Date: Tue, 25 Dec 2007 00:39:39 -0800 (PST)
From: Jack deGropier <jackdegropier@yahoo.com>
Subject: "He Made Me Do It"

"He made me do it"

Part 1

He made me do it.  The first time, he just showed it to me. It was big.
He sort of rubbed it and it started to get even bigger. Then it got
really big as I looked at it.
Then hard and stiff. And he let go of it and it stuck out from his body.
Then he laughed when he saw the look in my eyes.
"Wanna touch it?"
I shook my head. I wanted to run away. But he stood between me and the
door. No escape.
"Yours ever get stiff like this, kid?"
He took hold of it again and held it in his fist, pointing it at me. Like
a weapon. Like he was pointing a gun at me.
I shook my head. But I was lying. Mine got all stiff sometimes, I didn't
why, and I usually tried to make it go down by bending it, but it always
seemed to spring back.
"You mean, you never had a stiffy, kid? How old are you anyway?"
He looked as if he was in pain. I felt my cheeks burning. Red.
"Ah, so you DO get a stiffy sometimes! Course you do. All boys do."
He paused. I tried not to look at it, but it was so big and had such a
big dark purple knob. Mine wasn't like that. Mine had a sort of skin so
you couldn't see the, you
know, knob thing underneath.
"So, wouldn't you like to touch it, kid?"
Again he rubbed it, holding it tight in his fist. Rubbed it hard. Up and
down. Fast. He was breathing hard, and his face was going red with the
effort. Then he bit his
lower lip and closed his eyes. He looked as if he was in pain.
That was my chance. I scooted past him and out the door and ran as hard
as I could.  That was the first time.
The next time, I was in the barn and I didn't hear him come in. I heard
the barn door close and I heard his laugh.
"Well, if it isn't the Stiffy Kid!" he said. "Good to see you again,
kid."
He came close to me, trapping me in the corner of a stall.
"It's ok, kid," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Just wanna chat
with you a while."
"Please let me go!"
"So, you DO have a voice! Nice voice too."
"Please!" I begged.
He looked at me.
"And such a nice face, all white and pink. And pretty blue eyes. And such
a pretty mouth too. Like a girl's mouth."
He reached forward to run his fingers through my hair. I hated my hair,
long and blond and wavy, it flopped over my eyes. I wanted to have it
short like the other
boys, but my mother insisted on keeping it long. Like a girl's.
I shrank from his touch. He backed off a little.
"Really, kid, I am not going to hurt you. Promise. Just chatting. What's
your name?"
I tightened my lips defiantly.
"Oh ok. I know it anyway. It's Michael, isn't it? I know your mother."
I noticed his hand stray to his crotch. He was rubbing himself through
his trousers. I knew what was going to happen next.
"Well, I shall call you Michael. What are you doing here anyway?"
His rubbing hand mesmerised me. I tried  not to look at it but I couldn't
help myself.
"Nothing."
"Oh. Nothing. I thought you might be playing with your stiffy, Michael.
Like all you boys do."
What was he talking about?
"Shall I tell you a secret, Michael? I like playing with my stiffy too!"
He laughed.
"Wanna see it again, kid?"
In a trice, he had unzipped and flicked it out. It was dangling down,
curved, thick, like a pale fat sausage. Not big and hard and stiff like
the first time.
"Wanna touch it? Wanna know what it feels like? Go on. It won't bite
you!"
It suddenly twitched as if it was coming alive.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me close to him.
"Just touch it with your fingertips."
He held my hand and caused my fingertips to run the length of its upper
surface to the base, where I could feel hairs and then up again. He held
them just behind the
ridge of his helmet. His thing twitched again and again and began to
swell and grow.
My fingers felt every little tremor.
"Mmm. You got nice fingers, Michael. Soft. Like a girl's."
With his free hand, he stroked my hair.
"Such a pretty boy. Michael, wrap your fingers round my cock. Hold it for
me."
He made me do it. I had no choice.
"That's it, hold it there..." - indicating the base - "....that's good."
It grew in my hand. It got bigger and bigger and harder and harder until
it was stiff in my fist. It was like holding a hard bone. The flesh of it
was warm. And silky.
"You are good, Michael," he said, a little breathlessly. "Now work your
fist up and down the way you saw me do."
He made me do it.


Part 2

It made my arm ache. But he seemed to want me to do it more and more and
quicker and quicker and harder and harder, till I thought my arm would
drop off. And
all the time he was holding  my arm by the wrist to force my closed
fingers up and down the length of his cock. He had covered the head with
his saliva so my little fist
slid easily over it
"Use both hands!" he whispered hoarsely. "I want both your hands round my
cock. Do it."
He grabbed my other hand to make sure I obeyed him. I noticed some wet
stuff oozing from the little slit at the tip of his engorged cockhead.
And the more I pumped
his cock, the more stuff oozed from it.
He groaned. "Oh god! Harder, boy! Faster!"
Impatiently, he wrapped his hand over my two little fists and gripped
them tightly. And then he speeded up the movement. I watched fascinated
as the purple head
bobbed up and down with each stroke, as if it was bowing to me.
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh fuuuuuuuuuuck!" A long moan escaped his lips as
I felt his cock judder under my fingers before it stood up rigid and then
released a
spurt of milky stuff, and then another, and another. I could feel the
stuff surging along the underside of his cock before it spewed out of
him. It went all over me. Over
my face, in my hair, all down my pullover (the red one, the one my mother
had knitted me for my tenth birthday) and even some on my trousers. It
was like he was
doing peepee all over me. By the time I broke free of him and ran out of
the barn, I was covered in it. As I sped out of the door, I heard him
moan again.
"Michael! Come back! It's all right..."
As I ran, I tried to wipe the goo off my face. Some was on my lips. It
tasted.......funny. It was silky smooth, like melted icecream, but tasted
a bit salty. Yuck. I
needed to get cleaned up. Knowing that my mother was out shopping, I ran
home and into the kitchen. The man's cock stuff was drying now on my skin
and on my
clothes. I had to get it all off before my mother came back. I went to
the bathroom and started to clean up.
"Michael, what on earth...............?"
It was my mother. I hadn't heard her come in.
She ran her fingers over my hair. She looked down at the red pullover now
encrusted with the man's stuff.
"What IS this.............oh my god!"
She knew! I had no idea how my mother could know about a man's stuff, but
the look of horror on her face indicated that she did know.
"Michael.. who......? Where have you......... Who........?"
She was incoherent. Shocked. I burst into tears. It wasn't my fault. He
made me do it.

She grabbed me and cuddled me, as much to comfort herself as to comfort
me. I soon stopped crying and she calmed down.
"Let's get you cleaned up," she said in her practical mother voice. " A
bath for you, and let's put your pullie in the washing machine."
Bathed, hairbrushed and dressed in clean clothes, I sat opposite my
mother at the kitchen table.
"What happened, Michael?"
I blushed.
"He made me do it, mamma." My voice was a mere whisper.
"Oh my god," she said, her eyes wild with panic. "Made you do what? Did
he hurt you?"
"No, mamma, I'm..... all right......." I felt tears starting in my eyes
and I fought them back.
"Did he touch you?"
"Touch me?"
"Michael, you know what I mean. Did he touch you?" There was exasperation
in her voice now.
"No, mamma. He just made me touch his thing."
"Oh no!" She paused, gathering her thoughts. "What else? Tell me Michael.
You must tell me."
"Nothing, mamma. He held my hands on his thing and then it all spurted
sticky stuff and I ran away."
She ran her hands through my freshly shampooed hair.
"You poor darling," she murmured. "You must try to forget all about it."
"Yes, mamma."
She asked me all sorts of questions about the man, but I really had no
information of use to her. And all the time, I was thinking about his
cock, how it had felt in my
hand, the fascinating way his cockhead bobbed as I pumped it, and that
series of spurts at the end. I knew I would never "forget all about it."
"Promise me you will never go near that barn again, Michael."
"I promise, mamma."
"And, tell me again, the truth, did he touch you? Did he touch you down
there?"
"No mamma."
"All right, darling. I believe you. Off you go to your room."
As I sat on my bed, I thought about her question "Did he touch you down
there?" And as I thought about it, about the possibility that he might
want to touch me down
there, my own cock started to twitch and rise until I had a raging stiffy
straining painfully in my underpants. I wondered. I wondered what would
happen if I slid my fist up and down it the way I had done for the man.
Would I make sticky stuff too? I lay on my bed and took it out. Wrapped
my fingers round it. And started to work
my fist up and down up and down. It felt good. Very good. Tingly.
Exciting. Now I knew why the man liked it so much. The image of his hard
stiff cock came into my
mind, causing my own boycock to judder with excitement. I pumped a little
faster, desperate to see if I could spurt stuff as he had. But I was only
doing this to myself because he made me do it.

Part 3

I loved it. On the downstroke, I pulled the foreskin right back to expose
my pink plump cockhead. On the upstroke, I pushed it right over my
cockhead. And then
down. And then up. Faster and faster. My fist was a blur, my heart raced,
my head thumped, my arm ached, my little stiffy tingled. And then,
suddenly, it seemed to
grow even harder and then, a moment of stillness, like everything was
suspended, before my whole body seemed to catch fire. Like little needles
in my flesh, like
goosepimples, like the hair standing up on the back of my neck, like
tongues of fire shooting from my groin down my legs, making my toes curl
in excitement, then
through my torso until my whole body was one immense tingling
conflagration. It was wonderful! It was like nothing I had ever
experienced before. It was beautiful.
And I was scared as hell. What had I done to myself??? My stiffy suddenly
began to feel raw and so sensitive that I had to take my hand away. I was
sure I had
damaged it in some way. But who could I tell? My mother? No way. There
was nobody. I suddenly felt very scared and very lonely.
My stiffy subsided and I gently explored my little dick for signs of
damage. And for signs of the sticky stuff. It was dry. Sore and dry. I
vowed at that moment that I would never do it again. What had the man
said: "Do you touch yourself? I bet you do, just like all boys your
age."  Maybe other boys did this stuff too. I didn't know. My mother
sometimes said that older boys were "dirty", but in what way they were
dirty had been a mystery to me till now. Dirty. What I had done was
dirty? Instinctively, I knew that it was something my mother would
disapprove of. Wouldn't she? I was very confused.
Then it hit me: the one person who could explain all this to me was the
man in the barn. Of course I knew who he was, not that I had told my
mother. She knew him.
He knew her. He knew my name. Not surprising, as he was Mr Woodfin, owner
of a draper's shop in our local community, selling all manner of clothes
for men and
boys. Off-the-peg and made-to-measure, his clothes were worn by half the
males in the community. I remembered at that moment an incident when my
mother had
taken me to get some clothes for the new school year. I went into the
changing room to try on my first pair of long trousers, and he came in
just as I had put them on.
"Let's see if they fit, young man," he had said, and had slid his hand up
my inner thigh and made me jump as his thumb brushed against my dick. Now
it all made sense. That was no accident! The next day - it was half-term
holiday - I walked along to his shop and spent ages hovering round the
door before plucking up the courage to enter. When he saw me, a look of
panic spread across his face.
"Erm, Michael, isn't it? Listen, dear boy..." - he looked around to make
sure there was no one else in the shop - "... about the other day...."
He paused.
".....I mean, our little secret, right?"
I was relieved. I wasn't the only one full of panic and uncertainties!
"Yes, sir."
"I mean," he went on, "just between us. Just a bit of fun, right?"
"Yes, sir."
He searched my face to divine what I was really thinking.
"Erm, well, yes. That's all right, then. Now, Michael, what can I do for
you? I am surprised you are not with your mother. Need some new clothes?"
"No, sir. I just......."
Now it was my turn to be hesitant.
".....I just need to talk to you. You see, there's things I don't
understand..."
"Oh. What things?"
"You know, like what we did...."
"Oh." The look of panic returned to his face. "Well, maybe this is not
the time or the place, Michael."
"I suppose so. When can I talk to you, sir? I promise not to be a
nuisance."
"Well, erm, why not meet me at the barn. Tomorrow afternoon. Better not
to say anything to your mother."
As if! I immediately forgot my promise to her to stay away from the barn.
"Yes. I will be there. Thank you, Mr Woodfin."
I secretly enjoyed using his name. It seemed reasonable. After all, I had
held his cock for him. Twice. What was less explicable to me was the fact
that my little dick had started to tingle and grow again. What I didn't
know - until he told me much later - was that his cock had also started
to get hard the moment I walked in his shop.
I went home and decided I would not touch myself again just in case what
I had done was harmful. And then, as I contemplated meeting him again in
the barn, my little dick got stiff, and I couldn't help myself. For the
second time in my young life, I brought myself to a state of total
ecstasy. And this time, I couldn't say that he made me do it. This time,
it was my own idea. And I didn't care that it was "dirty". If only I
could make sticky stuff the way he did.......

Part 4

The trouble with mothers is they always find you out sooner or later.
When she caught me masturbating (isn't it funny how, when you are young,
you do things for which you don't have a name?), I just wanted to die.
She had caught me doing something "dirty". And there was no way I could
hide it. I was on top of the bed, on my back, naked, beating away at my
stiffy, desperate to repeat that wonderful moment when my whole body has
caught fire. I even had my eyes closed, so I had no idea how long she had
been standing in the doorway watching me. Then, I heard her long loud
sigh.
"Oh, Michael, how COULD you?"
Every boy caught wanking (ah, another word I didn't know at that time,
but soon learned), every boy caught wanking by his mother remembers that
moment for the
rest of his life. I was stunned. I wanted her to be angry. To scream at
me that I was "dirty", maybe even rush across and slap me (something she
had never done).
Instead, she was sad. That was unbearable. It was more cruel than any
beatings or lashings with a cruel tongue. I had made her sad. She was
disappointed in me. I
had let her down. I felt dreadful. The awful thing, though, was that my
dick stayed hard. my stiffy sticking up redly from my hairless crotch
like a sentry on duty. The penis is a wonderful organ, but it is also a
perverse organ. When you want it hard, it won't go up,. and then, at the
most inconvenient of moments, it rises up hard and powerful like a totem
pole, to embarrass you beyond measure. I sat bolt upright in my bed and
tried to cover my embarrassment.
"I never thought that a boy of mine would........."
Mothers really know how to turn the knife in the wound.
"What were you thinking of, Michael?"
She shook her head.
"And where did you learn to do that dirty thing?"
She came over and sat on my bed. My dick was still hard. Damn. And still
tingling: I had been so close.
"Was it that man taught you, Michael. Tell me."
I couldn't meet her gaze. Eyes downcast, I nodded.
"Oh my god. My son corrupted by a pervert!"
I had no idea what those words meant, but it sounded the same as the
priest telling us we'd go to hell if we did bad things. She pushed my
hands gently to one side. And contemplated my stiffy, still up and
throbbing.
"I can't believe it. And you still only eleven. You boys....."
Her voice took on a dreamy quality. She seemed transfixed. And then she
reached out and held it between her thumb and forefinger.
"Still, I suppose it's just nature, dear. I suppose it feels..........."
- she squeezed it gently - ".........nice."
"Sorry, mamma," I managed to utter in the squeakiest of voices.
"No, dear, it's my fault. I didn't realise that my little boy was growing
up QUITE so quickly."
And she continued to hold my stiffy between her thumb and forefinger,
just behind the ridge where it's most sensitive to the touch, and gently
massaged my foreskin
over the ridge. I felt faint.
"You boys!" she said again. I was mystified and not a little scared. Was
she going to punish me? What?
"Sorry, mamma," I repeated.
By this time, her thumb and forefinger were working my stiffy slowly but
firmly, causing me to twitch and tremble. It felt good. She squeezed too
hard and I uttered a
little squeal, not so much of pain as of surprise.
"Oh dear! I didn't mean to hurt my little treasure. Sorry, darling. Let
mamma kiss it better."

(As I write this thirty years on, I can affirm that the best cocksuckers
are men, women only have a very approximate idea of what to do. But that
first time, with my mother going down on me, was more magical than any
moment before or since. I could not believe how WET her mouth was, how
skilful her darting tongue, how she held my little stiffy at the base and
then brought her hand up to meet her lips as she took me into her mouth.
I fell back on my bed, closed my eyes, and let happen what happened. It
was an amazing experience for an eleven-year-old. It sent shivers through
me. It sent my cock into spasm. I couldn't keep myself still. I felt a
need to wriggle and to thrust. I bit my bottom lip to stop myself crying
out. It was wickedly beautiful.
And now for the shameful part: I wasn't thinking of my mother bent over
me sucking my dick, I was thinking of the man, of how his gorgeous hard
cock felt in my hands, how much I wanted to be with him again. And if he
wanted to touch me, that was fine by me. I came for the second time in my
life, dry humping the eager sucking mouth that had  brought me to orgasm.
The image of his cock flooded my mind. At that moment, I knew I was
"dirty". And I loved it. Suddenly, my mother got up and left abruptly
without a word. She never referred to the incident after that. It was as
if it  had never happened, she had never gone down on me. But it did, and
she did, and my life was never quite the same after that.)

The next day, I met Mr Woodfin again in the barn.....

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