Head Boy - Sex Stories

Head Boy

... house...He had an older sister, if the framed photos lining the stairwell spoke true. Older enough to be long gone by now. Like Scott and Jason. So, we were both of us afterthoughts. Or mistakes.

His room wasn't as rigidly tidy as I'd imagined it would be - although the bed was made. I wondered if he'd curated the look. I probably would've, in his position. A desk, a swivelling office chair with a hoodie draped over it, a macbook lying closed, a large slave screen behind, unconnected, darkly blank.

Symon plonked himself down in the office chair and gestured me toward the bed, which I sat on gingerly. "So," he began, "how was your week?"

My week was aweek, same as all the other weeks, but I got it. We had to talk about something, anything, until this felt a little less weird and a lot less intimidating. So I recited a bunch of junk about my week, and he followed up with bunch of junk about his, leaning heavy on Monday's happenings - it turned out his 'something on' on Monday afternoons was orchestra practice...

My attention had been slightly wandering, but that snapped it back. "Oooh! Orchestra! Do you go on band camp? Do you play the fl- no, wait, it's the piccolo, isn't it? Isn't it? That's your thing?" I mimed a tiny instrument in front of my mouth.

I got an eye-roll in response. "No-oo," he murmured.

"Uh-huh? So whatdo you play?"

"That." He gestured behind me, to the corner at the foot of the bed.

Right. Okay. One of those. A - a - double bass? ...

... Yeah. A fuck-off big piece of musical furniture. And about as far from a piccolo as you could get...

Symon laughed. "Man, if you could see your face right now..." He leaned back in his chair, smirking at me, then stretched out a leg and poked my shin with his foot.

It was all the invitation I needed. I grabbed his ankle and held on. "You ticklish?"

He weaved his head side-to-side. "Why do I suspect there's no right answer in this situation? Obviously dumb to say yes. But if I say no, then you're gonna try and prove me wrong. And if I tell the truth, which is; not very...?" he trailed off.

Too cool with the 'not very', I thought, way too cool. Too cool with the whole speech. It felt like the truth was much closer tovery-very...

He held out longer than I expected, keeping a decent poker face while I traced up the length of his foot with the pads of my fingers, down again with the backs, the dragging of my nails over the ridged skin causing tiny vibrations - but when I tried the same thing across the ball of his foot, just under his toes, he flinched and tried to wrench it away.

I gripped hard, repeating the motion, and when he tried again to twist from my grasp, I jerked him forward. Amazingly he didn't fall, though his arse slipped off the chair's seat - but with the angle I had his captured foot at, he couldn't balance properly on the other. Still trying to escape while hopping to maintain himself upright, he never saw my other arm coming for him in a great ...