The Sunday Club

By: Nicholas Hall
(© 2022 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

nhall@tickiestories.us

Chapter 4
A Friend in Need

“Hardy, Uncle Billy indicated the two of you developed a reputation for being boys who were a bit on the rough side, you know, ruffians, so to speak!”

Jimmie’s question was one Eddie and I thought much about since the time, Uncle Billy told us about bashing the boy in the face with a metal wastebasket.

Hardy smiled, gave Uncle Billy a pat on his arms, reached forward to snag two more glazed donuts from the tray, one donut for each of them, continued with his still beautiful smile, and sighed,

“Actually, there were nine, total in our version of the Sunday Club.  Danny Taylor,” pointing at Skeeter, “joined up right after Billy blunted the kids face in first grade. In fact, in third grade some of the others chimed in and became part of our gang,” and pointing at each as he named them, “Patrick Moore, Moocher; Stan Carlson, Buzz; Russ Morgan, Sling;and Adam Donahue, (Sketch). Anyway, the main bunch of us were all together by sixth grade, except,, God rest their souls, Terry Jennings (Skip) signed on in ninth grade and your father, Johnnie Marchetti, when we were all, I think, in eighth grade.”

“Dan, Billy, and I formed the basis of the Club, much like Uncle Lou and Pudge Smith formed the basis of the first Sunday Club. Of course, we didn’t ‘meet’ on Sundays until some years later. That was reserved for Uncle Lou and his friends, although we often gathered with them on that day for various activities.”

“The day some of the others joined up,” interjected Uncle Billy, wiping the frosted glaze from the donut from the side of his face, “was a sad day, but yet a good day, if that makes any sense.”

Skeeter just sort of put his head down, wiggled in his chair, and shook his head in agreement and, yes, embarrassment. Skeeter still isn’t the type who likes to call attention to himself, preferring to sort of be the quiet type and let others lead.

It fell upon Uncle Billy and Hardy to reveal to us what it was concerning the day he mentioned.

“I’m reminded,” Uncle Billy said of a small quotation from Thomas Gray;

“To each his suff’ring all are men,
Condemn’d with  to grown,
The tender for another’s pain
The unfeeling for his own.”  

The slim, small, almost spare boy, his lower lip extended in sorrow, eyes filled to overflowing with tear droplets snaking down both cheeks, body, specifically his buttocks, racked with pain and destruction of his self-respect, his dignity, suffering from shame and embarrassment, raised his head and shoulders, looked about the room and settled his unhappy gaze on his best friends, pleadingly for their help!

“Skeeter looked first at Hardy, then, pivoting slowly, at me.”

 I knew what he wanted; “he was seeking relief from us, his friends, or at the very least, rescue from his current situation.”

******* 

Danny Taylor, now in grade three, was the closest of friends with Hardy and Billy from two days after the incident in First Grade when the two of them vanquished a couple of older bully boys by thumping one royally and frightening the other away when they tried to manhandle Hardy.

Danny thought the two boys, both bigger than he, would be the answer to his prayers. Smaller than most boys his age, although not much, his slight build, small waist and frame, and, yes, his engaging, attractive smile and quiet personality, made him vulnerable, even at his age.

One morning, as we were walking to school, Hardy pointed out Skeeter hustling down the sidewalk in our direction. We figured he wanted to walk with us. His school work and other items contained in a small cloth bag slipped over his head and shoulders, bouncing with each step the small boy took. Hardy gave me a nod and we waited at the corner for Skeeter to catch up with us.

Skeeter, it was soon discovered, thought we might be his friends since few others were. In fact, he had no friends to speak of! We knew where he lived and what it was like at home for him. I first noticed an occasional bruise on his face and, at first, attributed to some accidental fall or something. I later found out I was wrong.

Our elementary school offered lunches to all students. The lunch program was augmented by the passing of the Russell National School Lunch Act. Those students with limited income or considered poor, were provided lunches free or for paying a small fee. Other students could eat the lunches as well, but the price was higher. Almost all students in Frenchtown qualified for some type of lunch assistance.

The school had a small cafeteria, with a kitchen, where part of the meal was prepared while the entrees, prepared in another school and trucked in, were kept hot or warm until serving time. If a child didn’t want school lunch, he or she could bring a sack lunch, buy a container of milk, and eat in the cafeteria with the others.

Hardy noticed there were times Danny would eat hot lunch and other times not. He qualified for price reduction on the meals, but there were times he didn’t have the small amount needed and other times he did, usually a dollar bill for which he received the change. Then, for a while, he’d have the change needed for his lunch. Hardy and I had a hunch where the money came from, but we never asked. Really, we didn’t think there was a need to. When Skeeter would sleep over, he’d strip naked, slip in-between the two of us, turn his butt first to Hardy, grasp Hardy’s cock, and guide it to his asshole. After Hardy got his jollies, Skeeter would switch to me. We loved fucking his ass and he loved us doing it! Granted, our young cocks weren’t firing bullets yet, but we still were able to enjoy the sensation.

We started making it a practice to have an extra dime or two in our pockets to help out. If we carried cold lunch, Grandma always packed enough I could share.

Danny lived with his mother in a small house his father inherited from his grandmother. Although not from the area originally, when he married, he found work here and moved. Danny (Skeeter) was born in 1940. Unfortunately, his father was drafted in 1942 and came home in a box in 1944. They lived on a veteran’s pension and what she could earn waiting tables. Times could be pretty tough at times. She thought her boyfriend, when they first met, would make life easier by contributing to their income. Instead, he turned out to be a drunk and an abuser!

Danny was grinning, happy we waited for him and greeted us with a huge smile, and a “Hi yah, guys!”

I pretty much sealed the friendship when I put my arm around him, saying, “You don’t weigh as much as one of those skeeters (mosquitoes) along the river, except you’re a lot cuter. Bet your stinger is just as sharp though!”

From then on, we called him “Skeeter” and he answered to it. He was our constant companion after that. Where we went, he went, if he was able to get away from home, knowing we’d watch after him. No one would bother Skeeter once they knew Hardy and I were his friends. I guess nobody wanted their faces bashed in. If he could manage it, when his mom’s boyfriend would show up, Skeeter would spend the night with me. If the boyfriend showed up unexpectedly, Skeeter would suffer.

Life was never better, Skeeter thought than when he was with us. On those occasions when he didn’t have enough money for lunch, we’d have some extra. If Grandma Thompson happened to bake “too” many cookies, we made certain Skeeter had a bag full for himself. Clothing Hardy or I’d outgrow, Skeeter would be the first to try them on. If they fit, he wore them home.

It was the times Skeeter slept over or tried on clothes, we began noticing bruises and some abrasions on his back and butt! Skeeter made no comments and avoided questions at first. One night, cuddled between Hardy and me, he finally admitted the boyfriend was a drunk and a mean one! Skeeter would try to defend his mom from the abuse, but as small as he was, he became the target as well.

“It does ease some of the shit from happening to her,” he confessed. “The only way to really stop him is for Mom to let him fuck her! He generally passes out after that.”

The boyfriend didn’t live in, only came to visit every couple of weekends. He had some kind of a traveling job. Didn’t seem to pay a hell-of-a-lot since he didn’t kick any coin into the coffers.

On this particular Friday morning, Hardy noticed Skeeter walked as if his legs and butt were sore. When asked, all Skeeter would say was “he came home early and Ma was having her monthly “bloodies.” He got a bit rough!

“What’cha mean, he got a bit rough?” Hardy asked, concerned for his friend.

“You know, he sort of roughed me up!” Skeeter replied softly.

“Is that why you’re walking funny?”

“Yeh! Want’a see?”

With that, Skeeter stepped behind some bushes along the sidewalk so he’d be concealed from most public view, motioned us over, and carefully, and I mean really, carefully, slid his pants and shorts down baring his small ass for inspection.

“Holy shit!” Hardy exclaimed. “You got cuts and bruises on your ass cheeks and they’ve been bleeding. It must hurt like fucking hell!”

“They do!” Skeeter replied, suppressing a painful whimper.

I was as mad as a eight-year-old could be when I told Skeeter somebody ought to take a fucking whip to the son-of-a-bitch! If I’d have been older and bigger, I would’ve. However, an eight-year-old boy, a not very big one at that, is not much of a threat to a grown man, unless you have some sort of advantage, such as a knife or a gun.

Skeeter pulled up his pants and we made our way slowly to school.

We had a substitute teacher that particular day; a retired, older, crotchety woman recalled to service since there was such a shortage of teachers after the War. Our school wasn’t the most desirable place to substitute teach or to teach for that matter, since it was in a poor part of town dealing with poor kids. Granted, we were rough around the edges, relatively defensive, and sought not the wealth and snooty attitude other, more prosperous parts of the city, thought they had and deserved. Yet, our teachers, our regular ones, were great! They understood us, supported us, and did their very best to help us learn! We loved them; well, there were some we liked more than others, but all in all, they were our teachers and we respected them.

Anyway, Ms. Steinhaus, the substitute teacher and referred to as Ms. Stinkhouse by the boys in the upper grades where she oft times subbed, seemed to have some sort of penchant against boys. She’d been on Skeeter’s case since lunch; why I never knew. I just knew she was hammering away on him about something every time he wiggled in his desk seat.

I looked at Skeeter, suffering terribly being forced to sit on the hard wooden stool, knowing his ass hurt something terrible and not really understanding why the ancient fucker was punishing him, and decided I’d had enough! Skeeter was our friend and he was hurting!

I stood, without raising my hand, and said, “Teacher, Danny doesn’t feel very good right now so could you please not have him sit on the hard stool?”

She sort of snarled back, “No! Why shouldn’t he?”

I hesitated but decided to forge ahead. “Well, he got a whipping last night for something he didn’t do!”

With that Stinkhouse snorted, “Serves him right! He’d better behave and sit still in class, whipping or not!”

I really thought I’d been polite and kept my cool hoping the old battleax would relent, but it was obvious she wasn’t about to act with human kindness. It was then, at that early age, I just knew I loved Hardy! Really, really loved him!

Barely had her vicious words, admonishing me concerning Skeeter’s punishment been uttered, when Hardy stood, pointed an accusing finger at Stinkhouse and shouted,

“He didn’t get a whipping, he got beat on! Beat hard enough to hurt him and make him bleed! Don’t you understand or don’t you care?”

Stinkhouse, furious that a third-grader, voice still high and immature, smaller than she, would challenge her authority, stood from behind the desk, raised her hand at Hardy, and reaching for a wooden yard stick, screeched loudly,

“You, Mr. Smart-mouth, sit down or you’ll join the other little miscreant!”

Hardy smiled, closed his books, and smiling, announced, “No need to get upset about all of this and threaten me. I’ll just join him now,” and walked up front, like he was the King of Egypt, and joined Skeeter.

Man, that sent her into sort of a maelstrom of anger, her face turning red, spittle shooting from her lips, and in her tirade, hefted the wooden yardstick and started toward Hardy with every intention of walloping him with it!

Now, I just couldn’t let anything happen to my boyfriend! There was no wastebasket near me to use and, the rest of the class sat in silently in awe and anticipation, watching my every move! They knew, as small as I was, there was going to be hell to pay and Ms. Stinkhouse would be the recipient.

Stepping forward with a quickness which took her off of her guard so concentrated was she on delivering a telling blow to Hardy, she damned near fell on her ass when I grabbed the yardstick from her hand, broke it over my knee, and threw it on the desk. After doing so, I stepped into the corner to join Hardy and Skeeter. Quicker than you could say, “Well, kiss my ass and call me sweet lips,” Patrick Moore (Moocher), Stan Carlson (Buzzy), Russ Morgan (Sling), and Adam Donahue (Sketch), joined us.

Evidently, the movement of the entire class to the corner where Skeeter was ensconced, was the straw that broke the camel’s back or in the case of Stinkhouse, twisted a knot in her flannel bloomers, ‘cause she grabbed her over-stuffed black handbag and with a very snapped, “Hooligans, I’ll not come back here again,” and stormed out of the classroom.

Someone said, I didn’t see who but I suspected it was Buzz, directed wryly, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!”

One of the girls went to the office to tell the secretary our teacher left for the day. The secretary returned with her and announced she’d called the principal (we share one with another building and he was scarcely in our school) and those who lived within walking distance could go home, the others would have to wait in the cafeteria until the school bus arrived or a regular city bus which could take them home.

Duh! It showed how little he knew the students in his building. We all could walk home, especially in Frenchtown!

Hardy and I decided to take Skeeter, using the #18 City Bus, to Uncle Lou’s. It wasn’t that far, but we decided Skeeter really didn’t need to walk given the condition of his battered ass.

Uncle Lou was in his office and listened carefully, nodding his head at times, as he listened to Skeeter and us.

“Pull off your shirt and pants, Skeeter,” he instructed in a concerned, comforting tone.

Skeeter never hesitated one minute. He slid down his pants, shucked off his shirt, and turned his back to Uncle Lou for inspection.

One look at Skeeters small battered ass and back, and Uncle Lou shouted for Pudge to bring the first aid kit from the small apartment in the back.

“Right now?” was Pudge’s response from somewhere in the back.

“Right Now!” Uncle Lou demanded firmly.

“But, I’m bare-assed naked!” was the muffled response.

“Won’t be the first time these boys have seen a naked man,” Uncle Lou laughed.

He was right, although Skeeter had yet to see Pudge naked!

Pudge came out of the back apartment, naked as a jay-bird, and carrying the first aid kit. Pudge was overweight with a pretty good overhang on his gut, but not tremendous. Not that big, lardy, beer-belly you see sometimes on men; so big they have to poke their finger in their ass and shout “SNAKE!” to pop their pecker out! It, in our estimation, was just nice roof over a fat, stiff, stubby uncut cock!

“Sit down,” instructed Uncle Lou, “put Skeeter on your lap with his ass up and pointing in my direction!”

Pudge took one look at Skeeter, his face aghast, and snarled, “Somebody needs to be shot for doing this to this sweet boy!” and pulled Skeeter close to his chest, holding him and comforting him.

Skeeter sighed, whimpered a bit when Uncle Lou began cleaning the blood off of his ass, and rested his head on Pudge’s chest and lay there naked, skinny, little belly to naked, ample, hairy belly.

“Who did this?” Uncle Lou asked.

“Ma’s boyfriend!”

“What’d he use?”

“The buckle of his belt,” Skeeter sniffed trying to hold back tears.

Uncle Lou just nodded his understanding, while Pudge “tsked, tsked” and snuggled Skeeter closer. Skeeter’s arms and hands moved to his front and slid down Pudge’s ample belly until he found what he was hunting for, poking up and out from the fleshy roof covering it when soft. I knew when Skeeter got a good, delicate, yet erotic grip on that stiff, fat cock and began to stroke, because Pudge’s eyes got real big and he whistled “OH MY!”

Skeeter’s hard, uncut two-and-a-half-inch pecker slid up and down Pudges belly until I saw Pudge move a hand from Skeeter’s back to the front and heard Skeeter giggle.

As he worked, cleaning the wounds, applying ointment, and putting dressings where they were needed, Uncle Lou stopped, spread Skeeter’s ass cheeks, and commented,

“You been fucked, Skeeter! Did the bastard rape you?”

“Nah, I fought him and that’s what pissed him off.”

“Well, somebody’s been up your butt, and more than once.”

Skeeter sort of shrugged and confessed there were a couple of high school boys who liked to fuck him and gave him a dollar or two every time. He used it for lunch money so he wouldn’t have to borrow from someone.

“Turn him around, Pudge,” instructed Uncle Lou.

Pudge sort of lifted Skeeter to turn him around and I could see it coming! Skeeter had a mischievous grin on his face and winked at me! His pecker was twitching as he settled himself down on Pudge’s lap. When he did, Pudge swallowed hard, his eyes got really, really big, and groaned, “Sweet Jesus in the garden!”

Skeeter just settled Pudge’s fat cock up his ass!

Before Pudge could pump or Skeeter could bounce, Uncle Lou instructed him to get up and get dressed.

Skeeter, disappointed since he loved to be fucked but not near as disappointed as Pudge was, did as he was instructed.

“Now,” Uncle Lou said, “I want you to go home with Billy and spend the weekend. Next, I want you to quit letting boys fuck you to earn lunch money. You only fuck because you want to and with people you know. We’ll take care of that. Right Pudge?”

Pudge’s cock, still not wilted from a close encounter of the delicious, spewing kind,, nodded his head.

“Finally,” Uncle Lou informed Skeeter, “I want your Mom to call me. I understand her father was a baker and I’ll have a job for her, okay?”

Well, turns out she knew a great deal about baking, especially pies and other pastries. Uncle Lou added those and more to his menu. We also learned, later, Uncle Lou and a couple of members of the Sunday Club paid a visit to the boyfriend and gave him as good as he gave Skeeter, except they warned him if he ever came back to Frenchtown he’d have to sit to piss!

To be continued..

Posted: 04/08/2022