He was tall, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, with blue eyes and blonde hair, and lightly freckled all over from constant exposure to salt water and sunshine — an Aussie Rules football player and surfer. No wonder I fell in love with 19-year-old Chookie.

I could hardly look at him without getting a "stiffy." I loved to crotch-watch while he was wearing his minuscule speedos when surfing, or the short shorts Australian Rules players wear. There was a pleasing bulge in Chook's pants of whatever kind.

Chookie wasn't his real name, of course. His real name was David Fowler, but in the wonderfully bizarre world of Australian naming slang, his surname 'Fowler' was translated to 'Chook", the Aussie word for fowl or chicken. Nobody except his parents called him David or Dave. He was Chook or Chookie to all.

In the same fashion, my own name went through these convolutions. 'Ted' became 'Yog', pronounced like the yog in yoghurt, via Teddy Bear - Yogi Bear - Yog. (The Huckleberry Hound show had recently become popular on Aussie TV.) Nobody called me Yogi, however – just the rather ugly Yog.

I too, was just 19, and fell in love with Chook when first we met in our first year at the University of Western Australia. We were both in the Education programme, Chook with an emphasis on Math, Science, and PE, and I with my emphasis on English Literature and History, but our degree courses required both of us to take Psychology I, English Lit I, and Ancient Greek I. Not that we would need Ancient Greek for teaching, but the Degree requirements for both of us included at least one year of a Language, and Greek was the only language course that had no prerequisites. We ended up in the same classes and the same tutorial groups for all three of those classes, so we got to see quite a bit of each other in that first year.

I've already told you why I was attracted to him. I've got no idea why he was attracted to me. I was his opposite — short, scrawny, bookish, and in my own eyes, plain and unattractive. But Chook must have seen something I didn't. We became fast friends, and spent lots of our leisure time together over the next three years.

Through the winter I would go to his footie games, usually sitting with his girlfriend Molly in the grandstand, then both of us meeting Chook in the clubrooms of whichever Football club the team was playing at that weekend – usually home games one week, away games the next.

When spring and summer rolled around, I would catch a train from my parent's place to Chook's parents' place, just one block from the Indian Ocean, and we would walk over the hill, and down to the beach, Chook lugging his surfboard, and me toting some drinks and sandwiches in a backpack with our towels. Sometimes Molly would join us, but she had a job in a sandwich-and-drinks stall at another beach, so mostly it was just Chook and I.

He would spent the day paddling his banana board way out, then catching the waves back in. Although I was a competent swimmer, I never did master the skill of surfboarding. My balance was the shits. So I contented myself with body surfing in closer to shore or laying on a towel tanning.

As I didn't own a car yet, I would usually take the train home again in the late afternoon. But one Saturday Chook invited me to go with him and Molly to a local drive-in movie theatre. He said I was welcome to stay the night at his parent's house. They wouldn't mind.

After the movies we dropped Molly off at her home, then went back to Chook's. Chook's parents, Wayne and Dot, as Chook called them, and as they insisted I call them also, had made up a bed on an air mattress on the living-room floor for me. We all chatted for a short time, then went off to our respective beds.

I woke in the morning to the sound of the senior Fowlers bustling about. I opened my eyes as Wayne wandered through the living-room on his way to the kitchen, where I could hear Dot already at work getting breakfast going. I was rather surprised that he was just in his undies - very brief undies, even skimpier than Chook's surfing speedos. They were almost transparent, into the bargain. He was obviously well-hung, and it was plain to see where Chook got his pleasing bulge from. I was a bit shocked, because in my home, no-one wandered round in their undies. My dad in pyjama bottoms was as raunchy as it got.

You can appreciate then, that I was even more shocked when Dot came back through the living-room in just panties and bra, rather flimsy ones, too.

I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was still sleeping, but she called, "Wakey, wakey, breakfast's cooking." and crossed the room to the door to Chook's room and repeated the call. I gratefully took the moment while her back was to me to leap out of bed, where I had slept in my undies, and drag my cut-off jeans on.

Chook came out of his room, and I was relieved to see that he, too, was wearing shorts – board shorts we call them these days. I knew that underneath he would already be wearing his tiny surf speedos, but at least he wasn't prancing round in his undies like his parents were.

Chook led me into the kitchen for breakfast. But Wayne and Dot were still in their undies, and busy groping each other. He was massaging one of her breasts while she fumbled in his brief briefs.

Chookie chastised them. "Go put some clothes on," he told his parents. "I think you're embarrassing Yog!"

Wayne protested, "You know we always breakfast in our undies before getting dressed for the day. How come you're getting so fussy all of a sudden?

Dot chimed in, "Haven't we always tried to tell you there's nothing about the human body to be embarrassed about?"

But in spite of their protestations, they both reluctantly put on some clothes — he a pair of shorts, and she a cotton housecoat.

But I noticed Wayne giving Chook some dirty looks through the remainder of breakfast.

Later, when we were trotting down to the beach, so close to Chook's home, it was Chook who brought up the matter. "I hope my parents didn't embarrass you too much in their undies," he said. "They're always trying to prove that they are so 'modern' but in truth they are just a couple of aging exhibitionists who like to show off their bodies in front of younger guys – and girls," he added. "Dot thinks you're cute," he informed me. "So does Wayne, actually."

"What about you?" I asked in a bantering tone, trying not to expose how eager I was to be liked by Chook.

"You're OK, I guess," he told me. "But you're not my type. Molly's my type." I think he was trying to tell me he wasn't into guys sexually, just girls, letting me down easily.

But the breakfast scene left me uneasy. I never stayed overnight at the Fowler home again, even though I was invited on more than one occasion. I always made up some sort of excuse, even though it meant nearly an hour of train rides and a long walk to get me home.

This was a sort of pattern in my life for four years. At the end of the fourth year, at 20 years of age, Chook and I became fully-qualified teachers, but indentured to the W.A Education department until we proved ourselves in the field, since they had paid for our education and given us small salaries for those four years. We had no real choice in where we were posted. It could be anywhere in that very large state. We could only indicate a preference. We had both opted for city postings. I had already been notified by mail that I would be going to an inner city elementary school. Chook was still waiting for confirmation of his posting, but because he was a player on on of the major league Aussie Rules football teams,he was almost certain to get a city posting.

As I said, we had been paid small salaries – very small salaries – and as our teachers' salaries did not start until we had been given a posting and worked for a month, Chook and I needed jobs to carry us through.

We found some short term work with another Government Department, Health and Recreation. The job was teaching swimming at Dongarup, a coastal beach town about 200 miles south of the city. It was only four weeks' worth of work, but the money was huge compared to what we had been earning – and we heard through the grapevine that grateful parents often slipped swimming coaches a bonus envelope if their kids learned to swim. the job also included an allowance for accommodations while we were there, but as the allowance wouldn't really have covered any available accommodations, and there were no available accommodations anyway because summer holiday makers had booked them up months before, we decided to set up camp in the public campgrounds attached to the beach where we were to teach swimming.

We packed a tent and all necessary camping gear and headed south.

Chook was a little loath to leave Molly behind, but she promised she would try to get down there for at least one of the weekends we were camping on the beach.

It was a rather cushy job, really, catering to both local kids and the kids of the many holiday makers spending a week or two at the small coastal beach town. We taught ninety-minute two sessions a day: 9:30 am to 10:30 am and 10:30 am to 12:00 noon. In the first session of the day. I would instruct intermediate level swimmers, while Chook would train the senior level swimmers. In the second session of the day, I would look after beginning swimmers, while chook trained life-saving classes. Each week was a new set of pupils.

The afternoons and weekends were free for us to do as we wished. We wished to explore the countryside around us, but mostly to wallow in the shallow waters with flippers, masks and snorkels, exploring the waters and the reef not far out to sea – but mostly looking for saleable creatures to supplement our income. These included the large crabs that scurried over the sandy bottom, crayfish that lurked at the reef's edge, and octopuses that were busy hunting the first two. Sometimes we also got a large grouper or cod, as well. The fish we sold to the fish-and-chip shop, the shellfish we sold to the local restaurant, and the octopus we sold to the local bait shop.

Sometimes I would tire of hunting, and would just lay face down in the warm shallow water imagining having sex with Chook, even though I knew it was just an empty dream. There were few other people used this beach when there were no classes – the popular beach was further along, on a sandy spit. So I felt quite safe in poking the woody I got out the leg of my swim shorts and bouncing it up and down into the soft sand until I blew my load. I would then move along to a new location, leaving my tendrils of cum floating in the water. Kinky, but fun.

One evening, after we had cook a simple camp supper and were eating it, squatting inside the tent to escape the hordes of mosquitoes which descended on the area at that time of day, I noticed Chook had a woody. It had escaped the confines of his speedos and the board shorts he was wearing over them. It was long, and slim, and hard, and uncut. I would have loved to hold it, to suck it. I was hoping it was caused by being alone with me.

I nodded toward his woody. "Nice stiffy!" I commented. "Does that mean you're in love with me," I kidded.

"You wish!" he told me. "No, I was thinking about Molly. I phoned her from the payphone at the general store this afternoon. She says Wayne has promised to bring her down to visit this weekend."

"Dot coming too?" I asked.

"Nope, just Wayne and Molly in his camper van. I hope you don't mind if Wayne sleeps here in the tent with you while m Molly and I sleep in the camper?"

"Of course I don't mind," I lied.

When Chookie went off to sleep that night, I jerked off recalling how beautiful his stiff cock had looked.

But when Wayne's camper van pulled into the campground and rolled to a stop just feet from our tent, Chook was in for a nasty surprise. He hurried to the van, but there was no passenger. Only Wayne emerged.

"Sorry, son," he told Chook. "Molly couldn't get off work. Another girl had called in sick, so she has to work tonight and tomorrow. There was no way she could contact you. But I thought I'd come, anyway. Doesn't that make up for it a bit?" he asked.

"Not really," Chook muttered, and I could see he was choking back tears.

"What about my posting? Did that arrive yet?"

"Nope," Wayne told him. "But not to worry. If it's not the city, I'm sure the footy clubs can pull a few strings. Well, anyway," he proclaimed, brushing Chook's disappointment aside, "time for a swim." He shed his sandals and t-shirt and dropped his walk shorts, revealing that he was wearing a nylon speedo bikini bottom underneath, just like the ones Chook habitually wore. On Chook they looked sexy. On this middle-aged man, they looked obscene. Wayne was oblivious to that. "Come on, son," he cried and trotted off down to the water's edge, and making a shallow dive into the warm water. Chook looked at me, shrugged, and trotted off after his father.

I sat on a log under a gumtree and watched the two play in the water. Wayne was insisting Chook wrestle with him in the water even though Chook was obviously loath to do so. What surprised me, though, was that when they finished with their play wrestling and trotted back up to the tent Wayne had a pronounced hard-on. Nor did he try to hide it.

We grilled some steaks over our open campfire and served them up as steak sandwiches on fresh buns from the local bakery.

It was well after supper, when the sun had long gone and the chirp of crickets had replaced the early evening buzz of mosquitoes that Wayne announced: "I want you to sleep in the van with me tonight, boy."

Chook looked pained. "Aw, no Pop," he exclaimed. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do," Wayne demanded. "And my name's Wayne, remember! 'Pop' is for little kids. You're not a little kid are you?"

"No, Wayne," Chookie muttered.

"But you're still my son ,and while you are living with us, you'll do as I say, and I say you'll sleep in the van with me." Wayne noticed me looking astonished at this. He added, "After, all, I've come all this way just to see you. Don't I deserve your company for the night?" he demanded.

"Yes, OK, Wayne," Chook reluctantly conceded.

So off they went to bed in the camper van, and off I went to my sleeping bag in the tent.

I was just drifting off to sleep when I was awoken by bumping noises and voices from the van.

"No, Pop, please don't," I thought I heard Chookie cry.

"C'mon, I'm your friend. I'm Wayne, aren't I? Friends help each other out."

"It's not right!" Chookie objected. "You always hurt me," he complained. He sounded just like a little kid. It was as is he couldn't really stand up to Wayne.

"You owe it to me. I'm your father," Wayne snarled.

"Fathers don't do this," Chook cried. I heard a smack, as if someone had thrown a punch or delivered a heavy slap.

"Don't tell me what fathers do or don't do!" Wayne cried. "If I want to do you, then I'll do you!"

The voices were somewhat garbled by the walls of the camper and the tent, so I wasn't sure that's what I heard, but that's what it sounded like.

I was horrified, to put it mildly.

"You gonna hit me back?" came Wayne's voice loudly. "You gonna hit your own father?" he demanded.

"No," I heard Chook mumble. And then I heard him sobbing. That was followed by rather sexual sounds, grunting, groaning, thumps, moans, panting, and the camper rocking slightly. It went on for quite some time. Then a cry as if someone had come to climax. Then silence. There were no more sounds from the van until I heard loud snoring. After that, I drifted off to a troubled sleep myself.

Later, as the sky was lightening with false dawn, and the songbirds of the Australian bush were heralding the new day, I again heard voices and cries from the camper van, and again sounds that were unmistakably those of man-to-man sex, brutal man-to-man sex. A little later I heard both Wayne and Chookie emerge from the van, and one of them flop down into one of the folding chairs by the fire-pit. I heard someone, presumably Wayne, taking a piss beside the van. He snapped at Chook: "Get over it. Stop your blubbering," then he climbed back into the van, started the engine and drove off.

Some time after the van's engine noise had died away in the early morning air, and it was replaced by the birds once more, Chook crawled into the tent, and curled up in a foetal position on his sleeping bag with his back to me. I Heard him sniffing, stifling his sobs, wiping back tears.

After a long time, he whispered, "Are you awake?"

"Yes," I whispered back.

"Could you hear what was happening? Do you know what was happening?" he asked.

"Yes, I think I know," I told him.

"What do you think was going on?" he asked.

I think he didn't want to tell me unless it was absolutely necessary, unless I already knew, unless the truth couldn't be hidden any longer.

"From what I heard," I told him, choosing me words carefully, "I think Wayne abused you – sexually abused you."

"If you mean he fucked me, you're right. He fucked me in the arse – twice last night, but many times over the years – since I was thirteen!" he stated bitterly.

"Why didn't you tell somebody?" I asked him.

"Because he's my father!" he exclaimed, as if that gave Wayne the right to fuck his son.

I reached across the space between us and lay my hand on his bare shoulder. At first he flinched, and I thought he would pull away, but he settled back and seemed to take comfort from my touch.

"That's nice," he eventually said. "Your touch is gentle, not brutal like Wayne's." Encouraged, I slowly ran my hand up and down his bare arm. Chook sighed deeply. "Will you hold me, Yog?" he asked.

I slid over and spooned in behind him, sliding one arm under his neck to cradle his head and draping the other over him, sliding my hand across his chest. He sighed again and wriggled back into my embrace. I immediately became concerned that I might alienate him, because my cock started to stiffen at his touch. I tried to back off a little, but he whispered, "That's OK. I know you'd never hurt me. You'd be gentle."

Did he mean that he wanted me to fuck him? It would be so easy. I was already naked. I always slept that way. All Chook was wearing was his skimpy nylon speedos.

We lay there quite still for the longest time, just breathing together. Eventually Chook spoke again.

"He beats me up, too. He's always careful that the bruises don't show. And if they do, I say I got them at footy practice, or in the Saturday match, or from getting hit by my surfboard when I wiped out."

"That's horrible," I said. "Just as bad as his fucking you. He could go to jail for either."

"But I don't want him to go to jail!" Chook protested. "I just want him to leave me alone!"

"Does Dot know about this?" I asked.

"Yes, but she's scared of him, too. She does whatever he says."

As much as I tried to will it away, my cock was as stiff as a board. I tried to position it so it was not pressing into Chook's back, but he pushed back against me, almost as if he wanted my cock against him — in him, maybe?

"It's not that I mind the fucking part – I got used to that a long time ago," Chook told me. "In fact, I think I would enjoy it if he weren't so brutal – and if he weren't my father – and if he weren't forcing me."

Was I really hearing this? Was he inviting me to fuck him? I still wasn't sure, and I was afraid to make any advances. I truly loved Chook and didn't want to hurt him any more than he already was – emotionally, that is. An advance on my part might have hurt him further and alienated him from me.

But I couldn't help the fact that I did have a hard-on, and that Chook's warm buttocks were pressed against it.

One of my arms was draped across him, my hand resting on his left breast. He grasped my hand and drew it down his body to his groin. He, too, had a raging hard, and he led my hand to it. He lifted his hips and slid his nylon speedos down his legs, and I grasped his hot shaft. My own cock was harder than ever. I thought it would explode.

Chookie spat in his palm, reached back, and spread his spittle on my dick. I thought I would cum in his hand. He grasped my cock and guided it to his butthole, that warm, moist spot between his buttocks.

"Fuck me," he whispered, and pressed back onto my cock. I didn't have to do anything. He forced his hole back onto my cock. The spit and my foreskin sliding back help my prick's entry into him. My cock easily slipped into the hole that Wayne had pounded less than an hour before. I felt wet and juicy.

"Oh, that feels so nice," he whispered. "Do me slowly."

Actually, I didn't want to move. I thought that if I did my cock would explode and I would cum straight away.

"Don't worry about Wayne's spunk," he told me. "I squirted that out on the ground before I came into the tent. Just fuck me slowly. You can shot inside me if you want."

So, clutching Chook's dick with one hand, I cautiously began to fuck my friend, gently, lovingly. And he responded in kind, moving backward gently to meet my incoming cock, pushing softly to try to get all of me inside him.

I was so worked up that try as I might not to cum, it only took a couple of minutes before I shot my load deep inside my friend. Chook felt it, and almost immediately he tensed before he began to squirt his load of man-juice. Knowing it was coming, rather than get it all over the sleeping bag I managed to reach back and grab a cum-rag I always took to bed with me and get it back to his cock before he sprayed his offering all over the rag and my hand.

Spent, I started to withdraw from Chook's ass, but he murmured, "No, stay in me. This is nice." It was probably still no more that 5 am, so with my arms wrapped around Chook, and my dick still semi-hard and deep in his man-hole, we both went back to sleep.

I awoke to Chook's buttocks grinding against me once more. The brightness in the tent told me it was a couple of hours later. My dick, which had slipped out of Chook while we slept, was hardening once more. Again Chook's hand grasped it, and he guided me to his hole. "Do me again," he begged. "It felt so good earlier."

I didn't need any more encouragement. A simple push and I was through the muscle rings and buried deep inside him once more. He tightened his sphincter muscles around me, as if to draw me even further inside him.

"Make love to me, Yogi," he pleaded. As I slowly fucked him once more, he told me, "I never knew it could feel so good. It's so different from Wayne pounding me as if he were trying to hurt me, and calling me horrible names like faggot and cock-sucker and bitch. With you, it's not like you hate me; it's more like you love me."

"I do love you, Chook. I always have," I confessed.

"I love you, too, Yog," he told me. "But not like I love Molly. You can be my secret fuck-buddy, if you like, but it's Molly I am going to spend the rest of my life with."

I was more than happy to settle for this much. I continued to fuck him slowly, gently.

"We've still got another week to go here," Chook pointed out. "If you want, we can sleep together every night. And maybe we can talk about what to do about Wayne."

I knew exactly what I wanted to do about Wayne — report him to the police! But I knew Chook would never agree to that.

Things went back to near normal in the days that followed — except for one afternoon. Chookie took off in his battered VW, requesting that I stay behind. All he said was, "There's a couple of things I have to do. I might be gone for a couple of hours. It'd be best if you just stayed here." And away he went. Nor was he any more communicative when he came back, other than to say, "I think I got some things settled." I left it at that, but I remained intrigued, hoping he'd explain sooner or later.

And for the following week, Chook and I slept together every night, and I fucked him when we went to bed, and I fucked him again in the morning when we woke. I tried to get him to fuck me, but he refused, saying his cock was for Molly only. However, he didn't mind me sucking on it.

But barring that restriction, life was good for me for the following week. With Chook practically begging me to fuck him every time we were alone, I was a very happy camper!

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