the boy.

"Sir, do you think it's fair that Mr Parkchester can tell us how
to wear our clothes? 'Cause I don't!". Loud cheers and applause
greeted this statement from a boy who until now would have been
counted as one of the 'goody-goodys' by Mr Presser.

"Well, it seems that news travels fast", Mr Presser began
lightly. "I take it that all of you have read the Principal's
notice regarding trousers?". Nods all around the room signified
agreement. "Rather than have all of you uptight and distracted
about this subject for the rest of the afternoon, I think we can
spend a few minutes of our valuable time discussing it". Sighs
of satisfaction and anticipation swept around the room.

"We can have a debate" Mr Presser suggested. "That way I can
justify, to myself at least, this departure from our program. I
will need, say, three speakers from both sides - no need for any
formal preparation, just say what's on your minds - and
everybody listens when anybody is talking!"

The boys accepted the rules - there were several volunteers to
speak against the Principal's directive regarding low trousers,
but no-one could be found who was willing to speak in favour of
it - every boy was against it.

"Well, it is hardly possible to have a debate unless someone is
willing to  speak for the other side", Mr Presser advised the
class.

"Why don't you do it Sir?" a tall boy named Martin Forgas called
out.

"Hand up next time please Martin - and I don't think I should do
it, because I am not your opponent, I'm your teacher. I don't
want anyone to think that I must naturally follow the
Administration's line blindly".

Five hands shot up. Suspecting that he knew what they were going
to say, Mr Presser called on Greg to reply, partly to reward him
for showing an interest earlier, and partly because he loved to
hear Greg's clear treble voice.

"So you agree with us, Sir, about the shorts!" Greg asserted
triumphantly.

"Well, now, I can't really say I agree with any position that I
haven't yet heard argued out. And since we're obviously not
going to get a debate anytime soon, I think each one of you
should write a short paragraph, at least four sentences long,
each sentence beginning with an upper case letter and ending
with a full stop, and containing a subject AND a predicate,
about your opinion of the Principal's new directive". A few
groans greeted this assignment, but most boys eagerly pulled out
notebooks and scrabbled around for their pens.

Most of the boys had finished their writing between five and ten
minutes later. Mr Presser invited several boys (including
Gregory Finney) to come to the front of the room and read their
piece to the class. Mr Presser called on Tim Calahane straight
after Greg, and was intrigued to notice that Tim had to spend a
moment fumbling with his trouser front before walking to the
head of the classroom. "Hmm. A competitor", he thought.

The arguments the boys read out were somewhat repetitive and not
terribly well-founded logically. They all boiled down to "He
can't tell us what to do".

"So, what do you propose to do about the new directive?", Mr
Presser put to the class after the last boy had made his short
speech. Nobody seemed to have an answer to that, so he tried
again.

"Does anyone know what penalty Mr Parkchester specified for
those boys who did not follow the directive?". Mason was the
only boy to raise his hand.

"Yes, Mason?", Mr Presser responded.

"There was no penalty, Sir, on the notice. He just said the
thing, the wearing trousers down low, was to stop immediately",
the boy answered.

"Correct. And what have I taught you about all actions?", he
continued.

Most of the boys parroted the answer in unison: "All actions
have consequences".

"So, if Mr Parkchester specifies an action that you all must
obey, but does not specify the consequences for disobedience,
what do you think will happen if someone disobeys?", Mr Presser
asked. A few boys looked around at each other, but no-one had an
answer.

"That's all right, boys, I didn't expect anyone to be able to
guess what the Principal is thinking. If we've now cleared the
air a little on this subject, even though it's not exactly
resolved, can we get on with some Geography, please?" A general
murmur of assent greeted this remark, and the balance of the
day's lessons proceeded uneventfully.

* * *

Mr Presser was not entirely surprised the next morning to find
that every boy in his class, without exception, wore his shorts
or trousers as low on their bums as they could comfortably
manage. Some had three or four inches of the tops of their
colourful boxer shorts showing, others showed the waistband
(plus a bit more) of their conventional white briefs. Even Greg
Finney was a convert to the cause, displaying a wide swatch of
bright red satin that took Mr Presser's breath away every time
he saw it.

Mr Presser was initially concerned that the Principal would
somehow identify him as a kind of ringleader of this pint-sized
revolt, since it was his class who were so heavily into their
campaign of civil disobedience. Luckily, some boys from other
classes also wore their trousers low, and Mr Parkchester showed
so little interest in individual boys that he could not actually
name any particular one of them, so he was unable to tell which
class the rebels came from.

His lack of knowledge of names did not stop the Principal from
issuing a new directive, following straight on from the dismal
failure of the previous one. Before morning tea, every boy had
read the notice:

	"From the desk of the Principal:

Following representations received from several
sources, including students, parents, teachers,
and indeed, the legal advisers of same, I wish
to advise that yesterday's notice regarding
the manner of wearing of the trousers is now
rescinded.

However, this is not the final word on the subject,
by any means. With the approval of the School
Board, I will shortly promulgate certain
regulations pertaining to the nature and kind of
garments which may be worn to School. Such
regulations shall be strictly and universally
enforced, under penalty of sanction.
Signed
H F X Parkchester, MBA
Principal"

The boys cascaded into class after morning break in a jubilant
mood, believing that their protest had won the day with regard
to the bum-freezer directive, which is the name that had begun
to circulate about it.
Mr Presser felt it was his duty to prick their balloon.

After he had brought the boys to order, he posed a general
question: "Do you think you have won this battle?"

A few hands raised slowly. Mr Presser called on Tim Calahane.
"Yes, Sir, we won. He admitted he couldn't tell us how to wear
our clothes". Alex Tozer, who sat behind Calahane, piped up "My
Dad's lawyer phoned the Principal last night and told him he
couldn't do it, Sir"

"I see", mused Mr Presser. "Suppose I tell you a little fable.
About a bear and some honey". The boys all sat up attentively -
they enjoyed Mr Presser's stories, or 'fables' as he liked to
call them.

"A bear was hunting for food in the woods. He found a beehive
hanging from a tree branch near a stream. As he approached the
beehive, drawn by the scent of sweet honey, the bees emerged to
repel him, some buzzing around his head, others stinging him.
The bear departed rapidly, very annoyed. After the pain of the
stings left him, the bear returned to get his honey. Instead of
allowing the bees a chance to attack, he knocked the beehive off
the branch with one powerful blow of his paw, but the beehive
fell into the stream. Many of the bees drowned, the stream
carries away the beehive, and the bear went off empty handed".

He paused for effect. "Who can tell me a lesson which is being
presented in this story?" A few scattered hands went up. Mr
Presser called on Bobby Wheeler, who sat near the back.

"It doesn't pay to piss a bear off?" he suggested with a smile.
Several giggles from the other boys.

"Well, that's certainly a good lesson Bobby, but next time
without the crudity, okay? Anyone else?", he invited.

Gregory Finney spoke up. "Sometimes, in a fight, nobody wins?"

"A sharp observation, Greg, and very true. Anyone else?"

Tim Calahane stood up. "We're the bees, aren't we, Sir? You
think we've won the first round, but the bear, that's the
Principal, will win in the end, and you think we'll all get hurt
somehow. Well, I reckon sometimes you have to stick up for
yourself, even if everyone says you'll lose, even if you know
yourself that you'll lose, you still hafta, if you're gonna
respect yourself. Isn't that what you tell us all the time,
respect ourselves?"

A few boys who had been fooling with their pens on their desks
suddenly stopped, making the whole room go eerily quiet. Tim
instantly became self-conscious and sat back down. Greg looked
at him with a face of absolute devotion, and blushed.

"It seems to me that the Principal might have underestimated his
opponents, Tim", Mr Presser replied, a note of admiration in his
voice. "You are correct in suggesting that one of my most deeply
held beliefs, which I have tried to pass on to all of you, is
that there may come a time in everyone's life when he has to
stand up and be a man, even if he loses everything by doing so.
I've never told you guys this before, but when I was a schoolboy
I also attended a boy's school - not this one - and in those
days most schools had Latin mottoes. Our motto was 'Esto Vir',
which in English is 'Be a man'."

"Very few women taught in boy's schools in those days. Our
teachers were all men. None of them ever explained to us in
words what the school motto meant - they explained it by their
lives. I guess I am trying to say to you, Tim, and to all of
you, if you think this is an issue worth fighting over, then I
will respect you for it, but I am still an employee of this
school, and must enforce its lawful policies". He waited for a
response.

"We're glad we got you for our teacher, Sir", Mason Davieson
declared, with a few murmurs of agreement from the other boys.

"And I am very glad to have all of you fine young men as my
students", Mr Presser replied, trying to lighten the mood a
little. "Now may we pursue some Maths?"

* * *

The next few days at Wilkinson School for Boys passed in a tense
atmosphere - likened by some (with hindsight) to the eerie calm
before the devastating storm. The boys in Mr Presser's class
maintained their defiant campaign of showing several inches of
undergarments above their trousers, even though that Directive
had been withdrawn by its creator. They were now the only
students to do so, all the other boys having been browbeaten by
their (female) teachers into obedience. In the staffroom, the
stance of Mr Presser's students was jokingly referred to as 'the
Boxer Rebellion'. At that time, the teachers little realised
just how prescient their joke was.

The next notice to appear on the board marked the escalation of
hostilities between the Principal and Mr Presser's boys.

	"From the desk of the Principal:

Under the authority conferred on me by the
School Board, I now formally institute certain
dress regulations which are to be adhered to
by all students in all circumstances.

Full details of the required dress standards
shall be promulgated by me in due course, however
the first regulation concerns the article known
as 'Boxers'. Henceforth, this item of apparel
is banned, and is not to be worn in this school
under penalty of confiscation.
Signed
H F X Parkchester, MBA
Principal"

Word passed around the corridors and playgrounds faster than a
scrubfire in a tornado. "He's banned boxers!" was on every boy's
lips.

"He can't do that Sir!" were the first words spoken by Tim
Calahane after the boys of Mr Presser's class had filed in to
their room after lunch and taken their seats.

Mr Presser took a moment to size up the situation. The boys
looked up to him, and he had an easy rapport with them, forged
out of hard work and innovative lessons on his part.

"It is important to me that you boys understand that although I
agree with the theory of standing up for one's rights, the
practice of it can often be very costly to the individual. I am
a teacher here, Mr Parkchester is the Principal. He has a legal
right to direct his staff, including me, to follow the rules of
the school. As his notice said, he has the backing of the School
Board - that's your parents". He paused. "Having said that, if
there is anything I can do to...er, assist you in resolving your
dispute with him, short of getting myself fired, I will do it."

Tim raised his hand. "We understand, Sir. No one here wants you
to lose your job". Murmurs of assent spread around the room.
Mason Davieson wiped a tear from his eye surreptitiously. He
liked Mr Presser, and did not relish the thought of having
anyone else - especially if it was to be a female - for a
teacher.

"Thank you, Tim, and thanks to all of you. Mr Parkchester
advised the staff that the new directive will become effective
from tomorrow, after we suggested to him that it wouldn't be
good policy to enforce the sanction on anyone today, before they
had the opportunity to comply".

Martin Forgas raised his hand for a question. "What does all
that 'sanction' stuff mean, Sir?"

Mr Presser expected this question sooner or later, and was
secretly relieved that it came today, rather than tomorrow. "It
means that if any boy from this class wears boxers to school,
from tomorrow onwards, I will
be required to confiscate them".

A shocked gasp echoed around the room. Gregory Finney timidly
raised a hand half way. "Do you mean...if we wear boxers...you
hafta...take them off us, Sir?"

"Yes Greg, that pretty much sums it up. The Principal even
obtained a signed affidavit from the School Board indemnifying
all the teachers against lawsuits based on invasion of privacy
and indecent dealing arising out of any confiscations". The
students didn't really know what all of that legal talk meant,
but it sounded very impressive.

"What will you do if...you take someone's boxers, Sir? Keep
'em?" Martin Forgas smirked.

"Actually Martin, in my experience it is a boy's parents who buy
his clothes for him. They pay for them. So in one sense, they
own them. Any boxers that I am forced to confiscate will be
mailed back to their owners, say at the end of each week. Now
perhaps we can let the boxers rest, and consider some Science
concepts. I have a few experiments you may find stimulating".

The students quickly let go of their outrage on the subject of
confiscations, because they all enjoyed Science - there was
invariably a loud bang, or coloured sparkly fire, or an awful
stink, or something else equally interesting in Mr Presser's
Science lessons.

* * *

When it finally happened, it was a bit of an anti-climax. Only
three boys from Mr Presser's class wore boxers to school the
next day - there was no need to inspect closely because all
three boys, Martin Forgas, Mason Davieson and of course Tim
Calahane, wore their trousers very low on their hips, so that
the boxers showed up vividly against the drab grey of their
schoolpants.

Mr Presser had made certain arrangements just in case this
should happen. After school the evening before, he had asked the
school janitor to install a rudimentary screen at the back of
his classroom. When the boys arrived for their first lesson, he
asked for any boy wearing boxers to identify himself by
standing. The three miscreants did not hesitate to rise to their
feet.

"I accept that you boys have an issue with the Principal's
directive", he stated. "But I don't believe you have an issue
with me. I have treated you honourably, and I expect you will
act honourably with me. Please take these plastic bags with you
behind that screen up the back, remove your boxers, put them in
the bags and bring them to my desk. We will then resume our
lessons".

Such was the respect in which the boys held their teacher that
the three boys complied without question. Shortly, three plastic
bags each containing a pair of size 12 boxers were sitting on Mr
Presser's desk, and three boys were sitting back at their seats,
slightly uncomfortably. The morning lessons that followed were
somewhat subdued.

After the recess bell sounded, Mr Presser released his students,
and was treated to the stimulating rear view of Tim Calahane,
still wearing his trousers low on his hips, even though he had
nothing on underneath. Fully two and a half inches of bumcrack
could clearly be seen above his low-slung schoolpants, as he
stood with his back to the teacher and rummaged around in his
desk. Mr Presser's breathing became a little heavier, and then
abruptly stopped as Tim bent down to look for something in his
bag, making his trousers stretch against the cheeks of his
bottom. When he stood up, the trousers slipped down a further
inch. Tim turned and smiled innocently at Mr Presser, then
skipped outside with an orange.

The same protest was repeated the next day, except that there
were now only two defiant boys: Mason Davieson had difficulty
with the idea of causing his favourite teacher any distress, and
reverted to wearing briefs. Only two pairs of boxers in plastic
bags adorned Mr Presser's desk: Martin Forgas had worn a pair in
the design and colours of an American flag, and Tim Calahane's
were dark blue, decorated with a yellow, balding cartoon figure
from a well-known, long running animated television series.
Morning lessons were a little more relaxed than on the previous
day, now that a kind of 'routine' had been established, as if
the practice of requiring boys to remove their underwear at the
back of the room could ever descend to the level of 'routine'.

Mr Presser was quite surprised when Tim Calahane (normally not a
clumsy boy) spilled the entire contents of his pencil case onto
the floor just as the morning recess bell sounded. As his
classmates departed, he scrabbled about on his hands and knees,
gathering up the errant implements. His rear end was pointed
towards the teacher's desk as he did so, and Mr Presser, for the
second day running, was treated to the sight of a large portion
of Tim's buttcrack. Mr Presser could not quite work out how the
boy's trousers actually stayed up - not only in defiance of the
Principal, but also of gravity.

"Need a hand, Tim?", he called from his desk.

"No thanks, Sir, I dropped them, I'll pick them up", the boy
called back, but Mr Presser only half heard it, mesmerised as he
was by Tim's half uncovered bottom, which had begun to wiggle
enchantingly from side to side, and jiggle seductively from the
effort of the boy's search for his pens. Just at the moment when
Mr Presser thought that the teasing boy's trousers were so low
that they must surely drop down to his knees, Tim retrieved the
last pencil and got to his feet, hitching the trousers up a
little. With a brief smile at his teacher, he exited to join his
classmates.

On the third day of the Boxer Rebellion, the stakes were raised
by none other that Tim Calahane. Somewhere between his home and
the school, the wily boy had removed all of his clothing except
for his boxers, and, flanked by giggling classmates, he strode
into school barechested, wearing only a pair of plaid boxer
shorts.

By the time the start-of-lessons bell rang, every boy in the
school, and most of the teachers, were aware of this one-person
protest, and were itching to know what Mr Presser was going to
do about it.

When the boys filed into the room, the first thing they noticed
was that the screen down the back had been removed, and replaced
with craft tables bearing pots of paint (of various hues) and
brushes. Every eye was on Mr Presser, waiting for his reaction
to Tim's blatant and singular defiance of the no-boxer
directive.

Mr Presser began the same way as he had done on the previous two
days, by asking for any boys wearing boxers to identify
themselves. Tim alone stood up.

"Please come out the front, Tim", Mr Presser invited, and the
boy duly left his seat and walked to the front. Not a sound
could be heard from the other boys. The air was thick with
nervous tension.

"Tim, I must say I admire your conviction, and your tenacity",
Mr Presser began. "But I must also ask you to remove your boxers
please, and place them in this bag". He held out a ziplock bag
for the boy. Tim looked at the class, then at Mr Presser. Then
without hesitating any further, slid his lime green boxers down
his legs and popped them in to the bag, sealed it and placed the
bag in the middle of the teacher's desk, and walked naked back
to his seat and sat down.

Mr Presser stroked his chin, waiting for any reaction from the
other students. He did not have to wait long. Greg Finney leapt
to his feet and shrieked like a B-movie heroine "If he's got to
go naked, then I'm going to go naked as well!", and began
tearing off his shirt and trousers.

"And me!" yelled Martin Forgas, who also jumped up and started
to strip.

"Me too!" called out several other boys. Within seconds, clothes
flew everywhere as twenty three boys disrobed recklessly, even
violently. Buttons popped. Zippers were wrenched beyond their
capacity. Shoes skidded across the floor. Socks sailed over
desks, and underwear adorned the backs of chairs and the tops of
schoolbags. Mr Presser could not help but be reminded of that
climactic scene from the movie Spartacus, as every boy before
him now sat as naked as Tim.

Mr Presser surveyed the boys. This was the moment when he could
perhaps mould their whole school experience, indeed their whole
lives, if he handled it properly. "Gentlemen", he began, "As
luck would have it, this morning we are studying the culture of
the Native North American people, whom in less enlightened times
we called 'Indians'. To help you experience some elements of
that culture, today you will be wearing traditional Native
American garments. Tim, can you come out the front and be the
first to demonstrate the correct fitting of the loincloth?"

Tim looked at the other boys in puzzlement, then shrugged his
shoulders and rose from his seat. Everyone had already seen his
modest genitals earlier, so he didn't care if they saw them
again. Besides, every other boy was as bare as he was. When he
reached the front of the room, Mr Presser invited him to turn to
face the room, and fastened a belt around his waist. He then
addressed the class.

"The simplest way to wear a loincloth is to pull a length of
about twelve inches up the belt in back, like so, letting it
fall over your bottom" - he demonstrated on the intrigued boy,
using a four-foot long hourglass-shaped length of soft chamois
leather - "then the narrow bit goes between the legs like so" -
he passed the thin section between Tim's thighs - "then the rest
goes under the front part of the belt so about twelve inches
overhangs in the front and - Voila! the Native American
loincloth!"

Tim stood amazed at his teacher's cleverness. Mr Presser had
turned a confrontation of authority, indeed a potential crisis,
into a history lesson! Before Tim had time to reflect on the
man's wisdom, Mr Presser suggested that Tim might like to
demonstrate how easy the process is by doing the same action to
a classmate: "Greg - will you come up here so Tim can put a
loincloth on you?"

Greg Finney jumped up so quickly he knocked his chair over,
eager as he was to get out to the front. Like Tim, he was not a
natural exhibitionist, but these were his classmates, and he
didn't really care if they saw. While Tim tied the belt around
Greg, and performed the manoeuvre with another loincloth, Mr
Presser circulated around the room carrying a large carton,
passing out a loincloth and belt for every boy.

"Now, in pairs, gentlemen, dress each other Native American
Style!", Mr Presser directed, and every boy stood up naked and
paired off with a friend or classmate, and set about his task
diligently. Within five minutes, every boy was dressed again,
not in the same way as they arrived at school, but resembling a
pack of Native braves.

"Well done, gentlemen. Now up the back of the room you will find
some paint, some brushes, some feathers, headbands and armbands.
Stuck on the back walls are a few sketches of how these items
might adorn the body of a Native American brave. You have around
thirty minutes to apply the items to yourselves or each other,
in pairs, and then we will see whose is the best!"

Boys scattered like cockroaches in all directions, scrambling
for the goodies at the back of the room. Greg insisted on
painting Tim's face and chest, Mr Presser noticed.

The boys were still applying paint to each other thirty minutes
later, but Mr Presser was content to let them continue. He
reflected on what had just happened: he had dodged a bullet,
certainly, but he could not replicate this escape indefinitely.
On the plus side, he had enjoyed a sight, no, twenty three
sights, that he had never seen before - every boy in his class
absolutely stark naked!

As a classroom teacher, Mr Presser taught all of the lessons
that his class received - with the exception of his
"face-to-face relief". Those were lessons in which a specialist
teacher took his class for him, while he had a much-needed break
in the staff room. There were three such lessons each week: two
gym periods, which were taken by Miss Hoskiss (whom the boys
called 'Hot-kiss', although the idea of kissing a male of any
age would never have crossed her mind) and a music appreciation
lesson taken by the elderly and dour Miss Jones. So Mr Presser
never had the opportunity of seeing any of his boys disrobe,
until today. And he liked what he saw.

For their part, the boys made out like it was Christmas morning
and Hallowe'en put together. Mr Presser noticed earlier that a
few of their hands fumbled quite a bit as they passed the
loincloth between the legs of their partners, and quite a few
girlish-sounding shrieks pierced the air as boys were goosed,
tickled, pulled, poked and prodded by their playful classmates.

Mr Presser called the boys to order, having allowed them three
quarters of an hour to put on their Native make-up, and
proceeded with the competition for the 'best-dressed brave'. Not
surprisingly, Gregory Finney received the most applause for that
honour. Mason Davieson put up his hand and asked what name the
new tribe should call themselves. There was some informal
discussion, until suddenly Tim Calahane stood up and thumped his
fist on his skinny painted chest and declared loudly "We're
Presser's Braves". The motion was passed by acclamation, with
all the boys concurring, cheering themselves (and their
teacher).

At morning recess the boys whooped out into the playground,
performing inmpromptu rain dances, hollering war chants and
generally enjoying themselves. Boys (particularly those from
junior classes) clamoured around them and lauded them as
nine-minute wonders. Some of the more impressionable boys even
ventured the opinion that they hoped to be placed in Mr
Presser's class when they reached year 6, which made the hearts
of Presser's Braves swell with pride.

The boys spent the rest of the day in their native garb, only
changing back into their schoolclothes just before the
end-of-school bell. All except one, that is. Tim Calahane had no
clothes to change back into, and Mr Presser was determined to
teach Tim, and everyone, that a man stands by his actions,
however inconvenient.

Tim stood, alone, wearing his loincloth, after the rest of the
class had dressed and left. A silence simmered between the two,
man and boy, that was broken by a very simple question.

"Want a lift home?" Mr Presser asked evenly, after packing his
briefcase with manilla folders full of notes. He still wasn't
sure whether Tim was his adversary or his student.

"Thanks, Sir, that'd be good", Tim replied softly. The two
walked out to the staff carpark and climbed into Mr Presser's
early model sedan.

"Six blocks down, then a left", Tim advised softly. Mr Presser's
clunker followed the boy's directions, finally pulling up in
front of a large double set of wrought iron gates suspended
between two stone pillars.

"Looks like we're locked out", Mr Presser observed, nodding at
the impressive bars, and at the edifice beyond.

"I got a key", Tim smirked, hopping out of the car and tapping a
sequence of digits into a numeric keypad on the side of the
right-hand pillar. The massive gates swung open with a soft
swoosh, and Tim scuttled back into the car, his loincloth
flapping in the afternoon breeze. "Straight up to the front
door, please Sir", he directed. Mr Presser gave a little shrug,
and guided his car through the gateway and up the gravelled
drive.

"I didn't know your folks were rich", Mr Presser remarked as the
two passed through the front doors into a large foyer, then felt
a little stupid in saying it. Tim's folks were somewhat beyond
rich, by all appearances. They advanced into the spacious
kitchen.

"Mom's a kind of dress designer. There's a special name for
it...a cut-c-"

"Couturier?" guessed Mr Presser.

"That's it. She's got a shop in L.A., one in Chicago, and
another in New York. That's where she is now, opening some kinda
show. She'll be back in a few days", Tim added nonchalantly,
pulling a container of juice from the fridge and pouring out two
glasses of OJ.

"So, your Dad, is he here?" Mr Presser asked, starting to become
just the tiniest bit nervous, sipping the proffered drink.

"He's in Beijing, closing a business deal. He imports furniture
and stuff from China. He'll probably call in sometime next
week", Tim explained.

"So, you're all alone in this huge house?", Mr Presser probed,
amazed.

Tim shook his head in the negative. "Mrs Santos is here. She's
our housekeeper. Although she's probably back in her own place
by now. She's got a cottage out back, in the grounds. She makes
my dinner, and puts it in the fridge, then goes home. I can call
her with this buzzer, if you like", Tim offered, pointing to a
subtle intercom on the wall.

"No, no, that's fine", Mr Presser reflected, thinking that this
was yet another example of how the rich are not like us, aside
from the fact that they have more money.

Putting down his empty glass, Tim paused before speaking again.
"I'm gonna have a bath, wash off this paint. But before I do,
would you do me a favour, Sir?"

"Er, sure, Tim", Mr Presser replied, wondering when he should
make his goodbyes.

"Can you take a photo of me so I can show Mom and Dad something
neat we did at school?", he asked, a beguiling look of innocent
earnest on his face.

"I guess so, sure", Mr Presser agreed. Tim smiled, and led his
teacher back to the grand marble staircase that dominated the
foyer. He practically dragged Mr Presser up the stairs to his
bedroom, where he handed the teacher a small digital camera.

"Just a happy snap or two, Sir, please", Tim suggested, and made
a fierce pose. Mr Presser fired off a couple of shots, then put
the camera down. Tim suspected his teacher was about to make
some kind of excuse about having to leave, so he quickly made
another request. "Can you sit and talk with me while I take my
bath, Sir? I want to make sure I get all this paint off my
face".

Not wishing to seem churlish, Mr Presser smiled and agreed. Tim
smiled in reply, and skipped over to a side door, opening it to
reveal an en-suite bathroom as large as his bedroom. He strode
across the tiled floor and pulled a chair up to the large
triangular spa-bathtub, then turned on the taps. Showing the
same lack of modesty that he displayed earlier in class, Tim
undid the belt that held his loincloth in place and dropped the
belt and leather to the floor.

"That was a really cool idea you had today, Sir, about us all
dressing up as Indians, uh, Native Americans", Tim remarked,
climbing into the frothy water and starting to wash. "What would
you have done if nobody wore boxers?"

Mr Presser grinned at the boy in the tub. "I suppose I would
have reverted to Plan B - and demonstrated the loincloth on my
own body", he chuckled.

"You would never!", Tim cried in a shocked voice, scrubbing at
his face to remove the paint. "You!? The teacher that follows
all the Principal's lawful directions? That's what you said!"

Mr Presser sighed. "It's an amazing gift that only
twelve-year-olds have, to be able to see a complex world in such
black-and-white terms. Would the sight of my body have been so
shocking?"

"I- I didn't mean it that way", Tim stammered. "I only
meant...uh, I... don't think it would be shocking...at all".
There was a brief uncomfortable silence, broken by Tim's voice.
"Could you pass me a towel please Sir?"

Mr Presser stood and stepped over to the heated towel rail,
selecting a fresh fluffy towel for the boy. When he returned to
the tub, he found Tim standing with one foot on the side of the
tub, apparently ready to step over. Which explains how Tim
caught Mr Presser completely by surprise by leaping onto him and
throwing his arms around the teacher's neck.

Tim clung to Mr Presser as is his very life depended on it. Mr
Presser was caught off guard initially by the boy's sudden
movement, thinking the boy had slipped and fallen. So much so
that he let go the towel before catching the boy, who now clung
to him like a baby possum to its mother, dripping wet and very
naked.

A few moments, that seemed like a lifetime, passed.

"Your hands are cold", Tim whispered to Mr Presser, since his
mouth was so close to the teacher's ear.

Mr Presser's hands had automatically gone under the boy's
bottom, just to support his weight, of course, and now cupped
those two globes of exquisite beauty.

"Sorry", he whispered back, and started to move them downwards
to the boy's thighs, but Tim clung even more fiercely to his
teacher.

"Don't move them", he urged quickly. "I mean, uh, it's okay, I
don't mind that they're cold. Um, can you take me to my room?"

"Sure", Mr Presser replied, a part of his mind wondering when
the SWAT team was going to burst through the door and find him
with both hands full of naked boy. He carried the boy back into
his bedroom and set him down next to his bed.

"Mrs Santos never comes in at night unless I buzz for her", Tim
advised conversationally, as if reading his teacher's mind and
detecting his concern about being found alone with a nude boy.
He picked up the towel that had been jammed between their bodies
and held it out to Mr Presser.

"Can you dry me, Sir? Mom sometimes does it for me", he
confided.

"Um, sure, Tim", Mr Presser agreed, not really sure why a
twelve-year-old needed someone to dry him off. It was a most
pleasant task, though. He rubbed the towel over every inch of
the boy, who maintained a steady gaze at him.

"That feels good, Sir", Tim murmured as the towel scraped over
his thighs.

"Um, fine, Tim", Mr Presser replied, feeling a little foolish
that he was unable to make a more coherent response. It was
clear to him now that the boy's actions over the last few days
were not accidental, but part of an elaborate plan to position
him in exactly this situation.

Now dry, the nude boy stepped over towards his door. "Would it
make you feel more comfortable if I locked the door - not that
Mrs Santos would ever come upstairs at night unless I called
her", the boy asked.

"I get the feeling that somehow you're reading my mind, Tim",
the teacher said as he nodded in agreement (and relief) about
the lock.

"Do you want me to tell you what you're thinking now?" Tim
teased, turning the little switch on the doorknob.

"Oh, please do", Mr Presser replied, glad of the chance to give
himself a moment to think.

"You're trying to think of a way to say 'good bye', but you
don't really want to go, you want to stay and see what
happens...between us", Tim predicted. "You feel excited and
nervous...but also happy...and you have no idea how to make
things go in the direction you want them to go in", the boy
continued.

"Am I so obvious as that?" the teacher whispered. "I thought I
kept my emotions under a tight rein. How long have you...er..."

"Known about you?" Tim interrupted. "Since about the first week
of school. I could tell by the way you look at Greg Finney that
you like boys, but that you couldn't bring yourself to do
anything to...betray one"

Mr Presser smiled. "You're right, of course, but what I was
going to say was 'How long have you been able to read people
like that'?"

Tim had reached the bed, with Mr Presser still standing on its
opposite side. The bed had been a kind of protective barrier for
the teacher, but now Tim was demolishing it like the Berlin
Wall. The boy lay on his bed, hands behind his head, secure in
his own room, and sighed.

"I will tell you", began the confident boy, "but I think now
would be a good time for you to undress - if you want to. I will
tell you everything, then we can see what happens". Mr Presser
knew that this moment was a turning point for him - an
opportunity that only knocks once - and that he better take it,
or live with the regret for the rest of his complicated life. He
pulled at his belt buckle and kicked off his shoes.

Tim smiled as he watched his teacher - not a triumphant smile,
but one of satisfaction in the happiness of another. "I was a
different person last year", he began, as Mr Presser's shirt
buttons opened. "I was very angry, and insecure, and full of
hatred. So Dad arranged for me to see a counsellor, a pediatric
specialist, Mr Phillip Dallimore. I started off on five sessions
a week, then tapered down to one or two as I...grew up". Tim
smiled ruefully in the recollection of his former self. "The
first two sessions, I trashed his office. The next two I spent
curled up in a ball on his lap crying my eyes out. I guess it's
a credit to his professionalism that he even let me back".

Mr Presser undid his zipper and dropped his trousers to his
ankles as Tim continued. The boy watched the man with frank
interest as he disrobed. "After that first week, I made steady
progress, first of all in understanding my parents, then
understanding myself. After that, I picked up things pretty
quickly. Money, sex, friendship, religion, power, love. No
subject was taboo, yet Mr Dallimore wasn't some kind of 'magic
answer machine' for all of my questions. He showed me a few
simple techniques for relaxing, for thinking clearly, and for
really looking at people".

The teacher, now completely naked, carefully climbed onto the
bed and lay down about two feet away from his student. He was
amazed not to be erect, under the circumstances.

"I bet you didn't expect this a few days ago, that you be lying
naked on a student's bed, being seduced", Tim prodded gently.
"Or would you prefer to be seduced by Greg Finney?"

"It seems to be a waste of time to lie to you, so I'll be
truthful - I'd prefer it was both of you!", the teacher grinned.

"I know I can seem very self assured sometimes, but I'd really
love another hug right now, like you hugged me before in the
bathroom", Tim suggested, turning towards Mr Presser. Without
pausing to rationalise, the man held his arms open, allowing the
boy to throw himself into them. As Tim ground his chest and hips
into the man, Mr Presser was relieved to note that his temporary
impotence seemed to have evaporated.

"There's just one thing I haven't been able to fit into place",
Tim stated, in between giving his teacher little pecks and
nibbles around the mouth, neck and earlobes.

"Just one?" Mr Presser replied, running his hands up and down
Tim's back and bottom. "I've got about a thousand questions for
you".

"What made you do the Native American lesson with the loincloths
today? Of all days?" Tim queried.

"Well, it's a lesson I've been wanting to do with a class for
about ten years. I just never had the right mix of courage and
circumstances. Our new Principal's crazy rules partly gave me
the circumstances. And you are partly to blame yourself, you
know"

"Me? How?" Tim replied in mock indignance.

"You must have discussed your plan with Greg Finney, because he
phoned me last night to warn me of that stunt you pulled", Mr
presser revealed.

"Damn! That little squealer! He's...braver than I thought", Tim
burst out. "I had to tell him my plan because I needed to stash
my clothes at his house on the way to school. He's got a huge
crush on you, you know" the boy snuggling in his arms confided.

"Does he, indeed?", Mr Presser mused. He thought he would push
his luck, since Tim appeared to be on a 100% truth binge. "Are
you two...er... boyfriends, or just friends?"

Tim looked up and gazed into his teacher's eyes. "We've had sex
a few times, but we're not going steady or anything like that.
I'm a bit too young yet to commit to that kind of relationship,
and Greg is still trying to figure out his own sexuality". Tim
squirmed his hips around a little and Mr Presser hastily took
his hands off the boy's bottom cheeks. "No, don't take your
hands off my bum, they feel nice. I just need to...ahhh, that's
it, I just had to get my dick into a more comfortable position,
it's getting stiffer".

"Wow!" thought Mr Presser. "This 'honesty' stuff is a powerful
brew". To the boy, he said "I don't want you to break any
confidences, but...er... how did you two first...er...get it on?
If you don't mind telling me, that is".

"I don't mind", Tim replied simply. "It's a bit of a turn-on,
actually, to talk about it. I don't think Greg would mind,
either. You can ask him yourself later, if you like. He's coming
over for dinner at seven tonight. That's if you're staying?" he
added hopefully.

"Are you asking me?" Mr Presser enquired.

"I'm asking. Please stay for dinner with Greg and me. And stay
the night, too".

"Well, I'd certainly love to stay for dinner. We'll see about
'after' after. I don't want to be a fifth wheel", Mr Presser
replied. "Now, about you two..."

"Oh yeah", Tim remembered. "Greg's Dad, he works with my Dad. He
was worried that Greg might be gay, so he talked it over with my
Dad, you know how Dads talk sometimes about their kids"

"Pretty personal stuff to be discussing outside the family", Mr
Presser commented.

"Well, he probably wouldn't have, except that he knew Dad had
arranged for me to see the therapist, and he wanted to know if
it was doing me any good. I knew Greg from school, even though
we were in different classes last year. He happened to be going
in for his first session with Mr Dallimore as I was coming out
one time, and he looked nervous, so I kinda told him it would be
fine, just to be himself, and be honest, and then on the spot,
Dad invited Mr Finney and Greg over here for a barbecue that
weekend.

"We have a pool out the back, so when Greg and I came up here to
get changed into our bathers, Greg confided that he had a good
session with Mr Dallimore, and that he thought he might be gay.
Not Mr Dallimore, Greg. I told him it was cool with me, and he
gave me this big hug, and went straight down and nearly sucked
my brains out through my dick. It was the best blowjob I ever
had. Well, the only one, up to then. Since then, he comes over
about once a month or so, just to hang out. Most times we end up
on my bed, kissing and sucking. If Mom and Dad are home, they
respect our privacy".

"But I know he likes you, though, Sir. Near the end of last year
we talked about what Grade Six was going to be like, and whose
class we might get put in. We were both glad to get you. Uh,
would you run your fingers in my crack, please Sir? I really
like that. Yeah, just like that. Um, where was I? Oh, yeah. In
First Term this year, Greg told me he thinks you're a major
hottie (that's the way he talks when we're alone, sorta fruity)
but it's not just your body he's after; he thinks you're smart,
and funny, and a terrific teacher".

"He told me he gets a stiffie nearly every day in class from
looking at you. It's funny, 'cause when he gets one, he looks
around at me and makes his eyes go big, and then I get one
'cause I know he's got one. Heh heh. When I told him about
wearing just the boxers to school, he tried to talk me out of
it, because he didn't want you to get embarrassed. I'm glad he
didn't, now".

"Me, too", Mr Presser agreed, but felt that his response was a
little inadequate, after this wonderful boy had poured his heart
out.

"So", continued Tim, glancing at his bedside clock, "we've got
about an hour before Greg arrives, do you want to have some sex
with me, or just lie here like this a bit longer. Maybe you want
to save yourself for Greg, I know how it is with you old guys -
one climax and you're wrecked for hours", Tim smirked, grinding
his hips and teasing his teacher.

"I'm not really used to this level of honesty, Tim. It'll take
me a while - like about twenty years - before I can relax and be
myself with a good-looking boy like you, but for now, you know
what I'd really like?

"What?", the boy answered, curious now.

Mr Presser forced himself to overcome his natural reserve in
front of boys to reply to his young friend: "Even though my
balls feel like they are going to burst, I'd like to suck you,
and maybe even lick your bum, and then have a turn of that spa
with you to freshen up before Greg gets here. How's that sound?"

Tim's eyes lit up. "Yeah! After you tongue my hole, we could
have a bubble bath!"

Tim sat up on Mr Presser's lap, then wriggled his way up the
man's body until his penis was bobbling at the teacher's lips.
"It's okay if you don't get it right the first time", the boy
gasped as Mr Presser closed his lips around the little spike of
flesh. But Mr Presser was determined to make a good showing, and
vigorously tongued the boy's knob and shaft until Tim's hips
jerked forward, almost giving Mr Presser a black eye. Tim raised
his hips to allow Mr Presser access to his crack, and moaned
with pleasure as his teacher's tongue ran over his anus, laving
the boy's nether opening back and forth, soon prodding inside,
until he had an inch of his slippery squirming oral digit lodged
inside the boy's most private orifice.

"Oh, Sir, for a beginner you do that so well. Greg's going to
melt when you lick him out, I'm sure of it. God, no more, no
more, let's go get in the spa", Tim moaned, climbing off his
teacher's face. The two nudies scrambled into the en-suite and
charged up the spa-bath, splashing each other and slipping
around in the bubbles.

Mr Presser was intoxicated by the flood of sensations generated
by all that he had experience that day, starting from Tim's
brave protest with the boxers, right up to licking the boy's
anus. The steady diet of sexy talk was also having a powerful
effect on him. He pulled a slippery Tim into his lap and
drizzled soapy bubbles down his chest.

"Have you...gone all the way with anyone yet, Tim?" he whispered
in the boy's ear.

"You mean, have I let anyone fuck me yet?", Tim replied
coquettishly.

"Er, yes...I'm not used to this whole 'honesty' thing yet. Have
you had a boy's cock up your bum yet? Or maybe a man's?" he
persisted.

Tim giggled, and squirmed in Mr Presser's embrace. "One of each,
Sir. Martin Forgas, from our class, had a sleepover a few weeks
ago, and he wanted to find out what sex felt like, so I let him.
Have you seen his dick, Sir? It's enormous! And when it gets
stiff, it's incredible! He must have a horse in his family tree
somewhere, I bet!"

"And the man?", prompted Mr Presser.

"I did it with my Uncle Leo once, because he's always been good
to me, even when I was going through my 'jerk' phase. He's
really nice", Tim reminisced. "Do you want to fuck Greg tonight?
After dinner, I mean".

"Have you two little schemers planned this whole thing out?", Mr
Presser smiled in good-natured indignation.

"Well, maybe not all the details, but the main points. To let
him know that you want to do it with him, all you have to do is
give him a big hug when he comes to the door, and give his
bottom a squeeze as you do it. He'll know what it means. And by
the way, he's got a coupla pubes that he's very proud of, but
they're nearly invisible. He'd be thrilled if you paid them a
compliment", Tim confided. "Which reminds me, we better get
moving or we'll still be lying here when the water's gone cold
and Greg is knocking at the door".

With that, Tim slid out of Mr Presser's grasp and climbed out of
the tub. He grabbed a couple of towels and handed one to his
teacher, then skipped into the next room and retrieved two
bathrobes from his ample cupboards, giving the larger dark blue
velour one to the teacher.

"How come you have a man's bathrobe in your cupboard, Tim?" Mr
Presser asked suspiciously, towelling his hair dry.

"For when Uncle Tim sleeps over. Don't worry, it's new",
hollered the boy through his own towel.

Refreshed and clean (but wearing nothing under their comfy
robes), the two were seated at a small kitchen table chatting
when the doorbell rang. "That must be Greg - he knows the code
for the front gates. Why don't you answer it, and I'll put the
dinners in the micro", Tim directed.

"Here's your clo-" was all Greg managed to get out as Mr Presser
swept the large door open to admit his young student.

"Greg, welcome, come in, you're just in time for dinner", Mr
Presser held his arms wide and knelt on one knee. Greg dropped
his friend's school clothes in surprise, instinctively stepping
forward to allow his teacher to hug him. Mr Presser did not
forget the signal, and dropped his hands down Gregory's back to
his bottom to give Greg's buns a gentle squeeze and a jiggle,
making the boy blush and smile.

"You...", Greg began, startled into speechlessness by the
realization that his friend Tim had actually pulled it off - he
had got his favourite teacher to his house, and he had given The
Signal!

"Yes, me!" the excited teacher replied. "Give me a kiss,
beautiful!".

Mr Presser swung the door shut with a flick of his hips while
giving Greg mouth-to-mouth resexitation, just to show that he
was indeed multi-skilled. Tim hollered from the kitchen "Knock
it off, you two! Save it for later, or dinner will get cold!"

The two lovebirds picked up Tim's schoolclothes from the floor,
and, hand in hand, walked to the kitchen, where a beaming Tim
pointed to their chairs. "You did it!" was all Greg could say.

"Have I ever let you down?", Tim demanded, but smiled to show he
wasn't hurt by Greg's surprise. "Now tuck in, then we can all go
upstairs and scorch the sheets with our passions".

Mr Presser did not even notice what food he was eating - all he
could do was drink in the delight of Greg's beauty, watching
every movement of the boy he had fallen head over heels for.
Greg spent most of the meal blushing: every time he looked up,
Mr Presser was looking at him with really big eyes, like the
wolf looking at Little Red Riding Hood.

Tim offered sweets for everyone, but had no takers. It was plain
that Mr Presser and Greg had better get themselves up to the
bedroom, or they just might start fucking on the table amidst
the dinner dishes. Mr Presser gallantly swept Greg up in his
arms, determined to carry the boy 'over the threshold' for his
first time.

When he edged Greg through Tim's doorway and gently placed him
on the bed, Mr Presser was a bit unsure how to proceed. He had
anticipated this moment so often in his dreams and fantasies, he
wasn't sure how the reality would play out. But happily, Tim
came to the rescue again. Climbing on the other side of the bed,
Tim pointed to his dressing table: "There's a tube of KY in the
drawer over there, Sir. Get that bathrobe off, and go put a heap
on your dick, while I get the blushing bride here undressed".

All slicked up, Mr Presser turned back to the bed. The sight of
a naked Greg exceeded his expectations tenfold, so much so that
he rushed the bed and gave Greg a little fright. "Steady on,
Romeo, you've got all night", Tim counselled. And it was true,
Mr Presser did have all night, but he didn't need all of it to
accomplish his desire. As he lay himself down by his heart's
treasure, and paid a compliment to the boy about his luxuriant
growth of pubic hair, Greg could contain himself no longer,
pulling his legs up and wide apart by the backs of his knees,
and presenting his anus to his favourite teacher.

"Now, Sir, now, please!", Greg begged, and Mr Presser was in no
mood to demur.

"Whoa, you guys! Haven't you ever heard of foreplay?" Tim
cautioned.

"Dinner was foreplay", Mr Presser growled lustily, lining up his
aching tool with Greg's anus. "This is the main event". Their
eyes locked, Mr Presser slowly sank into Nirvana, Greg helping
by twitching his bottom every few seconds. Once his throbbing
cock was fully entrenched, he bent lower to kiss Greg on the
lips, resting his weight on his elbows (as a gentleman should).

"Don't kill him Greg, remember he's old" Tim whispered into his
friend's ear. But Greg was beyond listening, as sensations
fizzed through his young body, centred on his groin and bum. His
teacher, Mr Presser, whom he had secretly loved all year, was
rhythmically sucking his tongue while stroking his hard lance in
and out of his bumhole. Mr Presser's pace increased and quickly
became frantic, unable to hold back. He gave a last lunge and
spurted his sperm into the boy's back passage, Greg's bottom
sucking out the final droplets.

Not letting his teacher rest, Greg rolled the man over until he
was on top, then started a rumba of his own, working his rectal
muscles on Mr Presser's dick, first making it hard again, then
coaxing another orgasm out of it.

"Nice move, Greg", Tim commented. "Did you learn that in health
class?".

"Thanks, Tim, for everything", the tired boy sighed, not
bothered by his friend's sarcastic humour. The three spent the
night together in Tim's big double bed, Tim having to amuse
himself with his right hand while his friend and his teacher
went at it one more time before complete satiation set in.

At breakfast the next morning (a Saturday), Mr Presser was
determined not to show any regrets or shyness. He sat Greg on
his lap and ran his fingers through the boy's tuft of pubic hair
while Greg ate his cereal. Mrs Santos had prepared a hearty
start to the day for all of them, then departed.

"You better show Tim some attention too, Sir, after all it's his
house" Greg scolded the man.

"You won't be jealous if Tim and I enjoy sex with each other
sometimes?" enquired Mr Presser.

"You're both my best friends. Anyway, I don't believe in
jealousy. It's a negative emotion. Mr Dallimore and I talked it
over", Greg replied confidently.

"Speaking of talking things over, there's still one more thing
we have to do", Tim declared. "We have to solve the problem of
Mr Parkchester. I can't keep going naked in school, people will
start to talk!"

"Yeah, they'll say 'who is that good looking stud?'," chuckled
Mr Presser. "But seriously, you're right. We have to neutralize
him, or get rid of him, or something. Any ideas?"

* * *

Surprisingly, it was shy Greg that came up with the daring plan
that they eventually followed. The trio had to wait five more
days, until Mr Parkchester was out of his house (at a dinner
hosted by Mr Calahane for local businessmen - Tim insisted his
Dad invite the Principal). The three desperados dressed dark and
snuck into Mr Parkchester's small allotment on the School
grounds. When they examined all the windows and found them to be
locked, Tim noticed a small hatch at the bottom of the back
door.

"What's this thing?" he asked Mr Presser.

"It's called a cat flap - must have been put in by Mr Lawson. I
can't imagine Mr Parkchester owning a cat", the teacher
explained.

"Maybe I can squeeze through", Tim suggested. He was right, but
it was a tight fit, and only possible after he removed his
sweater and shirt. He unlocked the door to allow the other two
conspirators inside, then all three crept around the house
looking for the means to accomplish the key element of Greg's
plan. When their mission was completed satisfactorily, they let
themselves out the door in the conventional way.

* * *

School assembly the next day started out in much the same way as
in recent times - Mr Parkchester delivering an excruciatingly
boring sermon about the importance of practicing what we preach.
When he stopped for a sip of water, however, he had an
unexpected interjection. Mr Presser, who had been sitting on the
platform with the other teachers, stood up and held out a piece
of paper.

"Mr Parkchester", he declared, in a much braver voice than he
felt, "here is your chance to give the student body a perfect
example of what you have just been saying. I'm sure they all
look to you for a lead in this matter. Can you tell the school,
are you wearing boxers?"

Mr Parkchester looked furious and momentarily dumbstruck at the
same time. "What has that to do with anything?" he roared when
he got his voice back.

Mr Presser persevered. "It's just that I was reading over your
most recent Directive, and I note that it says that ALL boxers
are banned, and are not to be worn in this school. It does not
specify that the ban only applies to the students. You and I are
the only males on the staff, and if the ladies behind me will
excuse me, I wish to demonstrate to the students that you and I
both take the Directives very seriously, and that we practice
what you preach".

With that, Mr Presser undid the front of his trousers and
dropped them to mid-thigh, revealing to the assembled students
that he wore briefs underneath. After they had stopped giggling,
every pair of eyes turned towards the Principal, who at that
moment looked a lot like Uncle Vernon whenever Harry crossed
him. His face went bright red, then purple. He realised that Mr
Presser must have had something to do with the fact that this
morning he found all of his briefs missing from his bedroom
drawers, but that did not alter the fact that he was indeed
wearing boxers.

Without uttering a word, he put down his glass of water and
strode off the stage. It was left up to Mr Presser to dismiss
the assembly - he gave them an early mark in honour of Mr
Lawson.

It was left up to his secretary to deliver the news of Mr
Parkchester's resignation, to staff and students alike, by means
of a note on the Notice Board. In the note, Mr Parkchester
advised that, due to a previously undiagnosed health condition,
he was leaving the Principal's position, to return to the Policy
Division of the educational bureaucracy.

Mr Presser was not completely surprised to find a dismissal
notice in his staffroom in-tray a few days later. Apparently, he
had been accused of gross insubordination and disloyalty. But
that was okay by him; he had found a more fulfilling position,
as tutor to Tim Calahane. It seems that Tim's Dad decided that
the boy had been left alone too much lately, and needed adult
supervision, and with the school system rapidly going down the
toilet it made sense for Tim to have a private tutor. He could
easily afford it.

Tim's only request to his Dad was that Gregory Finney join them
in the new educational venture, a plan that suited Mr Calahane
and Mr Finney down to the ground. After all, Greg seemed very
fond of Mr Presser, and it would have been a shame for the boy
to lose his favourite teacher.

* * *

End