Twelve Months
by Adam Northgate


Chapter One: January

It’s 7.15 am on Monday morning. I wake up with a start as the clock radio on the chest beside me suddenly blares into life. I raise my tousled bed-head off the pillow to peek under the curtains. It is still dark.

I hate January. Christmas, gone and forgotten. My birthday, the fourth, also gone, and another eleven long months without an excuse for presents. I groan inside and flip over onto my back, stretching out my long, slim arms above my head, arching my back, and lifting my backside off the mattress before I flop back down again. I’m distinctly unimpressed with the thought of getting up on such a cold, dull winter day.

Reaching down under the duvet to scratch my balls, I give my dick a quick squeeze on the way down. I find the striped, thin, cotton, year old boxers I like to wear. Stiff and crisp around the button-less fly. I should throw them out. They’re pretty much too small for me now, especially as I seem to have unwittingly taken some sort of growth hormone over the summer. My arms and legs have grown long and almost gangly. Just a shame the rest of me hasn’t caught up, if you know what I mean.

Five foot ten inches of typical, half-awake, sixteen year old boy. Moody, sullen and incomprehensible most of the time. Unless I’m trying to ‘fit in’ at school. Then you can’t shut me up. Then I inevitably end up saying something random and get called a wanker. Usually a four-eyed one at that. I’m not one of the ‘lads’, no matter how hard I try. I have a go at talking the talk, acting like I’m one of them. It doesn’t fool anyone, least of all me. Oh yeah, I wear glasses. Have done for ages.

I’ve got ludicrously long arms and legs. Well I reckon so! I used to be fantastic at swimming the back stroke. Long arms, big hands. I’m not over keen on what growing up is doling out to me. That’s why I stopped going to the pool. I’m shy I suppose. Especially where other boys are concerned. My arms and legs are now covered in fine dark hairs. They match my head I suppose, colour-wise. I’ve got really thick, dark brown hair. I’m trying to have it cut in a more modern style. Mum hates it though.

I reach down and give my cock another yank, just to help it catch up with the rest of me. Still, I like the boxers. They make my fuzzy arse look pert from the rear, being that much too small, and my insubstantial package more prominent from the front. Not that there is anyone to see.

Bloody hell. The mass of hair surrounding it though. I’m sure someone cranked up the pube dial in my DNA to 11. It’s like a bloody forest down there. Dense, wiry, dark brown, hair announces my insignificant cock in a triangle, fading out as it rises up my flat belly. It twitches at the unceremonious attention. I really couldn’t be bothered creeping around last night. You know, afterwards, to clean up! Hence the crispy fly and the matted pubes.

I really should get up. Still, another few minutes won’t hurt. It will still be a dark, dreary January, after yet more of my spunk gets spilled. I bloody love wanking. Now I know how to do it right. Took a while though. Sure, we had the ‘birds and bees’ chat. Me and Dad. Well, he just sort of mumbled some stuff and I sat looking at my feet.

“It’s okay Dad, we do have sex ed at school,” I said.

That was it. Job done, he scarpered back downstairs to safety.

I pull my legs up and deftly flip the top half of the duvet down with the soles of my feet. A trick I’ve been perfecting for a few weeks. Forcing my hand through the fly hole, I hear a tiny rip, a stitch giving way I suppose. I pull the warm, smooth skin of my dick back to expose my helmet to the chilly air in my bedroom. It immediately begins to tingle. I shiver at the almost inevitable climax just a few minutes away, or is it just too flipping cold? No time for a marathon, a sprint is required today. Anyway, I give my foreskin another couple of tugs, willing my cock to expand, so I can jack off properly. In case you had not guessed, I’m uncut.

I had no idea there was any other version. That is, not until one of the lads in PE announced it. In the showers. Of course we have showers. And, everyone has to have one. I hate it. I don’t want everyone seeing me. Naked. Sixteen. Four-eyed. Raging hormones. Gorilla pubes. Alex had seemed pretty relaxed about having his dick inspected though. One of the others, Ed Miller I think, had said something.

“Look at Beckman’s cock head. He’s shut it in the fucking door!”

Alex just said, “Fuck off, Miller!”

Then telling him, and by default all of us standing there, dripping, that he’d been circumcised and what it meant. He said at least he didn’t get a cheesy knob, like the rest of us girls. His deep reddish, purple helmet stood proud, nestled atop his rounded balls. A few wispy hairs surrounded the whole package. I looked down at what the others had found so alarming, curious. Maybe for a second too long. I was just curious. Something had stirred and I hurried to get back into my hated uniform that day.

Tugs seem to be working. Shit, is it the tugs working? I’m thinking about the school showers, thinking about Alex, and that chav Ed Miller. My dick stiffens. Enough for me to start a steady rhythm, my hand working up and down, my fingers stroking my wrinkled balls every few strokes.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. School showers? Alex’s exposed helmet. Miller’s chav-lad trio. The worst of it is it’s not the first time.

It doesn’t take long before I feel that familiar tensing of my tummy muscles. Then a sudden, urgent shout startles me, enough to pull the duvet back over me as quickly as I can.

“Adam! Get up! It’s a quarter to eight!”

The command shrieked up the stairs makes me jump. I grab at the edge of the duvet, expecting her to burst in at any second. My heart is thudding so much. My mother is a worrier. She worries that I won’t wake up. She worries I won’t get up if I am awake. She worries I take too long in the shower. She worries.

I yank the duvet back down in defiance. My dick springs out and I shout back that I’m getting up. I spit into my hand and rub my cock-head, making myself gasp in the process at my own roughness. I like my lube, so I spit into my fist again and smear it all over my already shining helmet, using the fleshy part of my palm to rub over the sensitive sides of my slippery, swollen head.

The shower scene has, thankfully, been replaced. Packed away. Purposely forgotten. Replaced by an imaginary warm, wet mouth and tongue. Sliding over my taught head. The tip, dabbing at me, drinking my dripping pre-cum. Running round the edge, under that so sensitive ridge and down, down to the base. I pull hard, on my balls, stretching my dick to its full potential.

Now I look like Alex.

Another tummy tensing moment and then it happens. Just as I am remembering about Alex, I cum all over the front of my already stained boxers. I let go of the breath I was holding and relax. My sticky gunk drips down and through my fingers, soaking the flimsy fabric yet again.

I flop out of bed and pad across the wasteland of detritus, that is my bedroom floor, and into the bathroom. Get into the shower and do what’s necessary. Luckily, I’m not one of those lads that, as soon as they hit puberty, stink like the PE changing room. That overwhelming mixture of feet, mud, spunk and armpits, that assaults you as you walk in. My testosterone seems pretty sweet smelling.

I don’t spend long in the freezing bathroom, darting naked and ferret-like across the landing and back into my slightly warmer bedroom. I shrug on some clothes, well lots of them actually, as it does seem pretty cold out there today, and amble downstairs.

As usual my mum is flapping about. Getting ready for work, getting my breakfast, getting my sisters breakfast, flapping.

“Oh, you decided to grace us with your presence then, Adam.”

Her sarcasm doesn’t even register today. On a day like today, I could happily go back my room, crawl back under the duvet and tug my dick every couple of hours until it was dinner time. What self-respecting teenager wouldn’t want to do that? Unfortunately it is not an option today. Real life gets in the way, anyway. School.

The doorbell rings and brings me back to my senses.

As usual, my younger sister bounds for the front door, eager to open it. What is it with little sisters and the front door? It’s hardly going to be someone for her at 7.45 in the morning.

She opens the door and there are two police officers standing on the doorstep. Now, this is something of a surprise to me. But not to my mum, who standing in the kitchen doorway behind me, nearly collapses at the sight of the two expressionless people on her doorstep.


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