Yvonne was very proud of her son. He was polite and would soon be well-educated. But, even more, she knew he was the kind of boy who attracted young ladies–wealthy and well-brought-up young ladies. So he (or maybe she) could have her pick, perhaps even elevating still more the position of her family in the community. He always did what he was told, she thought.
He was about 6 foot, which was tall for the time, with a head of thick and curly raven colored hair that took on reddish-gold highlights after a day in the sun. He was lank, but muscled from farm work, wide-shouldered, thin-waisted, with heavily muscled arms. (At times she regretted his need on the farm–French gentlemen didn’t display heavy muscles. That was for the working class.) He had a gaunt,but square and wide, “French” face with sunken cheeks, supple lips and emerald green eyes framed in long lashes–of the bedroom inviting variety. He was clean shaven, but could have very nice facial hair if he chose. Most would consider him to be at the edge of handsomeness. Naturally dark and even darker after all the summer sun. His mother was really pleased that he didn’t burn like so many of the “English” newcomers to Noubois. In short, he cut an aristocratic Continental image–not like those sissified English mama’s boys.
Only the farmer’s outfit he was wearing belied that image: tight cotton britches with a laced-up crotch, pant-legs tucked into boots and a billowy homespun shirt with laces at the throat and long sleeves. And now of course, all was heavily soiled and sweat-soaked.
And like any other farm mother, who had regularly bathed her men–or watched them as they bathed in the large tub on the porch which the helper had filled with hot water. So she knew he was carrying some pretty impressive equipment–even larger than her husband’s. No surgeon had been permitted to defile his reproductive organs. So his hood covered the head quite modestly. Some young lady would appreciate that someday.
She had already inventoried the crop of eligibles in Noubois and decided that she needed to cast her web farther afield to find someone worthy of Andre.
Andre slipped back into his boots outside the screen door, loped down the three wooden steps and headed for the pond, not far away. He was looking forward to the cool water, and hoped that, as was typical, it would be deserted or nearly so in the early evening. At a minimum, he knew all the young ladies and children would be home. Perhaps a few farm hands or friends, but no one else. He would swim in his drawers–or preferably in the nude.
As he walked, Andre’s thoughts drifted to the future. He had a few more weeks until he returned to Cambridge–away from the backbreaking labor of the farm, but more importantly away from his mother’s hovering protectiveness. She would rule his life if he let her. And so, to keep her at arm’s length, he had put on the “polite gentlemen son” exterior, agreeing to everything she said, working hard to help his father, but keeping his own ideas to himself. Andre was absolutely bursting with sexual energy, and he had almost no outlet, except his own callused palms at night.
Social life was beginning to open at Harvard, but students were still required to attend daily chapel, dress “appropriately” for class, behave as “gentlemen” at all times and meet curfews. This was true even for student athletes. Women were of course prohibited from the houses–except for chaperoned events, and did not attend classes with men. But there were quiet corners and a little free time which, by comparison to his mother’s minute control of his life, amounted to freedom.
Andre reached the pond and found it deserted. It was very quiet. You could even hear the whir of the few dragonflies floating above the crystal waters. He breathed in the cooler pine-scented air and smiled. He stripped–even the baggy drawers, dove in, shivered in the coldness (and at the risk of swimming nude) and swam a few laps, then over to the waterfall where he sat on the rocky ledge, after drenching himself with the cool mountain falls. He moved to the edge of the rock which was slippery and sunny, but not inundated by the falls. It was perfect: a long wide moss-covered ledge with a gently sloping rock “backrest.” He rested back and began to dream. He was a stunning apparition–a male “Odalesque”–nude, relaxed and magnificent in every way.
Being a young man in good health, his thoughts of course turned to sex. Although young ladies were attracted to his looks and athletic appearance, it was still 1940. He had now had six “dates” (he could recount each in detail)–really a few dances each and conversation over “punch” in a crowded room, all with different young ladies. He had managed to kiss two of them. One had responded with an open mouth and an active tongue. His arms surrounded her as he hugged her in, pressing her breasts to his. He couldn’t tell if she was big-breasted because of the rigid corset and padding, but she did have a nice small waist and soft hips. She immediately felt his heat and hardness–but unexpectedly had not bolted, but had pushed back, rubbing her thigh against him. He was so excited that he had shot in his drawers and had to make excuses and leave before he was embarrassed. But he was pretty sure she knew what she had caused. He looked for her a week later, but she didn’t appear.
That was his sole sexual experience–except of course for the routine mutual jerk sessions that the boys at the school had engaged in. It was the single most important way that they could thumb their noses at rules and convention. He knew what an orgasm felt like, had done it to himself many times but had never permitted any of his mates to do it for him. He knew they were attracted to his beauty–and the unusual size of his cock. But that was it.
Despite the cold and the fact that he was near a frigid waterfall, his dreams produced a semi, then an erection as he slowly stroked himself. He was in another world, oblivious to everything. Soon he was rigid and at the edge. His thoughts tried to picture someone (female) doing this to him.
Then he felt a subtle change in the atmosphere. Andre realized that something was different. It was warmer. He jolted upright and released his shaft, but it was seconds too late. He felt the automatic spasms take charge and the ever-wonderful feeling of release. He blasted several long shots of cum into the pond before opening his eyes.
“Fuck. It looks like you really enjoyed that, boy.”
Andre jumped and opened his eyes to find another young man, maybe a little older, who had apparently entered the pond and headed to the familiar perch near the waterfall. He was leaning on the rock, still mostly in the water, his head only a few inches from Andre’s still swollen cock. Andre didn’t know him, so he probably wasn’t from Noubois. He had never seen him before. So he was wary. And his use of “fuck” certainly marked him as foreign to their town.
“Don’t let me stop you. Please continue. Nice dick. I’m Finn, by the way. I’m going off for a swim to let you finish.” With that, he pushed off and demonstrating a strong crawl, Finn completed several laps of the pond before pulling himself back up on the ledge. While he swam, Andre considered leaving, but the mystery of another nude guy in “his” pond held him in place.