First of all the palm of his hand rested lightly on my knee, then a little more heavily until my leg had grown accustomed to the weight of the hand and much of the supporting arm. Then his four fingers raised themselves, gently waving in the air, like snakes’ tongues sampling the breeze, while the thumb of the hand probed and pressed into the tense quadriceps muscle above my knee, coaxing the tension there to drain away. The thumb continued its gentle kneading, and then it seemed to extend itself out of the hand, growing in length until it burrowed almost painfully into an area of the relaxing muscle a little higher up my thigh.
It was as though the end of his thumb had hooked itself in that part of my leg, and was sending out roots. The palm and the thumb seemed to be acting independently, thanks to the flexibility of Luke’s elbow and wrist, and yet collaborating on a single master plan. The thumb didn’t actually pull the palm further up — it merely shortened itself, and the mesmerised palm followed in a silent trance, the four serpent tongues of the fingers, meanwhile, fluttering blindly as they tracked the pheromones to their source.
Luke’s hand eased its lazy way higher up my leg like a serpent edging along a knotty bough, and when the four tongues encountered the beginning of my balls, they fluttered in the air a little more, then gently came to rest. The thumb extended itself again, hooking itself into my groin, and the palm smoothly followed. His hand nestled there, warm and heavy. I could feel it grafting itself into my leg.
The fingertip tongues danced nonchalantly in the area just above my penis, and I was sure that they were sensitive to the extra heat from that area about which Luke had spoken so eloquently. I closed my eyes and waited for them to make actual contact. My hands were playing the piano without intention, only achievement. They needed no help from eyes or conscious brain.
Nothing happened. The tactile moment never arrived. I opened my eyes again. Luke’s fingers were now more like summer swallows, perhaps, than snakes. They dived and swooped and banked in perfect formation, describing intricate overlapping parabolas in the air around my cock, but they never landed. I marvelled that they could perform such elaborate manœuvres in so limited a space. My genital chakra could sense their fluttering through the cloth of my trousers, and my mind was a hot and mystical cave resounding with the single sentence, ‘For God’s sake grab it!’
Luke’s fingers landed at last, but some way away from my cock. They started a prodding dance on my thigh muscle, varied with a series of subtle flicks, as those tantalising digits began exploring the notional barrier of the Velcro closure.
Luke’s chameleon fingers had undergone another transformation within the animal kingdom. Now they were so many kitten snouts trying to find their way under a sleeper’s quilt on a winter morning, burrowing for a weak point in the thermal seal, wanting to snuggle up in the warmth within.
Luke’s ring finger made a little opening at the base of the Velcro, its sensitive tip entering lightly as though delicately tasting the damp air within. Once it had gained entry, the little finger followed. There was just enough space for the abductor muscles to team up and make the opening larger. Then the fingers boldly peeled back the material so that my cock stood free. They still hadn’t touched it.
Within two trances, the musical one and the sensual one, I experienced a moment of doubt. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be so vulnerable in a public place. We would have only seconds of notice before someone came into the room. I wasn’t convinced I would have time to stow myself away so as to produce the appearance of normality, or at least of an unconventional duet not exceeding the bounds of the musical. Removing my hands from the keyboard would itself draw suspicious attention, but could I really rely on Luke to restore order to my trouser-front?
Just when I was most torn between arousal and dithering, Luke resolved the matter by touching my cock at last. Then another instrument entered the symphonic poem. I felt his tongue on the back of my neck. Luke started sucking and kissing the skin, and all the while his hands cradled and stroked my parts into bliss. I was being fondled by a master of the groping arts. ‘Plaisir d’amour’ was a waltz, and Luke’s hand was a perfect dancing partner for my genital cluster. ONE-two-three, he marked the rhythm. ONE-two-three. COCK-ball-ball.
Now was the moment, the moment as perfect as it would ever get. I felt an orgasm was the least tribute I could pay to its splendour, but Luke turned out to be a groping master in the esoteric mode, endless deferrer of release. He worked his tongue round to my right ear, and next moment he was whispering to me: ‘This isn’t the right time or the right place. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’
‘What? What? When and where, then?’
‘Not here and not now. I’ll let you know.’
And with that there was diminuendo. The music died under my fingers. Luke had cast his spell, and he must have known that by this stage I was willing to follow him anywhere. Tenderly he assisted me back to my own chair, then smoothed out the extra creases in his pants, creases that had been made by me. Re-adjusting his bulge to assume a more dignified position, he gave me a quick squeeze between the legs and a peck on the cheek, and then he was away, gliding out of the Music Room. I followed on some time later, wondering when the right time and place would come together to round off the tune. On my way out of the room, awkwardly punting, I came upon Millicent Baxter, who looked down at me rather oddly. It was only later that I realised there was a wet patch at the front of my trousers. Millicent’s sharp look was explained. Incontinence wasn’t an unusual event on those premises, but it had never been part of my portfolio. I hope at least it wasn’t ponky-doodle. Millicent’s nose was very sensitive.
Scratched at by rabbits
One facility that was lacking even in the extended school was a swimming pool. The co-principals decided that such a construction would be a great asset. Their plan was simple: an oblong of lawn was marked out, forty foot by thirty. The projected pool was supposed to have a shallow end four foot deep — not exactly my notion of shallow — and a deep end of six foot six. The idea was that it should be dug by hand, with the available resources. So the male teachers dug, the male cook dug, a party from the Army Apprentices’ School at Arborfield dug.
Eltham College, where Miss Willis had taught before Vulcan, sent senior boys over to help on the pool for a week at a time. Any pupil of Vulcan who could control a trowel from a standing, sitting or even a lying position was put to work as well. That let me out. The net impact of all this digging was hardly noticeable to the naked eye. Even after weeks of dogged excavation the patch designated for the swimming pool looked as if it had been scratched at by rabbits rather than actually dug.
Eventually a bulldozer had to be hired. The driver seemed to find it droll that Alan and Marion should imagine such a huge project was within their powers, but he was careful not to mock the work that had been done. So was I. I just about managed not to go round saying ‘There’s no such word as can’t, eh?’ under my breath.
There was some sort of arrangement between Vulcan and St Paul’s School in London, not just for pool-digging but regular visits. Senior boys would come and lend a hand for a week or two. It was like having a new consignment of lovely ABs, fresh blood. They were terribly obliging.