Head Boy - Sex Stories

Head Boy

Standard disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters are aged 18 or over (by the time anything sexual occurs). Also, let that little parenthesis be your clue that this is more of a coming-of-age story than a happy-ever-after, and adjust your expectations accordingly...

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It started with a lawnmower. More specifically, it started with a lawnmower that wouldn't start...

My folks gave me a decent allowance and didn't make me work like Dobby the house-elf to earn it, but ever since I turned twelve it had been absolutely non-negotiably my job to mow the grass every fine weekend.

The mower was old and arthritic and cranky - it was a bitch to start, it bathed me in clouds of bluish smoke as I stalked around behind it, and one of the axles had got bent, meaning I had to fight to keep it running in a straight line. To add to the fun, the lawn wasn't small and wasn't flat, and one of the neighbours' cats was incontinent.

But it was my only chore, and after a year I was plenty familiar with the mower's quirks and moods. I thought I'd developed a enough tricks of my own to combat them, but one Saturday it started to putter and sputter mid-lawn in a dramatic and non-rhythmic way, and to actually smokeless, and I got a weird sinking feeling a second or two before it coughed itself into nothingness and absolutely refused to respond to all my attempts to re-start it.

What am I gonna do? I thought. I had a distinct sense that Dad would be more displeased ...

... about a half-mown lawn than an unmown one, and I knew the problem wasn't a lack of petrol or oil. I hauled the mower over to the concrete strip by the side of the garage, got Dad's tool-case, unscrewed the engine cover, and started removing things and laying them aside.

I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but I figured if anything had broken it'd be obvious, and if something had burned or shorted out, I'd see evidence of that as well. I was just at the point of concluding that nothing was broken or shorted and nothing was up with the spark plug either when Dad stepped out onto the back porch.

"Declan! What thehell are you doing?"

"It stopped going," I said, by way of explanation.

"Then it needs to get taken to a mechanic, doesn't it?" he barked. "What are you about, boy? You'll ruin it!"

"How can I ruin it?" I countered. "It'salready not going."

"What if you can't put it back together right?"

I shrugged. "Then...I guess it can go to a mechanic?"

He dug his fingers into his scalp. "Well - okay - so long as you don't lose any bits, I suppose," and he disappeared back inside the sliding door, back to the racing channel.

I was pretty sure I hadn't lost any bits, and also fairly confident I'd be able to put it back together. I'd laid the pieces down in order as I removed them, and anyhow, the way things connected to each other seemed to make sense.

Everything was completely encrusted with black filth, and I wondered whether maybe it just needed ...