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Simon and the chimney stack


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Simon and the chimney stack

by Camy

I'm not sure where to begin with this tale. Perhaps I should point out that it actually happened: because it did. But then, so many years have passed by since, my memories are likely warped: and so a real event becomes fictional. The bottom line is that it doesn't matter. If I embellish, who, except the protagonists, are to know?


When we met, Simon was helping the removals men move his family into a house around the corner from mine. It was an instant friendship. He was twelve, and I was a young thirteen. It seemed that he crashed through puberty almost as soon as he'd unpacked, and I'd like to think it was me that threw him through the door, but it probably wasn't. He had staunchly Catholic parents, was taught by Monks at a well known boys' boarding school, and a year later, during the summer holidays, he taught me what he'd learnt - assume an overly large, yellow, shit-kicking smiley emoticon, here.

The first time we 'played' - believe it or not, it makes no difference to me - was on the roof of the house, behind the chimney stack. Simon had arrived just before lunch, and after charming my mother, as he always did, he'd whispered 'I've got something to show you.'

I followed him upstairs to my room, watching his bum in his new pair of jeans. I was expecting him to produce a new Scalextric car, or the latest Batman comic. I positively wasn't expecting his hand to stretch out and grab my cock. Instantly, I was wide eyed and hard - assume 'as a rock', because I was, and more.

"This is the best, Algy!" he said, gently squeezing me. ?You'll love it!? Time seemed to slow and I was aware of a plethora of feelings. Primarily there was a flood of blindingly awesome amazement emanating from around my cock. Trying hard to beat it into a pulp was guilt. Guilt, intermingled with nervous misapprehension. This was bad, this was wrong. I knew it, but it felt so good: how could it possibly be wrong? Simon was my friend, as I was his. So why did I think what we were doing was wrong? And why was it bad? Almost overloading on the clash of input I became aware of the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window: backlighting Simon's curly brown hair. His strawberry lips and sweet elfin grin seemed to say 'everything's okay'; a warm glow of happy rightness suffused me, pushing away the feelings of guilt and making me want to melt into him.

Time and common sense re-asserted itself. Stuttering with indignation and wide eyed, I backed away, the wondrous feelings from below feebly vying with the outrage I felt at his cheek.

"Y ... yo ... you can't do that!" I squeaked, half wishing my obvious boner would go, and half wishing he'd do it again.

"Why?" He backed off a bit, and stood like Pan with hands on hips.

"Wh ... why?"

Leering piratically, he thrust his groin at me.

"Yeah, duh! Why? You haven't become a saint, have you?"

"Na, got flung outa the choir." I fired back, pleased with my quick wit. "But it's ...."

"Wrong?" he interrupted, and as I nodded he launched himself at me, his momentum catching me off guard and throwing us both onto the bed with a thump. Simon was atop, and astride me, and I could feel his cock crushed against mine. Slowly he wiggled; grinding us together, laughing good naturedly at the moans I couldn't seem to control. Then he bent over and whispered in my ear: ?How can this be wrong, Algy, how can it possibly be wrong??

"Boys!" My mother called from downstairs. "Whatever it is you're doing, stop it, and come down to lunch."

"Oh Mum!" I called out, though it sounded more like 'oh-mumeeek!' as he wiggled again.

"I told you before Simon arrived. You can't just do whatever it is you're doing. There are going to be some rules this summer, and the first is that you have to come and eat when it's mealtime." There was a pause. "And what was that crash ... what on earth are you two doing?" Laughing and bumping shoulders, we went down to the kitchen for sausage, egg and chips.

The table in the kitchen was long and narrow. My parents sat at either end, and Simon and I sat opposite one another in the middle. My father had said a desultory Grace, and I was on my second forkful when Simon's foot arrived in my lap, his big toe unerringly finding, and stroking my cock. I nearly choked, went bright red, and decided two could play the game. I 'heal and toed' out of my plimsolls and giggled as Simon squeaked.

"Behave, please boys," my mother said, then sniffed, her eyebrows twitching. "What on earth is that smell?" she said. My father, who as usual, was reading a long and probably very dull report, glanced up.

"Oh, more than likely it's the drains, dear. Would you mind calling a plumber?" He sunk back into his report as my mother sniffed again.

"No I don't think it's the ... it's feet!" She said, glaring at me. ?Algy!?

"You git!" I said as we went back upstairs after jelly and cream. "I've never had smelly feet." Simon shrugged, his eyes roaming over my body a mirror to mine roaming over his.

"Sorry," he said as he closed the bedroom door. "So Algy ... whadda ya want to do now?" He waggled his eyebrows as his palm cupped my groin. I became rock hard again.

"I want," I started firmly then petered out. I didn't know quite what I wanted except I wanted it immediately, if not sooner. "Roof." I said.


"Yeah, behind the chimneys. It's the only place we'll be secret."

"Roof it is then."

We climbed up onto the roof through the window in the mezzanine bathroom. Behind the chimney stack in a valley where two roofs met was a flat area, just large enough to hold us both, and out of sight of everyone - unless they climbed to the top of the big lime tree. Birds saw us, and maybe people with binoculars from passing planes, but honestly, I didn't care.

That day was the start of something. A burgeoning. Simon showed me things I'd never dreamed of. He showed me things I'd be fucked up about for years to come. For all of it I'd like to say cheers! Wherever you are Simon, cheers mate!


I wrote this after reading Bruin Fisher's most excellent 'Boarding School' series.

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Algy? I could picture Camy as a Rupert or a Cholmondely but Algernon?

Lovely evocative story. Must have been an interesting house, did it have a disused upstairs room with a wardrobe in it?

Camy pulls it off once again - if you know what I mean - enchanting his audience with a little gem. Why? What else did you think I meant?


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Delightful Camy. I love the memories alongside the vivid fresh images.


This is the only near reference I can find:


From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Cholmondeley (pronounced /ˈtʃʌmli/, as if it were written Chumly) can refer to:


Cholmondeley, Cheshire, a village in Cheshire.


Alice Cholmondeley, a pseudonym used by Elizabeth von Arnim for the publication of her book Christine.

David Cholmondeley, 7th Marquess of Cholmondeley (b. 1960), the Lord Great Chamberlain of England.

Mary Cholmondeley (1859?1925), an English writer.

Thomas Cholmondeley various, including:

Thomas P. G. Cholmondeley (b. 1968), an Anglo-Kenyan farmer accused of murder.


Cholmondeley's, a coffeehouse at Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts, purportedly the inspiration for the coffeehouse Central Perk on the sitcom Friends[citation needed].

The Cholmondeleys, an all female modern dance group, founded by the choreographer Lea Anderson.

The Cholmondeley Awards for poetry, given annually by the Society of Authors.

Lord Cholmondeley is a minor character in the The Transformers.

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Well done, Des, trust you to research it!

So Cholmondeley is a surname - I'm sure I've come across it as a first name too. And Yes, I spelled it wrong. So shoot me.

Don't want this thread to get sidetracked, though. CAMY'S STORY is endearing and enchanting and he should get a medal for it. Any suggestions? Booker Prize for Flash Fiction? Blue Peter badge for Riting? Nobel Prize for Nostalgia? You just gotta love a man who can write a story like that.

Bruin :lol:

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Ah, pictures of confused love, touching under the table, groping and falling on beds. What a confused time to explore with vibrant words, fast-paced dialog, and bittersweet memories of a simpler yet earthshaking time.

Brilliant Camy,


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  • 1 month later...

Cholmondeley...I have a new name for my next World of Warcrack character! thanks, guys!

Loved the story. I have a similar memory of something that happened with a friend in the top of a tree that we'd climbed in my front yard... sadly, it ended with me being too timid to pursue it and he too discreet to push beyond words.



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