Quote:Jay smelled of mown grass and something hotter and much more dangerous: the scent of pre-cum in the stifling air. Nor did he stop Jay from starting to unbutton the new seersucker shirt (“don’t want to get cum on anything”) single-handed so the other was free to begin lightly exploring the outline of the lump in Jeff’s slacks. All the while, their eyes remained locked, dark brown boring into pale blue. And it was the certainty of success Jeff read there which really undid any last thought of escape—and the promise that there might be cum to get on his shirt. Didn’t have no choice, really…

They landed on the camp bed with a thud, naked. Release the top of his shorts and shuck free of them was all Jay needed to get that way himself, but he took more care with Jeff, even folded his pants over the back of a chair, and then off came the jockey shorts. “Don’t want to get them messy either. Hmmm… beautiful ass. I reckon you need a proper going over.”

He meant it, as Jeff soon found out. Without much preliminary warming up—Jay was eager for a mouthful of Jeff’s big cock, which didn’t stay in an even semi-hard state once lips were wrapped around it—he got Jeff bent over on his knees and his head tucked nearly between them. This raised the arch of his doubled-up body so his thighs, taut with the strain, thrust his butt up into the air. And then Jay went to work with his long tongue, licking, lapping, probing the proffered ass crack. He felt Jay pull farther apart his glutes to give deeper access to the valley in between, and again the rasp of tongue on quivering flesh drove Jeff to bury his head deeper into the blanket covering the thin mattress beneath him. That sense of uh-oh, we’ve been here not long ago was quickly submerged by Jay’s stupendous mouth, lips, and tongue-work. His mmmmnns and aaahhs as he worked the sensitive sphincter ring reached Jeff as vibrations through the medium of his flesh more than as uttered sounds. Each fired a thrill down the trunks of his straining legs and in the other direction down through his gut and along his spine to collide excitingly in the crook of his neck. If this was how Lady Chatterley felt, then bring on David Herbert Whothefuck and forget the old voodoo woman’s hexes and potions.

No one yet had done this… ass licking like this and it was driving Jeff wild with sexual desire, to the point when he feared he might void his load straight down onto the bed covering. And then Jay let up with an explosive gasp. In a flurry of movement, he circled around Jeff, holding him in place with a hand on his rump. Jeff felt more than saw through blanket-obscured eyes Jay’s feet press down on the bed beside him and then shuffle around.

“You just stick there, JJ, my boy.”

       

Quote:There is no burden heavier for a fourteen-year-old boy than that of a delayed ripening, and Bret still looked more like twelve. It was, on the one hand, a part of his charm; it was also something upon which it was not fair game to play if he appeared at all unwilling. Now he looked quickly at Bobby and perhaps closed his eyes for a moment in gratitude. Had he been put to the test of effervescence, as he and Swann and one other boy in the room knew, he would have failed.
There was a knock at the door. Bobby opened it to admit Tom Carstairs and a platter of cookies. Bledsoe and Quin-Quiller were with him. They carried four large bottles of Coke, some more crisps and a bowl of hard boiled eggs.
“Hi, Ames.” Carstairs said. “Present from Clara.”
“Drinks, too,” Wells piped and relieved Quin-Quiller of two bottles. “Opener?”
Anthony reached in his desk drawer and produced one. He wrenched off the top of a quart and passed the opener to Quin-Quiller who poured one of the bottles out into several cups. He presented one to Bobby.
“Sorry, old boy. Don’t know what to say really. Cheers.” “Thanks, Quin. Cheers is a good thing to say.”
“Here’s to you, Yank,” Bledsoe said, raising his cup. Carstairs passed the cookies to him,
“Sweets for the sweet,” he said. Carstairs played the role of house vamp broadly. No one would have dreamed of condemning him for it, embarrassed as it sometimes made the other boys, for there was also something sinful and bold about it which teased at their imaginations.
“Hey, this is turning into a pretty good wake! I mean… Sorry, Ames. You know what I mean.”
“It’s okay, Mason. It’s great you’re all here. Really.” 
“You going to the funeral, Ames?” Bledsoe asked.
“I don’t think so. I don’t think there’ll be one. The boat burned up at sea.”
“How ghastly,” Quin-Quiller said through a half-chewed peanut butter cookie. “Did it sink?” 
“The rector didn’t say. I guess it must have.”
“How’d they find out?”
“The guy she was with. He swam ashore. He was probably sleeping on the deck and she below. I suppose it was the alcohol stove. It always gave me the creeps.”
“So what happens to you now, Ames?”
“What do you mean?”

   

Quote: Set shortly after the Second World War, narrator Alan Carey tells of the year when he was eleven years old going on twelve. Living in London, he had earlier lost his parents and older brother in an air raid, and lives with his grandmother, but she dies just before he is due to start his senior education at the local grammar school, a school for brighter students. As an orphan he is sent to Barton House, a forbidding Victorian children's home. His fellow inmates are a rough and seasoned bunch that have developed their own strategies for survival, and the staff are at best indifferent and unsympathetic, at worst hostile or even malicious.
Alan is out of place at Barton House as a "grammar school snob"; at school he is out of place as deprived and coming from a rough children's home. But Alan is no easy push-over, and he is well able to hold his own in both environments. What he is less well equipped to handle is the continued brutal physical and sexual abuse, and the accompanying shame, at the hands of the sadistic Barton House staff member Jacko.
Alan is frequently encouraged by others who tell him "a lad like you" will survive, but he is never able to discern quite what is meant by that. There is certainly something about him that endears him to some, he is bright and affable, and he certainly proves himself capable at his Saturday job at a light engineering workshop. He is briefly befriended by a boy from a nearby private school, the students of which are sworn enemies of the Barton House boys. But he eventually finds true solace in the arms of Mike, the older brother of one of his classmates and friend Toddy. However the intervention of the Mike's parents brings the relationship to a swift and abrupt end, casting Alan as the villain.
This is a captivating but disturbing story, the horrors of Barton House are appalling, especially the sinister Jacko. The short idyllic period when Alan is invited by Mike and Toddy's parents to join them all on holiday in Cornwall offers a marked contrast, and provides for some very tender moments. But overall the predominant feeling of the account is the desperation and frustration that Alan suffers virtually defenseless against an adult world that is unprepared to give him a chance. While one hopes for an ending in which the guilty get there comeuppance, and Alan benefits from true justice, the conclusion is in rather depressingly true to life, and while Alan comes through it all showing the makings of a man, he is not unscathed by the events of the traumatic year of 1946/47. Having said that however, I absolutely loved this book, and highly recommend it.