Oliver’s Army Chapter 1

From: Dylan Westwood

This story contains fictional characters from the
writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is strictly coincidental.

Oliver’s Army

Part I

By Dylan Westwood

ONLINE APPLICATION FOR UNIVERSITY AND/OR HIGHER EDUCATION

NAME: Oliver Whytfield

D.O.B: 30/04/1987

ETHNICITY: White British

PLACE APPLIED FOR: Music (BA Hons)

PREVIOUS EDUCATION: Greenfold Secondary School
Highland Road Sixth Form College

QUALIFICATIONS: A Level Music Grade A
A Level English Grade A
A Level Drama Grade A
A Level German Grade D
A Level General Studies Grade A

PERSONAL STATEMENT:

I got a problem. A big problem. College is shit, my
German lecturer really fucking hates me, and to top
that, my best mate just told her parents she got
pregnant. By me.

Fuck.

You see that isn’t strictly untrue.

She IS pregnant. But I’m NOT the dad. I can tell you
that in all honesty, because I don’t screw women.

I screw guys.

Lots of guys. Most of the guys at my college, in fact.

I mean, I’m not a whore, or a slut. I just LIKE sex.

And no-one has ever shown me love before. Not in the
way that I want it. That big, romantic movie love,
with the orchestra, and the cymbals, and the kiss in
the rain. Never like that.

Normally like round the back of the science lab with
a hot guy from the PE department. Or a hot teacher
from the PE department. Either that or in the toilets.
Or in classrooms after college is finished.

But never love. It’s always, ‘Thanks, same time next
week?’ or, ‘Cheers man, I had to get off, my girlfriend
ain’t given me nothing for like, two weeks, and I had
to fuck something.’. It’s not much of an existance, but
I kinda like it. The sex that is.

But, back to my best friend. She knew that her parents
wouldn’t care that she is pregnant. Christ, they had her
when they were fifteen, and she’s already eighteen. It
was just the REAL father is, well, a dick. He is in
court right now actually, on charge or possession of
Class A illegal drugs, GBH AND manslaughter. Hell of
a kid. So she thought, ‘If I tell them that Olly’s the
father, they won’t care, ’cause, well, they LIKE him.’

And I’m totally fucked.

My mum is going to go mental. We live on this estate just
outside of Sheffield, and the teenage pregnancy rate is
like, sky high. And she’s the kind of mum who doesn’t care
what I do, so long as I buck the trend and keep my work
high on my priority list. She’s got major hopes for me to
go to university. I’m only just applying and the deadline
is in like, two days. I doubt I’ll get it in on time.
Still, she’s not gonna say, ‘WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?
WHY DIDN’T YOU USE A CONDOM?!’. She’ll just go, ‘Another
one falls foul of the governmental statistics system.’.

That’s the thing. She loves anti-social behaviour. Not
anti-social like, throwing bricks through shop windows or
graffiti or anything. Just like, different from the social
norm. I tried my hardest. I work hard, ride skateboard, listen
to metal, dress like a boarder, fuck about with my mates in
a socially acceptable yet different way, write music, draw
wierd pictures and generally subscribe to her weekly lecture
on why different is so damn important. She’s a total hippy.
She works sixty hours a week in a record store and smells
of weed all the time. She never went to university, which is
why she pinned all her hopes on me.

Then there’s dad. He’s more authoritarian dead than he was
alive. I never missed him when it happened. He’s an easy guy
not to miss. Not because I hated him, or disliked him at
all, just because he was pretty invisible most of the time.
He never shouted, hardly spoke, rarely moved except to go to
work, and hid most of the time in the attic. We never found
out what he used to do up there until he died. Well, when I
broke open the loft hatch with a hammer, me and mum went up,
and all the beams and the chipboard insides of the roof lining
were intricately painted with hundreds and hundreds of dragons,
fairies, elves, sprites, demons, devils, angels and other
wierd fantasy things. I moved my things up there that day,
went down to the charity shop and bought loads of rugs, heaved
my mattress through the hatch, strung up fairy lights everywhere
and moved in. I’m still up there now. And I’m finishing off what
he started. He left one of the gable ends blank, so that it was
just this big, brick canvas, and at the bottom in tiny little
letters, painted, ‘For Olly, to fill in with whatever he wants.
Love to you both always, Dad.’ He must have painted it just before
he died – he always used to call me Oliver, but the day he killed
himself, he said, ‘Bye-bye Olly,’ as he left for work. It was
the last thing he said. Those dragons and fairies are my army.
They watch me for my dad. So he can see just how shittily crude
and disgusting his son’s sex life is. He would have welcomed the
opportunity of being a granddad, if nothing else.

But you see, there’s the point. He wouldn’t have been. I haven’t
slept with a girl since I was fourteen, and I realised then that
it was NOT the way to go. Guys are hotter. It’s that easy. They
are damn hot. I guess I like the ones who are the opposite to me.
Jock types, with blond hair, tans; basically all-round American
high schoolers. Sadly, this is England. We get about four of them
a year, and they’re exchange students. I’m short, about 5’5″,
skinny, but toned from skating, black, statically-charged hair,
green eyes, and a fairly cute lopsided grin. My gran used to say
I must melt the girls hearts; my mum used to say I’d get more sex
at university than Paul Newman (which I think is her age shining
through); my last fuck said I was the cutest guy he’d ever seen.

I say I’m okay.

Still, I don’t know what to do. I’m torn between telling her
parents the truth, or letting them think I’m the dad, and
keeping my best friend out of trouble. It’s a lose/lose
situation, and the truth is, I kind of want to get myself out
of it.

* * *

It turns out, after she told her parents, she made them swear
not to tell who the father was. So I suppose I’m okay. For now.
Still, it’s another nine months until the sprog bursts out of
her, and hopefully, I’ll be halfway to university by then. At
college, she seemed to be avoiding me, and I didn’t see her
until after dinner time, when we had an afternoon of German
together. Now, I don’t know why I took German. We’re meant to
do a maximum of four subjects, but I took it anyway, I’m kinda
good at it, and I knew I could just doss around if I didn’t
feel like working. After all, I had four other strong subjects
to fall back on, and universities only usually want three.
So that’s what I ended up doing. But after I screwed the PE
teacher and half the male faculty, word got to my German
teacher that I was pretty much a cock-for-hire, without the
fee. Now, I do have some standards, and Herr Grubenstein was
a pretty gross looking guy. Over fifty, beer gut, balding,
huge moustache, bow ties and always sweating, he was a red
faced German bratwurst. One day, after class, he called me on
my way out of the door.

“Oliver,” I heard, in a thick German accent.

“Yes, Herr Grubenstein?” I said (all the other faculty members
were lenient on the Mr. title, they went by first names to
students, but not Herr Grubenstein. He was afraid we’d take
the piss out of him. He’s an Adolf).

“Oliver, I wondered if we could discuss your little, ah…
predicament,” he intoned.

I realised I was lazy and I did nothing but talk in his lectures,
but I reckoned he wasn’t that bothered – he never seemed to mind
much, seeing as though I always got my work in on time, and it
was usually okay.

“Really, sir?” I replied, bewildered, “I didn’t think there was
any problem.”

“Well, I have been talking to other members of the staff, and
it seems you have the same problem across the faculty,” he said.

Now I knew he was talking bullshit. I was nothing but attentive
and hardworking in other classes. I cared about my other classes.
I was GOOD at my other classes, and I got on pretty well with
the lecturers in my other classes, even though they were all women.

“Well, sir,” I started, “I don’t see any problem in my other…”

“No, no,” he interrupted, “not problems with YOUR other lecturers.
Problems with OTHER faculty members.”

He’d lost me. I was completely stumped. I couldn’t think of any
problems I had with any other members of staff. There was a canteen
incident in my first year when I spilled Coke down a dinnerlady’s
coat as she went past, but nothing else I could think of.

“You’ve lost me, sir,” I replied.

“Ah, let me rephrase what I said. Perhaps, not a problem, but…
a.. ah… service?”

“A service, sir?” I questioned.

“Yes. A number of staff members have been heard talking about you
in the staff room. Mentioning… among other things… a mouth like
a hoover… and… ah… what was it? Yes! A cock the size of a
beer can? So thick, you have difficulty getting a hand around it?”

I was dead. He’d got me. Fuck. They were going to get fired, I was
going to get expelled, and he was going to sit and laugh at the boy
who made his Wednesday afternoons and Friday mornings hell.

“Sir… I.. Sir…” I began.

“There was more, I seem to recall. An arse like… what was it Mr.
Lawrence said? An arse like… the tightest, warmest pussy on God’s
green Earth? The body of a wiry athlete, crossed with the sexual
energy of a nymphomaniac on Viagra… that little gem came from the
principal. Oh, and wait… one more… my favourite, in fact. That
boy can come more spunk than an elephant. I thought I had a thick
load? You should try and swallow his!”

I felt sick.

“Now, Mr. Whytfield, I am sure you are feeling slightly shocked at
these revelations coming from a man such as myself…”

No kidding.

“… but please, do not worry. I am not going to take any action
against you. Please. Do sit down. You look very shaken. Now, I know
you would have expected more from grown men…”

Not really.

“…but you have to realise, most of this faculty now see you as a
conquest. Those who are… homosexual, anyway. There are far more
attractive males in your year, and the year below you. But, I am
sure I speak for the faculty at large when I say…”

I didn’t like where THIS was heading.

“…that YOU are the heartbreaker they all desire. There is a… a…
sparkle. A twinkle, if you will, that makes you sexier than any other
boy most of them have ever seen. A cheekiness, mixed with a working
ethic, which makes them stand to attention whenever you walk past, or
smile at them…”

He laughed. I retched.

“…or just open your mouth to speak. That lopsided grin, those green
eyes, the unruly hair and cheekbones – they all fit. Plus, the tight
t-shirts and baggy shorts really don’t leave that much to the
imagination, now do they?”

I tried my best to shake my head.

“I know, I know, that this is hard to take. They know of your…
exploits with the other members of the staff and the student body,
and they do not wish to see it stopped. You make them… look
forward to coming into work every day. Your smile makes them ‘rise
to the occassion’, as it were.”

I needed to smoke. He saw me reach for my cigarette packet.

“Please, feel free,” he said, crossing to the window and opening
it, “Smoking is not usually a luxury I allow in the classroom, but
this is a rather… ah… special case.”

He chuckled. Rather unpleasantly. I lit up. Rather shakily.

“Now, Mr. Whytfield. I have a predicament of my own. You could, with
not much effort, be expelled from this school. Your actions with
members of staff, while not illegal, go against the Code of Conduct
for the college, and are grossly negligent. However…”

I didn’t like that however. That however could only be followed
by ONE thing.

“…I believe there is an easier option.”

I took a drag on the cigarette. He stepped forward. I flinched. He
looked at me, within touching distance, this fleshy, corpuscle of
a humanoid.

“I suggest…” he began, “that I take matters into my own… ah…
hands.”

He reached down and put a hand on my belt. I froze, scared and
disgusted. I couldn’t stop him. University was slipping further
away as I thought about running away. I couldn’t run, I was too
close to getting my A Levels and getting out of this town. I
stayed frozen. I felt his hands undo by belt, then my button. A
hand slipped my backpack off one shoulder, then the other. I felt
a flabby hand lift up my t-shirt, and then pull it over my head.
I heard it hit the floor, and nearly threw up. His face was redder
than ever, and I could smell the fresh sweat on him, penetrated by
the must of not washing for too long. I felt my trousers fall down
my legs, felt my dick as it began to swing upwards, aware of the
removal of clothes, unaware of who was doing it. I was, sadly, well
aware. I closed my eyes as I felt his hand pull the waistband of my
boxers away from my hips, and the gasp of delight as he slipped
them down past my now heaving cock. I felt a small swoop of delight;
I knew this was probably the first dick he had seen in about thirty
years, and it was probably the most impressive too. I was proud.
For a second. I felt his hand cup my balls, and the nausea returned.
He leaned forward, and I felt the warm breath on the head of my
dick. Just as his lips grazed it, I pushed him off.

“What?!” he exclaimed.

I reclaimed my boxers, hiding my dick again, and reached down again
for my trousers. Doing them up, I picked up my backpack and my
t-shirt.

“I’m not fucking doing this!” I shouted, “You’re fucking disgusting,
and I can’t fucking go through with that. Sod fucking university,
I’ll just teach A Level German, so when I’m fat and fifty, I can
try and fuck the lay-about in my fucking class!”

I ran. Down the hall, down the stairs, still clutching my backpack
in one hand and my t-shirt in the other. I didn’t care that my
torso was still exposed, I just had to get outta there. I ran
into the foyer, past the principal’s office, whe I heard…

“Nice day to try for a tan, Whytfield.”

“Sorry, sir,” I said, “I’ll put it back on.”

He heard me sniffing.

“Hey, who said put it on? Come on, Whytfield, into my office. You
can offload, I’ve got time.”

The principal smiled at me. I followed him into his office. He had
a massive polished wood desk, and lots of new furniture in corners
of the room. On his desk was a sheaf of papers in a folder, with
my name clearly written on it. I sat in the chair in front of the
desk.

“So, Oliver, what’s been going on to put you in this mood. The
Olly I know never cries!” he said, sitting in the big, padded
leather chair behind the desk.

“Nothing, sir.” I replied.

“Come on, Olly,” he said, “you know me better than that. You can
call me Dave, AND tell me what’s going on.”

“Grubenstein, sir… uh… Dave.” I replied, still sniffing, and
wiping my face with my t-shirt.

“Grubenstein, huh… That old whale,” he said, “Well, what’s he
gone and done this time? Nothing bad enough to make the great
Oliver Whytfield cry, surely?”

“Sir… Dave… He knows. About everything. About me. About the…
the stuff that’s happened. He heard the staff talking about me
in the staff room and…”

“…and he threatened expulsion, unless you gave him sex, right?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Arsehole,” said Dave, “Well, you’ll be glad to know there’s
something I can do. I can make sure he doesn’t. Now, I can’t fire
him, or else the things about my staff and you will come out. I’ll
get fired, he’ll get fired, the college will lose half it’s male
staff. But, I can stop him, rationalise with him. Maybe pay him
with sex if I have to…”

I didn’t even chuckle.

“Hey! That was a joke. Ah, Whytfield, you’ve got to trust me. It’ll
be fine. Don’t worry. Now, do you want to go? Or do you want to
sit here and calm down. I’m going to talk to Herr Grubenstein about
our little… misunderstanding.”

“I’ll stay here,” I said, pulling out my cigarettes, “Can I…?”

“Be my guest,” he smiled.

As Dave left, I wiped my face again, then lit a cigarette. I looked
at my shirt. The bastard had burnt a huge hole in it when he pulled
it off me; the cigarette had still been in my hand. There was a massive
burn mark in the front. Thankfully it was bright out, and the summer
sun had made it’s first appearance. The temperature was high. I could
wing it without a shirt. A few guys walking past the window were doing
it.

Looking across his desk, my eyes landed on the folder with my name on
it. I resisted the temptation, and went to look at the bookcase.
Browsing the spines, I finished my cigarette, and went back to light
another one. Bringing the lighter up, my eyes landed on the folder
again. I paused, then lit my cigarette, pulling back to the bookcase
again. I picked a book at random and read the blurb. Boring. Put it
back. Turned to look out of the window, wondering how long Dave
would take. He’d only been gone ten minutes. Maybe I could sneak a
look at the folder. I didn’t, and returned to the books.

Twelve minutes, another cigarette gone. I caved. Sitting back down
in Dave’s chair, I pulled the folder towards me and crossed my legs
under me. I opened it, and a few pieces of paper drifted across the
desk. They were photographs of me. Naked ones Dave had taken last
time I’d been with him. Except the last time I had been with him,
he ended it. Yet I was there, sprawled across some boxes in a store room
with a cigarette in one hand and my cock in the other, growling at
the camera. Another one, of my face while Dave had his cock deep in
me. There were about forty. Yet another one was of me licking the come
dribbling from the side of my mouth after I’d blown Dave off. The
last must have been his favourite. Naked, laid asleep on the floor,
and covered in come, my big, soft dick and full balls hanging up onto
my belly, a trail of come still coming from them. I had to admit, I
looked pretty hot. Then I heard the door at the end of the corridor
bang. Putting the photos back, I slid the folder back to it’s original
position and lit another cigarette. Dave came back in ten seconds
later.

“Sorted,” he said, smiling, “no problem at all.”

“Thank fuck,” I sighed.

“You’re welcome,” he joked, “Now, you sure you’re okay? You can stay
here a little longer if you want?”

“Yeah, I think I will. I want to calm down some more,” I replied.

“Okay,” he said, “but I have to get some work done.”

“That’s fine,” I shrugged, “I don’t mind.”

About twenty minutes later, I had gone through five cigarettes and
most of the magazines on Dave’s desk. I leaned back in the chair
and scratched my stomach.

“So… the sexual energy of a nymphomaniac on Viagra, huh?”

He laughed.

“Maybe I understated it a little,” he said.

I laughed this time.

“I miss it,” he continued, “the fun, and the risk of getting caught.
You were a hot little fucker. I couldn’t keep my hands off you.”

He stood, and went to the water tower in the corner of the room.
Pouring a glass of water, he continued,

“You had the tightest arse I’ve ever had the pleasure to fuck. You
could make me come with a look. It was amazing.”

“Had…?” I replied.

“Well, the risk was too great, you know that. And it was never
going to be love, was it? We aren’t exactly boyfriend material,
are we?”

“No,” I responded, “but we are definitely… magnetic…”

I stood and dropped my trousers, knowing how cheesy that line was.
Stepping out of them I walked toward him.

“You want to find out if this ass is as tight as it used to be?”

He said nothing. Putting down his cup, he dropped his jacket, and
untucked his shirt. His tie was next to go, followed by his shoes.
He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his muscular stomach and large
chest, covered in black hair with flecks of grey. He dropped the
shirt and picked me up, putting me on the desk and kissing me. He
dropped his trousers and then his briefs, before sliding off my
boxers and picked me up again, kissing me harder. I felt his dick
against my arsehole, and used my hands to guide it into place.
I felt the head of his cock stretch my arse as my back hit the cold
desk. He pushed in further and I wrapped my legs around his back,
my arms around his neck.

“Hard,” I whispered, into his ear.

I felt the pain and the pleasure I’d felt a thousand times before
as he pushed his cock in to it’s base. He was a big guy, and the
feeling on my prostate was ecstacy. Unlubricated, and unprepared,
he began to slam into me, his balls hitting me with every thrust,
my legs still wrapped around him. As he pounded me into the desk,
I heard his breathing get heavier, and saw him biting his lip, so
he wouldn’t scream. I lay there, my eyes rolling back into my head
as the guy in charge of my college used my arse as a punchbag for
his cock. I gripped the sides of the desk with my hands, trying
hard to not be thrust over the other side of it. With one big
hand on my arse, the other on my stomach, he squeezed the muscles
and grunted as I felt his cock began to gorge. Soon, he was squirting
load after load into my ass. The spurts were so strong I could feel
them up into my stomach. Then he was done, and I felt his mouth
on my dick. It immediately sprang to full attention, the thick shaft
and big head almost fully in his mouth. He didn’t have long to work
at it. He brushed my pubic hair with his nose, and licked the full
length of the shaft, before clamping his mouth over the head and
once again swallowing it to the base. I gripped his head as I came,
wave after wave after wave exploding into his mouth, filling it to
overflowing, before it dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin.

“Comes like an elephant,” I said as I left, “You can write that
on my report card.”

* * *

After that, Herr Grubenstein barely tolerated me. He began to
question me every lecture, asking me absurd translations and
stupid grammatical rules. I began to care less and less, and
now, I’m failing. One D on a report card full of A’s. My mum
was unimpressed, claiming that I was subscribing to Nazi
hereticism by failing to learn their language properly. But
it didn’t matter that much.

The week after my best friend got pregnant, I got an interview…

To be continued…

Thanks for reading if you made it this far – I know it’s long, but
when I read the shorter chapters, I often wish for more. Anyway, I
already know how the interview goes, and how he eventually gets in
to university, but if you have any feedback on WHERE you would like
to see him study, or any ideas for future plot developments using
something you liked from this chapter, feel free to e-mail me.

Please, praise is welcome via e-mail! I’ve written a few stories
before, and they never got praised!!

Also – e-mail me if you didn’t like it, or if something didn’t click.
Don’t be rude, but feel free to criticise CONSTRUCTIVELY!

Thanks,

Dylan Westwood

OliversArmy_TheStory@hotmail.co.uk