Chapter 1
HIGH AND HEROIC
Thomas "Tom" Harris at twenty-four was office boy at the Yat Sun-Ng Importers Oriental Company. He had started as that and he would retire as that because that was the limit of his capabilities.
He followed orders excellently but he could not take the initiative himself. Having quit school at sixteen, which he found too hard and boring, he went out into the world to 'do something' and ended up at Yat Sun-Ng as office boy. He was making a career of his job.
He was friendly with all the staff, and they treated him kindly. Physically a man, he had the mentality and maturity of a teenager. Tom was satisfied with his job and his surroundings. He had things easy-easy for him in that he did not have to think.
There were times when he vaguely wished he was like some of the others in the office. He would have liked to give orders, too. But he had no inferiors. As the lowest rung on the office ladder, he also had the lowest salary and least responsibility.
When he was not busy, Tom could be found staring out any convenient window, exactly where Mrs. Sinclair found him.
"Tom, would you please come here?"
Nodding, he walked toward her. Although she treated him like a child, she felt compassion for him. He was so good-looking that he should be more than a mere office boy. He leaned his hands on the desk, waiting silently for her orders.
"Get me a stack of envelopes, please. I must get these letters finished before lunch."
He turned and walked away. Always taking orders, he thought. He quickly returned with the requested folders and handed them to her. Accepting them with gracious and grateful thanks, she immediately slipped one into the typewriter and began putting an address on it.
Poor Tom, she thought, I wish I could help him. He's not stupid, at least I don't think so. He's just very lazy and afraid to make decisions alone. He's afraid of failing, so he doesn't try. And in not trying, he's a worse failure than if he tried and failed.
She sighed and continued typing for a few moments, finishing the addressing. As she stamped them, she called to him.
"Tom, can you mail these letters for me? He came back and took them from her. As he walked away, she continued, "Tom, would you like to go shopping with me this afternoon?"
"Sure," Tom said happily. "I'd love to."
He often went shopping with her during their lunch hour. He liked helping her because she enjoyed being with him, he thought. He liked her because she was extra nice to him.
As a widow of over four years with a fourteen-year-old daughter, she worked to support herself and daughter. Sometimes, when they went shopping-she and Tom-she would tell him about her problems. He was proud of this relationship and of her confidence in him-enough to confide in him.
Often she said that she was afraid her daughter would fall into bad company. Although he could not offer any assistance, he was her confessor. He felt sorry for her and whenever she wanted him, he was eager to go. Carrying her packages was the least he could do, he felt. Listening to her helped, he thought.
Back in the office after lunch, the shopping and a talk, one of the other secretaries asked him to sharpen some pencils. He resigned himself to doing it because he had been told to do it. She was perfectly capable of doing it herself. Putting the pencil into the mouth of the mechanical sharpener, he saw another thing.
The pencil became a stiff cock and the sharpener the pussy receiving it. One day, he told himself, I'm gonna put my prick into some girl's twat and I know I'll love it!
Sexually, he was a flop. At twenty-four he had never slept with a girl. In fact, he had never made it to first base with any chick. Because he treated them like animals and began immediately when he got them alone to undress them, they became indignant and angry. They objected violently, escaped him and never dated him again.
His clothes were his one saving grace. Every week Tom spent most of his slim salary on clothes. He might be the most ignorant in the office, but he was certainly the best dressed. His clothes enhanced his natural good looks, which was why most girls accepted his first invitation.
But by now, he spent most of his time on weekends in a series of bars, so he did not have as many dates as formerly. He was becoming frustrated by his lack of female companionship. But he knew there was little he could do about it.
He finished with the pencils and put them back into the box. Walking to the secretary's desk, he held them over it about a foot up and dropped the box down. It fell in front of her, scaring her and she jumped back as the pencils bounced out onto the desk.
"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.
"You wanted your pencils sharpened. Well, I sharpened them."
"That's not how you give something to someone. Pick them up and put them back in the box."
Quickly, he replaced the pencils in the box. He wanted to argue with her, but he knew it could cost him his job or at least it would mean an argument. In either case, he would lose. For the rest of the day he did all the little things everybody else was too lazy or too busy to do. He ran errands, sharpened pencils, licked stamps, mailed letters and got supplies.
After work he went home, as usual. His mother had dinner prepared and on the table. "How was work today, Tommie?" she asked him. His mother was over-protective and still treated him like a child.
"The same as usual," he said, sitting down and picking up his fork.
"Wait for your father," she said. He dropped the fork and leaned his elbows on the table, waiting for his other parent. His mother went into the next room to call him. Shortly, his father appeared, wearing a dirty tee shirt and carrying the evening paper.
"How was work today, son?" His father glanced at the food and grunted his approval as he sat down.
"As usual, Pop," he replied. His parents had asked the same questions for the past eight years. And he had given the same answers for the last eight years. It was a habit-habits were the only things Tom could handle.
Glancing around the table, Tom saw there were only three places set. "Where's Dig?"
"He's eating at his girlfriend's house," his father said, pausing at his first forkful. He then put it into his mouth and began chewing.
Dig-short for Digby-was Tom's twenty-year-old brother. Although not nearly as nice-looking, he had much more brain power than Tom. He attracted them with his mind because he always knew what to say and do with them. He knew how to be gentle and when to be aggressive. Tom could only grab at a girl.
At eighteen, Dig had already experienced the full gamut of sexual involvement. He had done everything there was to be done with a large number of different girls. Just after he turned eighteen, he decided to settle down with one girl. So, for the last two years he had sex with one girl, only straying occasionally from her. He was satisfied with her and did not need to play the field any longer.
"Where are you going tonight?" his father asked around a mouthful of half-chewed food.
"I dunno. Same as usual, I guess."
"Why don't you find yourself a nice girl," his mother said.
"Yeah. I've been trying long enough. I just don't seem to have any luck with them."
"Your Aunt Judith has a cousin," his mother continued, "who has a friend whose sister-in-law knows a nice girl. I understand she's just the kind you would like."
After four years of marriage-making on the part of his parents, Tom was sick of the whole thing. He wanted to tell them to leave him alone. He wanted to tell them he could find his own girl. But he knew he was not forceful enough and that he could not do that. So he said, "Tell Aunt Judith to bring her around. I'll take her out."
"Good!" His mother beamed. "I'll tell her. I understand she's a very nice girl. Just right for you."
"Sure, Mom. We'll see."
"You ought to save your money for the day you do get married. You know that, Tom," his father said.
"Yeah, Pop. I know." They finished dinner. His father went back to the living room. Tom helped his mother clear the table. It was his job to help her clear the table and clean the dishes when he ate at home, which was most of the time.
He accepted it as natural and did not question. It was another habit, easily comprehensible to him. Furthermore, it did not occur to him to ask why his brother did not help. By virtue of his brains, Dig had always been able to talk himself out of doing these things. His mother listened to him each time, then turned to Tom for help. His parents usually watched television after dinner, and he usually went out.
At Sam's, Tom sat at the same table with the unvarying circle of friends. They discussed the same things while Tom listened, as usual. He always drank beer and the same amount, five mugs.
He always felt pleasantly high and heroic. Unless he actually had something he had to do, he felt as though he could do anything. At eleven, he returned home and took a shower.
And every night it was the same thing in the shower.
His prick was longer and slenderer than most men's at his age. It stood away from his groin at a slight upward angle and curved gently up. The rounded distended bulb was well proportioned for the shaft on which it rested.
There was no hint of flatness or clublike structure. It was smooth and taut, colored a fine and delicate rose that melted into a paler pink on the reverse side and lapping foreskin and shaded into a light brown on the slender smooth stem.
Under the nightly manipulation of his hands, the whole shaft quivered. He stopped massaging his balls and stroked the full erection gently. Sensations spread from the tiny slit down his shaft to his groin and proceeded on down his handsomely muscled legs.
It really felt good ... he couldn't get enough of it!
Pressing his wide shoulders against the tile, he spread his legs and watched as the warm water beat down on his throbbing pecker. His hands moved faster as he built into orgasm. And he thrust his hips forward in time with the stroking until he was gyrating frantically. He felt the scum gathering at the base of his cock and prepared himself.
Uncontrollably, his hips and legs tightened as he thrust his body forward, forming an arch against the wall. With this final thrust, he closed his eyes and concentrated solely on the small area of his burning groin.
In his mind his hands became a pussy. He felt the sperm rushing through his balls and into his prick to burst through his head. His cock throbbed and jerked six or seven times as the warm milky gism spurted out and into the air, mingling with the fine spray. His muscles still quivered after orgasm as they forced every last drop out.
Sagging weakly back against the wall, he sighed deeply. Tiny drops of sweat and spray dripped down his brow and slid across his face. He opened his eyes. Focusing on the opposite wall, he saw that the scum, as usual, had penetrated the spray to splash on the tiles across from him.
The long stream of white fluid slipped down the wall, sliding over itself as it went and beginning to mingle with the shiny wetness formed on the cold walls from the warm water and spray. Now on his semi-erect cock the last thick drop formed. He flicked it away with his thumb.
Stepping under the water, he washed the salty sweat from his skin and then aimed the water at the wall to eradicate the presence of the scum. Turning off the water, he stepped out of the shower.
In the light from the fluorescent bulb he was an bulk of a man. At five-feet-eleven inches he weighed in at just over one hundred and seventy pounds. His brown hair, longish and quite curly, pressed against his forehead and down his neck.
As the individual strands dried, they began curling up over his head, revealing his high forehead, even hairline, and small well-shaped flat ears. His light blue eyes twinkled with his contentment of himself at this moment. He reached for a towel with a slender but well-developed muscular arm, wrapping it firmly about his slender hips. Walking to his bedroom, he closed the door and removed the towel. Dropping it over a chair to dry, he slipped naked between the sheets. He slept within seconds, dreamlessly.