Miles of Smiles
I looked at him as he stood in front of my desk, a slight frown on his face.
“So,” I said, passing the exercise book back to him. “A good story. Well planned, well written and interesting. All your own work?”
“Yes, sir. I wrote it in your class,” he replied. But the flush of crimson spreading up from his neck told me a different story.
“Some of the language you use isn’t like your normal stuff,” I said probing a little deeper. “Not that it’s wrong – some of it is quite good. Perhaps you remembered it from something you read somewhere?”
“Probably, sir. I read a lot of stuff.” Then, to my amazement, looked directly at me and added, “Mostly on the internet.”
The little sod had cornered me, and he knew it. I felt the start of a hot flush to match his, and before it became too visible, gave him a slight smile and sent him on his way. He grinned, thanked me and returned to his place.
I didn’t know what to think. He was certainly aware that I’d written the story he’d plagiarised – and he knew that I knew. I put aside the question as to how he found out, that was not important just now. What was important was what he intended to do about it. My guess was that he’d already done what he wanted – to let me know what he’d done. I doubted very much if he would go any further than that, after all he was under age for the site, and in addition if he’d wanted to cause me real problems, he would have circulated copies of the story. There were other possibilities of course, but none of them struck me as being likely or feasible. Mentally shrugging my shoulders, I decided that there was nothing I could do except wait to see what would happen next, if anything.
The answer came when I logged on to check my emails. There, right at the top, was one from a character called ‘smilesy’. I opened it up and to start with it thanked me for the latest story I’d published and said how much he’d liked it. There was nothing unusual in that, but the next line put me in no doubt as to who ‘smilesy’ was. ‘P.S.’, it said, ‘I won’t tell if you don’t!’ And the message was signed ‘sMILESy’. Smilesy was Miles’ nickname.
Oddly enough I felt better for getting this message: at least he admitted it was him and was also anxious to keep it secret. In reply, I sent just one line: ‘How did you know?’ and signed it with my initials ‘AS’.
He must’ve been on-line as I got an answer just five minutes later.
‘Easy,’ he said. ‘I have read all the things you’ve written, and all the names of boys you use are the names of boys who go to our school, and some of the places you describe are around here. Then I looked at your login – ‘seedy1812′. Took me a bit to work it out, but then I remembered your favourite author was Charles Dickens, born in 1812. Simple!’
‘OK,’ I sent back. ‘I give up. Keep it to yourself?’
The reply was instant. ‘Course. You got any more stories for me?’
‘Not just yet,’ I lied. ‘Can we talk at school tomorrow? Morning break, my classroom?’
‘Only if I’m not gonna get in trouble.’
‘No trouble. Promise. See you then?’
‘OK,’ was the simple reply.
I felt better; not 100%, but certainly more comfortable, knowing that at least things were being kept just between ourselves for the time being. What I could say to Miles though, I hadn’t a clue.
I still didn’t know what I was going to say when he turned up and sat on the desk in front of me. We looked at one another awkwardly, neither knowing where or how to start.
“I like ….” Miles started. “How did …” I said.
“OK, you first,” I offered, relaxed enough to half smile at him.
“I was going to say how much I liked the stuff you write,” he grinned.
“It’s hardly written for people as young as you,” I said. “You shouldn’t be reading it.”
I knew it sounded pompous and supercilious, and it didn’t come out anywhere near as friendly as I meant it to be.
“Come on!” he said. “I bet half the people who read that sort of stuff are my age or even younger!”
He was right of course, or at least a fair proportion of them would be anyway.
“Do many of your mates read them, then?” I asked.
“Come on, Sir! Do you think they’d say so, even if they did? If anyone found out that I liked reading gay stuff, they’d have my knackers off in no time!”
The ice had been broken, and we chatted away quite comfortably right through break time until the class bell brought things to a close to my disappointment.
“OK, Miles,” I said, getting up from my chair. “Thanks for the chat, you’d better get to class now. I’ll see you later.”
“OK, Sir. Can we talk again tomorrow? I like talking to you.”
“Yes, of course,” I said before I even thought about it.
Over the next few weeks we met most days at some time or another and enjoyed our conversations. The subject of my hobby or his reading habits came up very rarely, the only thing Miles said once in a while was how much he’d liked (or not liked!) my latest short story. Oh, and how he’d spotted that I’d used some of his ideas in them! Interestingly, one of the side benefits of our new friendship was the improvement in his writing, he was obviously putting more thought and effort into his work. I had to caution him once or twice for treading on very thin ice with some of his themes – copying my style was one thing, but trying to write gay fiction in school wasn’t such a good idea!
“What am I gonna do then?” he asked. “I like writing stuff like you, it’s different and sorta fun to do.”
I’ve always said that it doesn’t matter what sort of things you write about, as long as you enjoy it and get something out of it. But a 14-year old boy writing queer stories? That gave me food for thought.
“OK,” I said reluctantly. “Why not let me see some of your efforts and I’ll tell you what I think.”
This brought an instant grin to Miles face and a heart-felt ‘thanks!’ I felt rather less happy about it.
True to his word, when I checked my email, I found a couple of short pieces from Miles. The ideas were good, the grammar was OK, but the stories needed a lot of work to make them interesting and readable. Miles suffered from the typical teenage problem of trying to get as much action and excitement in as few words as possible. The result was a story such as we see all too many of – a hundred lines of masturbatory fantasy which satisfies no one except the author.
I explained the problem as delicately as I could the Miles the following day.
“Take your time,” I explained. “Don’t be in a rush to reach the end. Build things up.” I went on in this vein for a while, being as positive as I could. I went through his effort line-by-line, picking out the most glaring mistakes and suggesting suitable alternatives. A little to my consternation, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Miles had an erection which he was idly fingering over his trousers. Thankfully he couldn’t see the one hidden by my desk.
We’d never talked about our own experiences – as far as I was concerned, they were most definitely out of bounds, and in any case Miles, if he’d had any experience at all, certainly wouldn’t tell me about them, not that I’d ask anyway. It might sound strange, but after the initial shock of learning what sort of reading matter Miles preferred, I’d never even thought about him in a sexual way – just as a pupil whose company I liked, along with many other boys in the school. The vision of his fingers running up and down a decent sized lump in his trousers soon changed that though.
The thought must’ve been playing on my mind as, for some stupid, thoughtless reason, I ended up by saying, “And write from personal experience, not from a distance.”
Instantly Miles removed his hand from his swollen groin, blushed slightly and grinned wryly at me.
“Sorry!” I stumbled out, “ I didn’t mean to …”
Miles quickly overcame his embarrassment and said, “Well, I’ve done things two times with other boys, once when …”
I held a hand up to stop him, “I’d rather not know,” I laughed. “Some things are best kept secret!”
At least Miles had the grace to blush again and finished by saying, “Well, it was sorta fun. Perhaps I’ll write about them.”
It should’ve been no surprise to me, but a couple of days later I received a rather lengthy (for Miles) story about an escapade his ‘hero’ had had whilst at school. I skimmed through the story quickly, and then went back to re-read it more carefully.
From the descriptions he gave, the school was easily identifiable, as were the boys.
Apparently Miles (Ian in his story) and Robert had been swapping dirty jokes in the playground when it became obvious that they both had boners.
“When’s the last time you wanked off?” Ian asked Robert, his hand deep in his trouser pocket, obviously fondling his pride and joy.
“Last night. You?” Robert said, his eyes fixed on the undulating hand.
“This morning,” sniggered Ian. Then after a minute whispered, “Wanna do it again now?”
“Yeah, if you do,” Robert said quietly. “But where?”
“Visitor’s toilet, near the office. I don’t think anyone ever goes in there.”
The two boys crept cautiously to the toilet and hurried inside, bolting the cubicle door tightly behind them. Excitedly they reached out for one another’s flies, slid them down as far as they would go and extracted two hugely erect pricks. With only a glance at each other, hands started to work up and down the naked flesh.
“Drop your pants,” Robert said, “I can’t do it properly.”
Within seconds, both sets of trousers and underpants were dropped. Ian stared at the beautiful sight in front of him: a seven-inch hardened rod of steel, sprouting out from a nest of bright red hair, just like that on his head.
“You done this with anyone else?” Ian asked as he slowly stroked away.
“No,” Robert gasped. “You?”
“No. But it’s good though, ain’t it?”
“Oh, yeah!” sighed Robert.
It didn’t take them very long before they unloaded their balls, the cum shooting out like rifle bullets, their bodies shaking with the effort.
With a quick smile at each other, Robert and Ian dressed themselves and carefully left the toilet.
In some ways, the story was like the others of Miles I’d read, but this time he’d succeeded in giving me a fearsome erection, partly because I knew who he was writing about. ‘Robert’ was his best friend Michael – it had to be as he was the only redhead in the class. It was also an immense turn-on knowing that Miles not only knew what he was talking about, but had had some experience as well.
I spent a few minutes re-writing the story, adding a bit here and there and doing a little re-phrasing. Out of devilment, I also improved the description of ‘Robert’, noting the fact that he had a two-inch scar on his neck where he’d had an accident, just like Michael.
It was now much better, and against my better judgement, I slipped my own clothes off, gave my leaking cock some freedom and read the story yet again, this time jacking off to images of semi-naked Miles and Michael. It took no more than half a dozen strokes for me to shoot my load, eyes closed, watching Miles do the same thing.
“Oh fuck!” I thought as I began to clean the mess up. “Whatever the quality of Miles writing, it certainly worked for me, which is all that matters I suppose!”
The last thing I did before turning the machine off was to print out a copy and slip it inside my jacket.
I slid the paper across the desk towards Miles with a request that he read it.
“Bloody Hell!” he said as he realised what it was. “You knew who I was writing about!”
“It was fairly obvious, the red hair gave it away. You might just as well have not changed the name!” I laughed. “And I think seven inches is a bit of an exaggeration, too.”
“Well, I had to guess that bit. We didn’t have time to get much of a proper look at each other. His is bigger than mine though,” he added, looking at me directly.
The look I recognised instantly. It was a sort of challenge in a way: daring me to ask how large his endowment was. More than that though, mixed in with it was a mute plea that I did just that. If I did as he wanted, it would take our relationship up a notch or two and I had the distinct impression that was what he wanted.
Hedging my bets, I simply said, “And?”
“’Bout four inches,” he giggled, staring at his cloth-covered boner. “And a bit!”
Quite pointedly he stared at the erection now tenting my trousers. I felt that he desperately wanted to ask me the obvious question, but didn’t quite have the courage. I decided not to enlighten him.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “It will grow soon enough.”
Looking as serious as I’d ever seen him, Miles then said quietly, “Do you want to …” But then, glowing bright red, changed his mind.
“Not just now!” I laughed, ruffling his hair but deliberately leaving the door open for further similar conversations if that is what he wanted.
In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, I’d tried to make a bit of a joke, but in the effort forgot to filter my thoughts and said exactly what I was thinking. And precisely the wrong thing. Shit!
“OK,” Miles said. “See you later then.” And as if to emphasise the point, he pressed his hand into his groin.
I ruffled his hair again, this time letting my hand rest on his head for a few moments. I knew that he was coming on to me, and oddly enough found it not unwelcome, it pleased my vanity I suppose. Not that I would ever act on it of course, but still the feeling it gave me was a nice one.
Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the end of term and we were due a three-week holiday. Hopefully it would give things a chance to cool down between us – they were beginning to get out of hand as far as I was concerned. But then again, did I want them to cool down?
“If I do some more writing, will you look at it for me?” Miles asked on the last day of term. “I’d really like you to.”
“Of course,” I grinned. “Whenever you like.”
“Great!” he grinned as he packed his bag. “I’ll get it to you.”
The last I saw of him he was sat on his bike at the school gates waiting for me to leave. As I drove past, we gave each other a cheery wave and went our different ways.
My thoughts went back to Miles as I had my tea, staring unseeing at the television. Somehow I felt a bit depressed over the thought that it would be three weeks before I saw him again. He’d managed to get under my skin one way or another and the thought of not being able to talk to him for the entire holiday didn’t please me in the slightest.
‘Stupid!’ I thought to myself. ‘He’s only a pupil. Don’t get so worked up over him. You’ll see him again after the holidays.’
And then, ‘But you like him, and he likes you. You’ll miss each other. Correction. You’ll miss him.’
‘Yeah, but you gotta cool the sex thing down’
‘Why? Nothing will happen anyway.’
‘Won’t it? You sure?’
My mind was going round in circles and getting nowhere. In the end I decided to wait and see what happened next, if anything.
The ‘next thing’ happened a lot sooner than I expected. Waiting in my inbox was a message: ‘ Story almost finished. I’ll get it to you tomorrow. sMILESy.
I grinned to myself, feeling a great deal better than I did earlier. For some unfathomable reason, just getting an email from him cheered me up and I opened up a story I was in the middle of and began to write, my mild euphoria spreading into the words I was putting down.
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