The Alexia Chronicles

Gerald Jr. & the Judge

Prologue

I.

The wizened old man sighed and grinned. Wrinkled sags symmetrically draped his toothless mouth. He flicked his tongue through smacking lips. Otherwise sad, blue-gray eyes brightened at a sight that made his heart leap.

A cock. Young, hard, hopeful, anxious. It belonged to the only-born son and namesake of Gerald B., attorney-at-law. They had history, the thirty-five-year-old father and the septuagenarian.

II.

That began twenty years before, during the afternoon of the annual Professions Day at Alexia High School. Students were treated to presentations in every class by people prominent in professions related to each subject under study. A chemist and a physicist in General Science. A biographer and a novelist in English. A tennis ace and a footballer in Sports Education. A statistician and a CPA in Mathematics. A councilman and a judge in Civics.

Gerald’s brother, Thomas B., two grades ahead of him, had surprised him with, “Pay attention to the judge.” Then, as if it actually mattered, “Pay close attention.”

Thomas seldom confided anything to Gerald, so Gerald did sit up straighter than his accustomed slouch.

The judge, the Hon. Clarence D., spoke broadly of jurisprudence – law, justice, duty, possibility for exceptions and the need for judgments of every factor. Other pros in earlier classes had shared stories of their work more or less well. But something about Judge D. was compelling. Inspiring, it might be said where generally-uninspired Gerald was concerned. A rare occurrence. During his allotted twenty-five minutes, the class’ visitor never failed to pause his gaze on the shy lad. Why, he smiled once or twice in Gerald’s direction. Their eyes met for a moment, a boost to the aforementioned attention.

Grown-ups seldom paid more than lip service to the boy. After all, he was of modest appearance and somewhat lesser accomplishment. Behind his back, in fact, some teachers used the uncharitable word ‘nebbish.’ Little notice came his way, that is, except for his newly acquired tendency to erect which evidenced itself every day. Throughout every day.

Awkward!

Not always hideable by book bag or jacket, it was oddly and suddenly large. A caprice of Nature, it stood prominent against the confines of outgrown, soft, faded jeans. A mystery to perplex any fifteen-year-old, especially Gerald.

Thomas had spotted the problem, one he had known. He sympathized. Not that they were close. Still, Thomas could not help but notice. At family breakfasts, Gerald fidgeted beneath the tablecloth. Holding anything in front, he hurried between classes at school. First in the lunchroom, he and his food tray would head for one of the farthest corners. Often last out or following any group that walked closely together. In bed at night, restless.

Thomas had overheard one of Gerald’s classmates say, “Hey, dig that tent.”

“Are you in the Scouts?” another had taunted. “You got the pole for it.” That guy stroked one index finger the length of his other. He and pals headed off, enjoying their razz of the clueless boy.

Their snickering shook Gerald’s innocence. True, boys had talked about puberty and how they “handled” certain phenomena. Alas, Alexia High being in the town it was, such potentially-inspiring subjects were shunted to huddles in which Gerald was not included. A kind of social rejection. Gerald just wasn’t “with it.”

Poor Gerald. Nebbish with a big dick.

His mother, in addition to nagging him about his chores, saw spots on his sheets and told him to talk to his father. More than once. Mr. B.’s sales job took him away a lot. When at home weekends, he was tired and unresponsive to nervous questions about the subject. Embarrassed really, because he did not know what to say. His own father had not told him. Gerald surely would figure it out just as he himself had (and, most likely, Thomas, who wasn’t as dense). A raised newspaper signaled that further discussion would not take place.

From his mother, Gerald received vague advice and several truisms about maturing and love and marriage and family. She cautioned about dating before his Junior or Senior year “because things can get out of control.” What exactly she didn’t say. And would not. People didn’t in the post-Eisenhower years.

Troubling, the way part of him woke up before the rest and wanted to stay that way. Troubling, that the more he fiddled with it, the more stubborn it seemed. The jack motion which every teenage boy discovers eluded Gerald’s earliest experimentation. After its discovery, the problem persisted.

Gerald wondered – every day, every damn day – whether there was a cure.

Thus it was an uncomfortable situation for the uninformed young fellow that particular afternoon. Was the judge looking down there, too? Could he see it?

Dismissed, the class streamed out the door. Gerald waited in hope to leave last.

The Hon. Clarence D. pretended the boy’s presence was a sign of interest. “Are you thinking of a career in the law?” he inquired.

“Uh, maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’m happy to answer any questions you have.” He gathered his papers into a well-worn briefcase.

“Uh, could I ask you why my brother wanted me to pay close attention to you today? He doesn’t usually say much to me.” Embarrassment showed, but Gerald had managed the question.

“Your brother’s name, please.”

“Thomas,” Gerald mumbled.

“Yes, of course, Thomas. ‘Tommy’.” Recognition broke an infectious beam on the judge’s face. “I’ve helped him with some problems. Fine fellow these days.”

Gerald showed apprehension. “Was he in trouble?”

“Not to the point of anything legal, rest assured. But, when he was your age, he might have gotten into – well, let’s say, he verged on delinquency.”

Surprised, Gerald frowned, “Um, okay. Really? What was it about?”

“Tell you what, why don’t we go over to my office? Just two blocks away. Here’s a bit awkward for personal topics.” He extended his hand for Gerald to shake.

With no way out, Gerald grabbed his jacket for cover as he stood to be gentlemanly the way his dad had told him was proper with grown-ups. He had advised solemnly, “Always shake a man’s hand like you mean it, son.”

One of the judge’s fingertips brushed the center of Gerald’s soft palm. Shivers went all over.

III.

Across the schoolyard grass and gravel, down the sidewalk, the two hastened, both in anticipation, if not of the same sort. His Honor, cheerful, confidant; Gerald, antsy, gullible.

Once behind closed doors, Gerald’s protective jacket was snatched adroitly away, “Here, let me hang this up for you.” Defenseless, the boy was distracted by the judge pointing to his framed diploma’s Latin proclamation: LEGUM DOCTOR. “See that? It tells you that I am also a doctor. I make diagnoses of all sorts of concerns, and have the authority to act on them.”

“What’s that got to do with my brother – or me?”

Rushes of words – the judge’s and his own – drew Gerald’s thoughts from his straining penis in favor of learning what had gone on two years before. The man’s ramblings were about to become specific.

The judge sat on his leather-topped desk’s front edge close to his nervous visitor. Simply, he touched Gerald’s erection, hard as it was in too-tight, old, frayed jeans, saying, “This is what gets boys in trouble. If not treated promptly, properly, it can lead to forms of juvenile delinquency. Did you know that?” he asked, rubbing the affliction.

“Gosh.”

“Thomas had this problem, not as severely as you do. And his father, yours too, wouldn’t help him with it. Bet it’s the same with you. But I did, and he’s a very good young man today.”

Sweat beaded Gerald’s brow. His throat clogged.

“It’s severe.” He rubbed harder. “You need my help. Shall I proceed?”

Visibly shaking, Gerald – riveted – nodded.

“Well, unzip, please. That thing needs air, out in the open.”

Gerald did not quite grasp the instruction, until the judge-doctor tapped him impatiently. Then quick about the task, immediate release of his trapped organ did not occur. He looked down.

“You mean, open my drawers, too?”

“Hell, boy, drop all of it, if you want me to check you out.”

“I just can’t.”

That the boy was a trifle bovine crossed the judge’s mind.

As abruptly as he had taken away Gerald’s jacket, the Hon. Clarence G., drool forming behind gritting teeth, undid a metal button, pulled down outer- and under-pants, to free six desperate inches and a pair of dangling, hyped-up teen testicles. The rude gesture took the breaths of boy and man. He grasped not the obvious, throbby, leaky thing but Gerald’s generous ballsac. No one’s hand ever having touched him there, a gasp rent the office’s quiet, legal ambience.

Without ado further than a croakily whispered, “Close your eyes,” Gerald felt something warm and wet washing, he thought, his cock. He dared not look. A force was gathering, possessing him. Like never before. One squeeze of his balls and a man’s mouth – it had to be the judge’s! – reached his small pubic patch to cause him to implode or to blow him apart. Gerald had no idea which. The hurt was marvelous! There would never be a way to describe his tottering climax. To cling for balance to the judge’s head was all he could do. Gradually, that head eased off with a slurp and his balls released.

“Breathe a little, son. You are far from being cleaned out. You’re still hard as when we started. Now stay put while I fetch something we must use.”

Vaseline.

Witless, the stunned fifteen-year-old watched his startling host dip a finger into the wide-mouth jar before he felt it probing him in the back. It circled the center just where he could be breached as the man’s roaming tongue’s rough taste buds touched to let him know what was coming: that amazing mouth, this time sliding to and fro as if as greased as the fingertip teasing his virgin’s ass. In seconds, he blasted again, uncontrollably.

Quite uncontrollably.

“Hmm,” he heard from afar, “that was better, wasn’t it?”

A positive mood was forming. Although his ankles were held captive by dropped garments, Gerald instinctively moved his knobby-kneed legs further apart for what he dully thought might happen next.

It did. In fact, more than expected.

The finger slipped bumpily – and annoyingly (at first) – in all the way and moved in time to what sucked his yearning erection. The third time worked proverbial charm. Less dramatic if no less productive, Gerald’s orgasm gurgled in the back of the judge’s benevolent throat just at the moment a sneeze seized him and jammed the boy further than before.

“Ack!” the judge harked his catarrhal cocktail.

Other sounds (that defy spelling) emerged. Paper towels for both, easily reached, cleaned appropriate areas.

At Gerald’s further uncertainty, the judge instructed him, “Raise your pants and tuck everything away.” He cleared his throat. “You early teens and your erections,” he said, shaking his head as if in disbelief, “are asking for trouble the way you aren’t under control. You require attention the way a leaky faucet does a plumber. That’s what I can do for you. It’s what I did for Thomas.”

“Can I ask why?” – adding, “Sir?”

“You may. Social concern, my boy. Out of goodness of my heart. I didn’t want him to suffer the indignity of showing up one day in my courtroom. Because I’m a doctor, I can prescribe a cure and provide treatments such as you’ve just had. And there’s no medicine involved, no injections with a hypodermic. You understand?”

As he caught on, Gerald squeezed his sphincter and asked in return, “You mean, I can come back?”

A glance at his calendar, the judge said, “Tomorrow, right after school. Be prompt.”

“What does it cost?” Gerald worried.

“My services are ‘pro bono publico.’ That means, for the public good.”

Their handshake – palm-fingered once more, this time with understanding – sealed the deal, a deal that relieved Gerald thoroughly in the days, weeks, and months ahead. To the expressed concern that more internal stimulus would improve his situation, the boy learned how to bare himself over the judge’s desk right off. Frequent visits accustomed him to judgmental penetration and to having his front parts fondled. Oral vacuuming sometimes preceded anal pummeling, sometimes followed it – depending upon on-site diagnoses based, he was told, upon the state of his erection. So successful were these expert treatments that Gerald fared better in the classroom, graduated successfully, went to college and eventually scraped through law school.

Average overall, he practiced simple real estate law – closings mostly – joined the local Chamber Of Commerce and Rotary Club, attended his elder sibling’s wedding in nearby Sheraton, soon thereafter married (on his brother’s advice) a modest young woman, produced a tyke – Gerald Junior – attended church with his family, taught a Sunday School class and, like his parents, sank into the routines of Alexia’s umambitious, middle-class mediocrity.

The Hon. Clarence D., encountered anywhere in town, always received a hearty handshake from Gerald Senior. The judge, ever with spring to his step, eyes agleam, aged over the years. With increasing frequency the recipient of plaques for community service (Alexia had the lowest juvenile crime record in the State) and various commendations on framed parchment paper for his pivotal role in the lives of so many locally-upstanding male citizens, Judge Clarence, as he was known to all, kept up his provision of services – quietly.

Quiet, too, his visits to Sheraton where one of his “graduates,” Jonathan W., DDS, replaced his teeth with bridges, then partials, and finally with full dentures. Sheer gratitude for the judge’s past attentions led him to charge a minimum. They occasionally tickled each other’s palms when shaking hands – for fun. Congenial memories recalled by “Jon-Jon” about all the cornholing that went on got muffled laughter from novocained-numb Judge Clarence. Departures brought a cheerful, “Keep up the good work,” as his honor headed from dental office to automobile.

One day, a chance meeting with Thomas B. in Woolworth’s led to cups of coffee in a booth away from the only waitress and to the introduction of a personal subject, his nephew, Gerald Junior, and the boy’s pubescent tendency – “Genetic, no doubt” – to inopportune erections. “We suffered from that. Both of us.”

“You did,” Judge Clarence agreed with appropriate cheer. “Your brother more than you. So, if it’s his son who’s suffering, why hasn’t he sent Junior to me? Is he coddling the boy’s deplorable condition? My, this coffee hits the spot.”

That question and others being answered led to a late-night telephone call. “That you, Gerald?”

“Why Judge Clarence, to what do I owe the honor?”

Ethlyn, Gerald’s wife and mother of his son, Junior, looked suspiciously from her crocheting. Certain rumors over the years had reached her from other women involved in church socials, sewing circles, Bible study groups, and the PTA. Usual conclusion, whispered, “It’s probably for the best.” Permed hair-dos always nodded in unspoken agreement. Some subjects were best left alone.

“I see. Thomas, you say? Well, he is a bit pushy. Always has been. I’ll look into it. Sure thing. Tomorrow. I’ll call you. Thanks a lot.”

“What was that all about?” Ethlyn wondered, dropping a stitch.

“Oh, a real estate deal.” He thought fast, “There’s a clause in a deed that’s tricky. The clause, not the deed, but I may be a little late getting home tomorrow. Can you make supper for us at 6:30 instead of 6:00?”

“Certainly, dear. I’m sure Junior won’t mind. He sometimes loiters after school anyway.” She noticed him scratch his brow, thinking. That was so unlike her Gerald that she thought to broach a distraction worthy of a serious scratch. “Darling?”

“Huh?”

“Could you…would you think about having a talk with Junior? Two of his teachers say he’s sort of ‘rambunctious’ these days.”

“Like not behaving? Late with homework? Bad test scores?”

“All the above, but worse – hanging out with those awful Collins twins.”

“Clarice and Collette?” At each syllable his voice sharpened.

“Those – if you’ll pardon my French – sluts, Maryanne says, are running with roughneck boys from Hope High.”

“Honey, what would they have to do with our Junior? He’s so much younger than they are.”

“Maryanne’s daughter, you remember Alicia, told her they think it’d be fun to corrupt him. ‘Corrupt’ was the word she used. Our boy! She even said something about seducing him with drugs.” A tear was wiped away. “Our nice Christian boy.” A tear from her other eye met its fate.

Angrily, Gerald paced. He fumed, “I know who they are.” More pacing. “The Hope town council’s Task Force on Youth met the other day over here with Judge Clarence and the Mayor. I heard from Millie, who took notes, those white-trash Croker boys and some of their trailer-park relatives have been doing all sorts of things with those girls – drop-outs, you know – things like shoplifting, snorting coke, even having sex. God knows what else.”

“Oh, no.” A forlorn expression in her husband’s direction sought an idea. Remarkably, one sprang fully-formed. A rare event. “Tell you what. I’ll pick up Junior when school lets out tomorrow and clue him in. Don’t you worry, my sweet. I’ll deal with this.”

“You won’t be harsh, will you? Junior’s at that sensitive age.”

They went to bed, where Gerald provided reassurance and proved unusually ardent.

IV.

Next afternoon, on the short drive from Alexia High toward Judge Clarence’s law office, Senior told Junior that he was in for the treat of his life. Parked around the corner, out of sight of passersby, the tenth-grader tried to concentrate on what his parent’s well-meant, stumbling sentences meant.

A few points registered. Scary at first; less so as they went on.

“You aren’t in trouble.”

“You don’t want to get into trouble, but you might.”

“Your mom and I know about your schoolwork.”

“We know there’re temptations out there.”

Suddenly, the kicker.

“Your Uncle Thomas is concerned, too. That’s why I’ve asked him to meet us.”

About that time, who should come walking up but Thomas B., elder brother of Gerald B., Sr., Esq. He had driven his ’57 Chevy all the way from Sheraton. “Hi, Junior,” he said leaning into the car’s open window. “Your dad’s super busy with a deal, so I’m here to take over – if that’s all right with you.”

“Sure.” Uncle Thomas had always been easier to talk to than his dad. Real friendly. Gave the best presents for birthdays and Christmas.

With his uncle’s arm hanging on one shoulder, Junior and Dad waved goodbye.

V.

No fear clouded Junior’s immediate disrobing before Judge Clarence. Shoes and socks first, jeans and underwear, then his pullover. Uncle Thomas had prepped his throb-ridden nephew with some chat, several questions, and private advice that readers might guess to be necessary.

VI.

Ruffling Junior’s hair, as always, drew an immature laugh and an effort to get away. Hugs resulted. Junior did his childish best to escape. Uncle Thomas slipped hands from shoulders to ribs and tickled the boy senseless in seconds.

“Gotcha!”

“I cry ‘uncle,’ Uncle!”

“Fine, ’cause we’ve not got much time. Is your dick hard?”

A stricken look from the boy was met by, “Of course it is. That’s why you wear baggy pants and two pairs of jockeys, isn’t it?”

“I….”

“Never mind. I know. Our family’s got a ‘curse,’ or a ‘blessing.’ Your dad and I, we don’t know what to call it. We guys grow big way before other boys. I did. Your dad did. And now, you. You think about it all the time. Admit it. That’s why you’re so lousy at school, am I right? Don’t answer. And that’s why you’re letting yourself be drawn into the group with those trashy twins, isn’t it? You think they accept you.”

Junior put his head down, whispering, “They said they’d, you know, put out.” A hand went to his crotch to move unseen inches – seven of them – slightly to the right where they faced less obstruction.

“I’m waiting. What else? Did they actually do anything?”

“They felt me down here.”

“You got all hot?”

He hung his head, “They laughed at me. Said I was a freak.”

“For touching you?”

“I came in my pants.”

“Quick-triggered, are you?” Junior received a friendly hug.

When he realized what that meant, Junior snickered, “Yeah.”

“Masturbate a lot?”

Uncle Thomas being easy to talk to, the boy said, “Sometimes I cum if I rub up against a tree or tripping like the other day over one of Dad’s slippers and smashing this,” he stroked himself, “on our ottoman. Happened just like that – fast! Am I sick or something?”

“No, you’re really healthy. Now answer me about masturbation. How often?”

“I don’t know exactly. Every time I can, I guess, when nobody’s around.”

Hugged again, this time more familiarly, Junior was told, “Today’s your lucky day. Your opportunity. That spark plug of yours is going to get to fire in a new way that’s safe.”

His butt was patted. “What?”

Thomas B. filled Junior’s ears with necessary details of the town’s tradition of service to teens troubled by the “pestilence of puberty.” Just like that, food for thought. Hair on the boy’s neck prickled.

VII.

Junior looked forward to the mouth of Judge Clarence. What he did not imagine was what his trusted Uncle Thomas himself must not have known. It was that the judge’s teeth were removable. In fact, as he bared himself to the old man’s view, a pair of matched artificial plates went into a tumbler of clear water, allowing wrinkled lips to smack together.

Startled, Junior wished he had not seen that. Made the old guy look way older, but his eyes twinkled brightly. The high schooler’s toes contracted on the nubby carpet. But, the moment those lips slipped warmly past his mushroom cap and gums took hold of his over-eager tumidity, Junior’s spark plug went off.

Bony fingers poked his sides to goose him crazily as he shot load one over the solicitous tongue. Five rapid splats. With only a few moments to brace himself against new twirls of the tongue and greedy gums that claimed another inch, load two followed quickly in a frenzy of trembles neither could count.

To induce load three, Judge Clarence put a finger through his gums into Junior’s as yet un-ingested recent deposit and directed it – by design, experience, and what now was intuition – to the most ticklish spot any boy has.

Junior jerked in response only to feel his balls being sucked – whole – into a vortex no teen could resist. “Please,” he gasped, “gimme a break.”

The judge swigged down the latest. “Not a chance. You’re supposed to be hot all the time. Or, are you chickening out with me?”

Breast bone heaving, Junior begged, “Please.”

“Nonsense, my good chap. You haven’t even lasted long enough to nudge my uvula.”

“I want to, I guess. I want to, but….”

“Well, hang on a minute, let me see what’s going on in here.” His spermy finger darted through Junior’s sphincter – the first object from outside ever to visit those humid premises – and found the boy’s not-yet-squishy prostate. Junior’s arms flew out, nearly knocking over the tumbler of false-teeth. Probed, alarmed, he wobbled on tiptoes. Finger followed form as Junior necessarily settled back on secure heels.

“Dang! What’s that for? It hurts.”

“A little massage here and another scrotal suck ought to fix you,” the judge’s voice broke through Junior’s confused state.

“Oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god!”

Sure enough, the unprecedented stimuli raised Gerald Senior’s flagging son once more to the brink of eruption. The mouth tugged possessively on Junior’s tight ballsack while the arthritically bony knuckles of the Hon. Clarence D. demonstrated the neural superiority of anal action properly employed in producing climactic results. Even of the fatigued. Thus, load four.

Junior’s youthful howl sounded like that of some solitary wolfling calling on the moon. What had remained inside, now outside like so much spit, cascaded straight against the judge’s brow, some to his bald head – and trickled down wrinkly paths from which it was wiped with appreciation.

His teeth back in, the judge’s diction lisped less, “Not so salty as earlier. We’re getting somewhere, Junior.”

The judge gestured solicitously toward the desk top, “Lie back, let your legs hang down, and take a rest. Your grade’s a B+ so far.” He bent to fetch something from a small refrigerator.

Not smart (or conscious) enough to think his position one of indignity, Junior basked in the aftermath of Judge Clarence’s treatment. His inches lay limply aside. He was content to remain sprawled on his back, eyes at the ceiling, wide awake. As his breath stilled, he flexed his newly activated sphincter, in blurry wonder at what it had done for him. This might have been a more defining moment than it proved to be had not the judge brought a glass of cold orange juice and told him to sit up.

“This’ll get your strength back.”

Gratefully, Gerald, Jr. emptied the glass, his Adam’s apple pistoning rapid swallows. A burpy belch scored teenage satisfaction. What could he say?

The judge was chucking his chin affectionately when Junior asked, “Were you saying something about grades?”

“Everything’s about grades, young man, at your age. You’re making Cs at school, aren’t you?”

“Mostly,” he hung his head in shame.

“Did you like hearing that, here, you’re already at B+ level?” The nod was studied. “Let me clarify. You got a C for your first squirt, a C+ for the next, a B- for the third, a B+ for what you just did. Understand? All right then, we’re aiming for an A+ today. That means you need an A on your next step up.”

Gerald nodded again.

“Think PTA,” the judge said. “Not your mother’s Parent-Teacher Association. What my patients and I call our PTA – “Progression Towards Achievement,” he laughed and drew a P, a T, and an A in the air. “It’s a personal crusade, you might say.”

Sensing reluctance, doubt, or resistance forming, the man, now respectably showing his mouth full of teeth, smiled, “When you get an A+ from me, you’ll start making better grades elsewhere. Your dad did. Your uncle did. And they are locally successful men today. You can be also – at school and later on. You meet my standards and this” – he flipped the boy’s cock – “won’t distract you like it did.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Stay where you are. Lift up your legs. Higher. Like that. Hold ’em wider. That’s it.” Two fingers went into the Vaseline. Soon, they circled the exposed spot. “Okay. Take a deep breath and when I say so, let it out in a whoosh.”

Junior did. Both. When said fingers wedged as deep as they could, his whoop of discomfort

needed the judge’s other hand gentling his stomach. “There, there, you’ll be fine. Just go with the flow.” He fondled the shrunken member and held it out of the way before moving his tongue to Junior’s testicles. The boy’s twitches of sensitivity thrust him about on well-lodged fingers.

“Ungh!” and “Ow!”

Not about to risk his advantage, Judge Clarence sagely removed his teeth and went for the whole package. Junior’s head thrashed in reflex. Hardly was he aware that two greasy fingers were opening him to new excitement. No let-up occurred. Those parts, previously known as his privates, responded, spurred by the judge’s release of both boyish eggs and seizure of the growing penis. Four inches became five, six, and – after some major sucking – seven again.

Tensed muscles relaxed. Junior raised his head from the desk to see for himself what he knew was finally happening. The judge had his cock down…that reason-defying…constricting throat. Judicial nose buried in Junior’s pubic hair nuzzled the area like an animal. Holy cow! – formed silently (if not strictly analogical)

The face-forward old man and his totally-buried fingers thrusting back and forth may have had Junior in physical lockdown but the action was skyrocketing irresistible desire to cum. Minutes, not seconds, clocked by. Whole minutes of ecstasy. In his slight chest thumped a young heart being pushed to its limits. The enormity of what was happening to the tenth-grader managed to register as the flash of orgasm blotted out everything.

VIII.

Prodded into producing his sperm five times in two hours, Junior was ready to call it quits. He could hear the Hon. Clarence G. using the office lavatory. “Never be rude to law enforcement,” he recalled his dad telling him, once pointing to a policeman. Surely, that included a judge. “Err on the side of caution,” was another piece of fatherly advice to heed. However, the urge to accept his present A and to say a thank-you before darting for the door kept the boy perplexed. And where were his clothes? So, he lay where he had been, on his back across the judge’s desk – drained, thinking.

“Don’t get all tangled up trying to second guess this chance, Junior.” The judge dried his hands on a towel. “You’re a kid in distress,” he said, walking close. “What we’ve done today, up to now – together – is not enough for you to have a totally smooth day at school tomorrow. Want some more juice?”

Junior sat up to receive what was offered. A protein bar appeared, already opened. Nuts, fake chocolate, and let’s-pretend sea salt – a combination he liked with his orange juice. How did the judge know? Before he could rationalize further, he was directed to stand to nibble and sip. Hands roamed shoulders, spine, buttocks bringing back circulation. “Shaping you up,” was the observation. “Conditioning, you know.”

“Finish up, now. Stretch a little. Good enough. I’ll take the glass. You lean your elbows forward on the desk and spread your legs for me. Wider. That will do. Hand me the Vaseline.”

Too late to back out, but not to back up, Junior learned the meaning of what Judge Clarence termed “a dairy job – milking.” Why, two fingers greasier than before ground through his slippery pink hole and what the judge called “Mrs. Palm and her five daughters” – fully clothed in petroleum jelly – enclosed the novice’s flaccid member. “The way this works is for you to push against my fingers then to ride forward while I hold my hand still. Try it.”

Tentatively, young Gerald tested the two moves. Unsure of his role, he feared moving too much. It wasn’t bad, though.

“Come on, make us both proud, Junior. All this is for you.”

“Can I work up to it?” a timid voice asked.

“You can. … Feel how warm you’re getting. … How sexy it’s making you feel. … Ride my fingers, boy. … Uh-huh, that’s better. You’re gaining courage. … It’s manly to take control like this,” he added, “with my help.” … “What’s that I feel? Your penis hardening again? … Yes!”

Quickening the exercise improved moods, heightened sensations, and produced more encouragement. Junior’s pelvis slammed to and fro. Breathing grew shallow. He was going to make it. Load six was on its way.

The Palm family jumped about, the two fingers twisted partway, and the celebrity in charge – his community’s pride – deployed his tongue strategically on Junior’s balls. All together. Junior detonated, dick first, into the puddle he had just made. After a while, he wheezed, “I did it.”

“Let me correct you, we did it.”

His, “Yes, sir,” was full of conviction.

IX.

More relaxed than he had been since his “unwholesome condition developed” (Hon. Clarence D.’s term), Gerald, Jr. walked giddily away, a goofy smile on his blushing red face. He hoped Uncle Thomas’s Chevy was still where he parked before. It wasn’t but, thanks to a quick call from Judge Clarence, was approaching. The sight for the driver was too much. Thomas covered his mouth to hide gathering mirth. A marionette on loose strings would look no sillier. Was his nephew drunk? Surely not. No minor ever got alcohol from the judge. That would be intolerable, even criminal, possibly abusive of the underaged. Unthinkable.

Thomas pulled over to a crumbling, nearby curb.

Junior stumbled toward Thomas’ open window with a wide-eyed, “Hi.”

He held up his left palm on which was inscribed a bold, green A+. “Know what it’s for?” the boy cheekily asked, barely able not to blurt the answer.

“Get in the car, Junior, before you fall down.”

“Look, he graded me here so when I’m in school writing my quiz tomorrow, I can ‘look at it and be inspired.’ I’m right-handed, you know.” He slumped onto the seat, regarding his grade. The best he’d ever made. “I’m not gonna wash it off.”

Thomas revved up his engine, muttering, “If that don’t beat all.” Then, to Junior, “I better get you home.”

“Yeah, I gotta hit my books.”

X.

En route, out came some startling quotes. Junior had remembered!

“He said I have no time for ‘trivial pursuits’ with that, and he pointed right here,” indicating his crotch. “He said he was here for me as long as I put my mind on schoolwork. He said, ‘Real work. No cheating.’ He said, ‘Every grade must show my interest in being free of’ – this thing.” Junior interrupted his quotes to point down for the second time. Excitedly, he began again, “It was ‘making demands’ on me that were ‘unfair.’ Uncle Thomas, he said I ‘could be important one day’ like you and Dad are in our town.”

“So,” Thomas pulled into Junior’s family driveway, “how’s this to be accomplished?”

Junior turned a blank face to his uncle, “Don’t you know?”

Thomas gasped, incredulous at the achievement.

With more confidence than Thomas had seen the boy display, Junior whispered a couple of sentences in his ear, thanked him with a handshake (a newly-acquired stroke of the teen’s finger to his uncle’s palm – Yikes!) and a smile, closed the Chevy’s door without slamming it, and waved as he pulled away. Quite the sight, Junior bounding across the lawn, happy.

XI.

Ethlyn B. liked what she saw going on in her house. She liked her husband helping Junior after supper with homework – not all the time but often. She liked how Junior got up bright and early ’most every weekday, eating his breakfast and drinking a cup of coffee with milk (sometimes two cups) “like Dad does,” then heading off ahead of time with his book bag over his shoulder. Things certainly had changed. She did not mind her son’s sleeping late on Saturdays although she thought it an offense how he wanted to skip Sunday School and Morning Services at their church more than not.

“Let him be, darling. He’s improving in everything else. Maybe he just needs what kids call ‘some space’.” Gerald, Sr. would say such while creasing his newspaper and settling into his armchair. His flattery got to her every time, “You’re such a good Southern mom.”

His home life improved, Junior certainly felt comfortable there. Mom in a good mood, Dad, too. No more spots on his sheets. He was even better about doing his chores.

Life at Alexia High required a lot more of him. To move from ‘so-so’ to ‘good’ took a while. But people noticed. This girl, that guy. Miss Jo-Will H., his homeroom teacher, mentioned his progress. The Principal, who was nearing retirement, stopped him in the hall after midterms to verify that he was Gerald B., Jr.

“Yes, sir.”

Tall, imposing in his suit and tie, he leaned to Junior’s closest ear, “Seeing the judge?”

Junior’s armpits grew damp. He shook his head timidly up and down but dared not look up.

“Lucky you, following in your father’s footsteps. Keep that to yourself. He’ll keep an eye on you.”

“I know,” Junior perked up. Almost said aloud what he was thinking, “He keeps his teeth out for me.”

XII.

EPILOGUE

In both of his final years at Alexia High, Junior’s body grew an inch taller, his penis an inch longer. The latter, at three-quarters of a foot, troubled him occasionally, the judge not at all.

In jest, the judge called Junior, “My biggest patient,” while Junior called the judge, “Doc.”

Mornings before school, rain or shine, the two met to tackle Junior’s problem. When theirs was more time after classes and club meetings, but especially on Sunday mornings, they bonded. Scrapbooks were opened upon newspaper clippings, postcards, class photos and Polaroid snapshots, Christmas and Easter cards, birthday cards and notes, wedding invitations, birth announcements – you name it. The Hon. Clarence D.’s ‘pro bono publico” work had helped direct the lives of so many “young gentlemen.”

Perhaps theirs was a kind of love. Certainly, adolescent emotions played their part without being spoken. Talk wasn’t necessary. They just did what they needed most. No doubt about that.

On the judge’s side of the equation, there was Junior’s whopper to consider as well as his by-now nubile ass. Young Gerald could really take a thorough cornholing. He took to it, too.

On the patient’s side, there was his never-failing appreciation of Doc’s thirsty, all-consuming mouth. Its specialized knowledge of every inch of Junior’s cock and pendulous balls both kept him on the straight and narrow in the years leading up to graduation and provided thrills no girl’s mouth ever did when dating started. Junior’s Sophomore-year introduction to cornholing logically had followed Doc’s fingerings of outer ring and inner nut. His Junior year provided experience and practice in the judge’s office with some mail order items. With Doc’s personal, spearing perusals of his bottom, Junior’s receptivity and productivity set new records.

“It’s just the same in math when both sides of an equation equal each other: I give you my upper cavern, you give me your lower one. We balance like what Asian people call the Yin and the Yang. Look it up,” the doctor donned his teeth after a satisfying match that curled all twenty of their toes.

Plain Gerald to his classmates, Junior came into his own as a Senior. Voted “Most Progressive Student,” his new-found popularity served a project he had in mind for the graduation ceremony. “Dad thinks it’s a good idea, so does Uncle Thomas,” he told Alexia High’s bantamweight wrestler/boxer, Jory Beau W. “Could you ask your dad about it?”

Curly-blond Jory Beau drawled, “Ah don’t have to. He’ll git on board. Plus, he knows lotsa people. Didn’t you see how many old guys like him came to my last bout?”

“Yeah, they really were behind you.”

If the blow to his shoulder had landed even a grade level before, Gerald would have been floored, literally. More solid now, he took it as a form of play, especially when Jory Beau laughed, “You oughta know. You’ve been behind me a lot, too.”

It was true.

Jory Beau, muscles and all, had been a protégé of the judge’s coming along after Junior. Neither was aware of the other until the recent Summer. In fact, the morning of July 4, when he could have slept in, Junior decided to pay a surprise call on his mentor at home. He strode to the address he knew so well, opened the kitchen door – almost never locked –and walked softy across linoleum and over living room wall-to-wall to the bedroom. Without pause, he pushed on the slightly-ajar door and walked in on a ramrod performance by the Hon. Clarence D.’s frisky dick.

Whoever lay underneath was small enough to be obscured by casually tossed bedclothes. He was moaning in time and pumping his only visible part against clockwork thrusts. Impressed, Gerald thought, “An ass like ivory bowling balls. Looks like….”

He was noticed. No chance for guilt – because, as the judge pummeled deep, he looked over, “Why you’re just in time, Gerald. Jory Beau’s right at the point when he needs what you’ve got.”

“Jory Beau, that you under there?”

“Hi, Gerald. Been hearin’ ’bout you, ’bout your big one. Wanna lay into me? Judge says I’m a natural talent, only I ain’t been all-the-way, proper-like, yet.”

Not in the least phased, not even winded by the pounding he was receiving, the pint-sized star athlete twanged, “Aw, c’mon, help a friend out.”

Instantly acquiescent, haste apparent, Gerald threw his apparel wildly there and yon. His shirt festooned a chair, his sandals plunked upon the room’s old-fashioned hearth, his pants landed on one of the bedposts, socks on an unlit lamp, and his jockstrap close to Jory Beau’s face. But Jory Beau took no notice of anything except the already risen club-like weapon jutting from his mild-mannered buddy’s body.

“SHIT!”

“Not at all,” the judge said, pulling out. “You’re clean as a whistle.”

Gerald stared.

“Get over here and let me get you ready. New stuff,” he held out an uncapped tube. “Silicone gel. Sure does slick things up. Lasts forever.”

Gerald squeezed eyes and pelvic muscles to avert the onset of feelings that formerly curtailed his pleasure. Lubricious lubrication provided by skilled hands did not distract his attention from the classmate on Judge Clarence’s bed. Jory Beau’s feet and hands cleared away the covers, leaving his chiseled body, spread out face down on a pure white, still tightly-stretched, fitted, cotton sheet.

“Doc-to-Patient, anyone there?” the judge took hold of Gerald’s sensitive scrotum.

“Yes, sir.”

“That one’s real sweet. Take your time,” he spoke as if Jory Beau were out of range. “Go easy, not all at once, y’hear? I’ve got some things to take care of, so mount him careful-like and you’ll both enjoy the ride. Don’t you let loose until he tells you he’s had enough. I mean it.”

In Jory Beau’s direction, he mimicked the boy’s manner of speech, “This ’un’s always rarin’ to go. When you want what he’s got stored up, let him know; postpone his gonad flush – you know what I mean – postpone it as often as you think you can get away with; and, if you want a second load and can stand it, then use your insides. Provoke ’im further. Sport with ’im. He’s yours to play with. Same as you, he needs experience.” For emphasis, he repeated, “Same…as… you.”

Briefly from the doorway, the Hon. Clarence D. added, “Call if you need me.”

Any question of love aside, thus began the repeat of a tried-and-true ritual that had to be initiated before each final high school year if separation of boys and their dependency on the judge ultimately were to go smoothly. A kind of weaning before any of his special boys could go out in the world beyond Alexia – for jobs, additional schooling, whatever. Two such as Gerald and Jory Beau, or three in a bumper year, had to be made seamlessly dependent on each other and less and less on Judge Clarence. The air had to be cleared. Kept things simple. No ties.

Besides, there were hopeful dads jockeying for their troublesome, Sophomore boys to “git in” with the judge. His next “starting class.”

The reader now sees why Junior, Jory Beau, the fathers of both, Junior’s uncle, Sheraton’s dentist, and other men were corralled into supporting the unusual tribute which highlighted the awards portion of the current edition of Alexia High’s graduation ceremony.

No one present ever forgot the moment. There gathered, center-stage, in front of the choir, and before a packed auditorium, the Chairman of the Board of Education, the School Principal, the Mayor, and the Police Chief. Right on cue, the newly minted Most Progressive Student entered from stage left carrying a small scroll and, from stage right, came the newly proclaimed Athlete of the Year with an extra cap and gown over his extended arms.

“Fellow students, Parents, Alums, and Officials,” announced Gerald, Jr. in a clear, well-paced voice, “we gather to recognize the lifelong contribution to the well-being of our town by the man seated in the middle of the front row, a man you all know as Judge Clarence. We invite him to the stage.”

Flabbergasted, Judge Clarence barely heard the applause as he stood, shook out his rather old suit, and walked up the steps – wondering what those rascals were up to. In place between Jory Beau and young Gerald, he waited.

“You have had many honors over the years,” Jory Beau told the crowd in the best voice he could muster, “but we want you to have the finest we could think of.” Perfect diction.

Gerald chimed back in, “While my friend Jory Beau, our Athlete of the Year, helps Judge Clarence into his cap and gown, it is my honor to offer His Honor,” he started to laugh but got control, “this diploma, making him officially our classmate and Alexia High’s Alumnus for Life. Please, sir, accept it as a token of our gratitude.”

Against the ruckus of crowd noises – feet stamping, hand clapping, people whistling – the band’s effort at “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” – even mostly in tune and with the right notes – went unnoticed except by those onstage. Judge Clarence cried and hugged everybody in sight for what seemed minutes. Eventually, signaled by the Principal, a drumroll called for order.

Everyone was invited for refreshments in the school gym before the recessional was announced.

A repeat of Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance,” the only piece the band always played well and, at this point, swiftly, accompanied the stage load’s somewhat untidy exit and that of the mob.

A group of mothers including Ethlyn B., Maryanne T., Helene N., Nora Sue W., and several others active in the PTA (Parent-Teacher Association), various sewing circles, and in one or two Bible study groups gathered with cups of that old standby, 7UP-and-orange-sherbet punch. Sipping the sweet, foamy stuff now and then, they looked on skeptically, indulgently at the many men – their husbands among them – gathered around Judge Clarence, slapping him on the back, shaking his hand, hugging him.

“Well, I never,” said someone indignantly.

“The Mayor. The Police Chief. Haven’t they heard the rumors?” said another.

Ethlyn, it turned out, smiled and said to Nora Sue, Jory Beau’s mother, “It’s probably for the best.”

Both permed heads nodded.