That summer we had bedrooms on the opposite ends of the L-shaped building. I take every opportunity I can to peer out my window before lights out, in hopes of catching Ignatius undressing for bed in front of the open window. On several occasions I saw him bare chested moving about the room without his shirt, but the distance is too far away for any up-close scrutiny. I have to content myself with whatever chance I can get to see Ignatius naked.
By this time, the Harding boy is an obsession of mine.
That summer another memorable occasion was on one visiting day. My folks had left early that Sunday, so I went upstairs to my room to have a smoke. I stopped in the common bathroom to take a piss, and I heard the shower running. I thought everyone else was still downstairs visiting with their folks.
Just when I finished my business at the urinal, I heard the shower curtain being drawn back, so I peeked around the corner to see who it was. I know who I hoped it would be. My wish was granted.
Out of the shower, dripping wet in all his glorious nakedness, stepped Ignatius Harding. In those days he was yet to catch on to me, so he wasn’t shy or bashful about appearing in front of me in all his furry nudity. Without being too obvious, I hoped, I watched him towel off the water as I engaged him in conversation.
By this time his full growth of chest hair is complete. His first growth of hair has an upward flowing pattern to it, while his newer growth takes a swirling downward turn towards his fill fleshy nipples. The muscular belly is shadowed only by a fine growth of fur with a darker emphasis on the thick line of his treasure trail that flows down to his luxurious growth of public hair. That thatch is so thick that I can only see the tip of his flaccid cock, he is circumcised, and I see nothing of his ball sac.
That close inspection gives me enough material to jerk-off for weeks afterwards.
In the Fall we are in Rye Beach, New Hampshire. I make it my business to get real close to him. I would pop into his room just before lights out in hopes of catching him undressing. Other times I would play a trick on him when he was in the common shower room. I would stand on the adjoining toilet and peer over into the shower stall, hopefully unseen. Then I would snatch his bathrobe and wait for him to come in his room with just a towel wrapped around him. Unfortunately he had developed a shyness or a sense of modesty by that time, because he would go into his walk-in closet to put on his clothes.
Sometimes he would be wearing a torn and tattered T-shirt. It was another one of my silly games to try and rip it off him. I told him I do it to encourage him but new T-shirts and not to be wearing ones that had large holes in them that made him look like a sloppy bum.
The best opportunity for getting my hands on Ignatius Harding was when he was in the infirmary because of some knee injury. After supper I would go upstairs to visit with him and keep him company.
On one occasion I offered to give him a back rub and body massage to keep him from getting bed sores, so I said. Surprisingly he agreed to one.
He didn’t remove his pajama top but only pulled it to the back of his head to bare his smooth muscular back. I had to be content with what he was offering, so I went ahead with the massage.
His skin is soft but has a strange texture to it. It isn’t dry or even oily and yet it didn’t feel very smooth in my clutching massaging fingertips. I ran my fingernails over his bare flesh in order to stimulate the flow of blood, so I said. In fact I was trying to tickle him, especially along his exposed ribs, but he never laughed.
I did manage to slip his bottoms down past the crack of his ass, so I got my hands on just the top of his firm round cheeks in consolation. I spent a lot of time on that one spot at the top of and between the mounds of his bubble butt. I knew that it would give him an erection, but I never saw one happen. When I suggested that he should roll over on his back so that I could do his front, he demurred and wouldn’t do it.
Nevertheless over the next few years I was able to talk him into several sessions of back rubs, but never once would he allow me to remove his pajama top or to touch his gorgeous hairy chest.
In our last year of schooling in Washington, D.C., we had somewhat of a falling out. Mornings he would be first in the common bathroom, at one of the sinks, shaving his face after showering, with just a towel around his waist. How I wanted to rip that towel off, but I never did. I would get out of bed early for me, just to catch a glimpse of him. It was as close as I could get.
One morning I overstepped my bounds and reached over to playfully pat his hairy belly. He must have had a bad night or something, because he turned to me in anger and shouted for everyone to hear: “Don’t touch me again, EVER!” I blinked in disbelief and was greatly offended.
I skittered out of there real fast while everyone was staring at me. Pretending to be half-asleep, I went back to bed for the rest of the morning.
Ever since then we hardly spoke. Maybe he was embarrassed at hid outburst but couldn’t bring himself around to apologizing? I don’t know. We lost track of each other after we graduated. Ever since then, I fantasized about getting my revenge against him. I want to pay him back for never letting me touch his hairy chest during our massage session. I want to pay him back for all the times I jerked-off to my fantasies of revenge. Ignatius Harding and I have unfinished business to clear up.
To Be Continued…………..Next page