A Year to Remember - Sex Stories

A Year to Remember

Chapter One: January It's 7.15 am on Monday morning. I wake up with a start as the clock radio on the chest beside me suddenly blares into life. I raise my tousled bed-head off the pillow to peek under the curtains. It is still dark. I hate January. Christmas, gone and forgotten. My birthday, the fourth, also gone, and another eleven long months without an excuse for presents. I groan inside and flip over onto my back, stretching out my long, slim arms above my head, arching my back, and lifting my backside off the mattress before I flop back down again. I'm distinctly unimpressed with the thought of getting up on such a cold, dull winter day. Reaching down under the duvet to scratch my balls, I give my dick a quick squeeze on the way down. I find the striped, thin, cotton, year old boxers I like to wear. Stiff and crisp around the button-less fly. I should throw them out. They're pretty much too small for me now, especially as I seem to have unwittingly taken some sort of growth hormone over the summer. My arms and legs have grown long and almost gangly. Just a shame the rest of me hasn't caught up, if you know what I mean. Five foot ten inches of typical, half-awake, sixteen year old boy. Moody, sullen and incomprehensible most of the time. Unless I'm trying to 'fit in' at school. Then you can't shut me up. Then I inevitably end up saying something random and get called a wanker. Usually a four-eyed one at that. I'm not one of the 'lads', no matter how hard I try. I have ...

... a go at talking the talk, acting like I'm one of them. It doesn't fool anyone, least of all me. Oh yeah, I wear glasses. Have done for ages. I've got ludicrously long arms and legs. Well I reckon so! I used to be fantastic at swimming the back stroke. Long arms, big hands. I'm not over keen on what growing up is doling out to me. That's why I stopped going to the pool. I'm shy I suppose. Especially where other boys are concerned. My arms and legs are now covered in fine dark hairs. They match my head I suppose, colour-wise. I’ve got really thick, dark brown hair. I'm trying to have it cut in a more modern style. Mum hates it though. I reach down and give my cock another yank, just to help it catch up with the rest of me. Still, I like the boxers. They make my fuzzy arse look pert from the rear, being that much too small, and my insubstantial package more prominent from the front. Not that there is anyone to see. Bloody hell. The mass of hair surrounding it though. I'm sure someone cranked up the pube dial in my DNA to 11. It's like a bloody forest down there. Dense, wiry, dark brown, hair announces my insignificant cock in a triangle, fading out as it rises up my flat belly. It twitches at the unceremonious attention. I really couldn't be bothered creeping around last night. You know, afterwards, to clean up! Hence the crispy fly and the matted pubes. I really should get up. Still, another few minutes won't hurt. It will still be a dark, dreary January, after yet more of my ...