Date: Thu, 25 Jan 2024 15:31:56 +0000 From: LiamDonovanStories Subject: A Boy Rescued The innocence was hidden beneath a layer of misery. The boy didn't look a day over thirteen, yet his eyes told stories of a troubled life that went far beyond his thirteen years. My first encounter with Aran wasn't as romantic as you might like. There were no roses or fireworks, nor was there any sexual interest on my side. I was a man of thirty, he was a boy, barely a teenager. His bare feet were stained almost black. His toenails were unkempt, packed with dirt and the soles were cut, bruised and filthy. He was a skinny little thing, but he'd lost weight since he'd first become homeless, because the tattered clothing now hung limply from his slender frame. "Are you hungry?" I asked him, crouching down as he sat there, knees buried into his chest, shivering under the cold rain. He shook his head. He didn't want food, he wanted money, and what he'd do with that money was obvious by the scabs on his forearms. "Do you shoot it yourself?" I asked, closing my fingers around his thin wrist, turning his dirty arm toward the sky. He shook his head again. "Other boys?" "Men" he sniffed, and I could see now that his eyes were tired and puffy. It took no genius to work out what the kid did to feed his habit. It hurt my heart to even think that someone could use a child who was so truly vulnerable. He sniffled again, rubbed his wet nose on his stained arm and took back his hand. "Can I have money?" He asked, and he did it without a moment's hesitation. He'd grown used to being forward, because being forward was the only way he could survive. "No" I told him, getting to my feet, "but you can have something better than money". Aran was reluctant in the beginning. I had no drugs to offer, nor money to give him. I worked hard, but my wages barely covered the rent and bills. What I was willing to give him, however, was a second chance at life. When I eventually got him back to my apartment that night, I thought nothing sinister of bringing him to the bathroom, drawing a hot bath, and gently undressing him there and then. Perhaps I should have given it more thought. Perhaps it was deeply inappropriate, yet we both knew that my actions were purely innocent. He stood there, shivering on the tiles as I pulled his filthy t-shirt up over his head. He hadn't hit puberty yet, and his tender armpits were as smooth as they were the day he was born. He hugged himself, and I moved to his pants. Aran hesitated when I tugged on them. The only men who had ever pulled down his pants had done it either for pleasure or to cause pain. Nobody had ever done it to be kind. "Do you want to do it yourself?" I asked, turning the tap as the bubbles had reached the edge. "No" he told me, so without making a big deal of it, I took his pants down to his ankles, and he leaned on my shoulder to step out of them. His underwear had seen better days. The front was stained yellow, likely from countless accidents either during the few measly hours of sleep at night, or from the fright of being a boy alone around depraved men. The back was no better. The jockey briefs were stiff and brittle, and when they came down he instinctively covered himself. Aran was indeed a beautiful boy. When healthy, he would shine like a diamond, and until such time, he would shine like the sweet little boy that he was on the inside. Naked, he was vulnerable. His tough attitude that had kept him alive this long disappeared with his clothing, and he seemed almost lost. "Come on" I smiled, holding his naked shoulders and leading him toward the tub. His body disappeared into the sea of thick, foamy bubbles. He cooed as the warm water washed away the filth of addiction, prostitution and abuse. I knelt at the side, filled a cup with the same water, and poured it down his back. Aran shivered and looked at me with eyes as deep as the ocean. "When do I have to leave?" He asked sincerely, and I pressed the warm sponge gently against his bruised cheek and smiled at him. "You don't". Perhaps it sounds like a fairytale beginning for my little friend and I, but I assure you that for Aran, the honeymoon period was brief. When the bubbles had died and the bathwater had turned black, I stood him up and switched on the shower. He let me wash away the remnants of his bath, until the only marks on the boy were those from a switch, a paddle or a fist. He winced when I ran the wash cloth under his legs and between the cheeks of his bottom. The cloth took with it, specks of dried blood that had clung to the skin around his rectum, and only when I'd applied a generous helping of baby oil, did the mess come away. He seemed unbothered by his nudity. His little package was comprised of an undeveloped pecker with two small marbles hanging loosely below. Just like the rest of him, his genitals were as smooth as a baby. With a towel around his waist, Aran limped behind me and followed me into the living room where the fire was already roaring. The television hummed gently in the background as I lowered him onto the couch, and for the rest of the evening, I caressed the kid's face and damp hair until he snored softly. When I woke early the following morning, part of me expected the boy to have left. I was as kind hearted as the next person, but I was no fool. Drug addicts have needs that most of us wouldn't understand, but I understood them well. The track marks from my own crippling childhood were a constant reminder of that. Surprisingly, Aran remained naked on the couch, and more surprisingly again, he was busy when I opened my eyes. I watched him for a moment. He had no idea that I had woken, and in that moment, he was alone with his own thoughts. His twig was piss hard, sliding into his fist quickly as he bucked his little hips and chewed on his bottom lip. His eyes were closed, squeezed shut as he imagined whatever he imagined, and his small pink helmet glistened with the sheen of pre-pubescent juices. My initial reaction was to alert him to my consciousness, but I didn't want to embarrass the child. He was enjoying himself, and although it may have been a forbidden act to watch him, how could I stop such a natural thing of beauty? With his eyes still closed, Aran did something that I hadn't expected. He turned his head toward my crotch, leaned gently closer, and inhaled deeply, and as he did, his young body stiffened, his buttocks clenched, and his hand jerked faster. He let out a gentle wisp of breath as the dry orgasm rippled through him, and then he went limp. I closed my eyes, pretended I hadn't seen a thing, and `woke' a few minutes later. I gave Aran clothes that my nephew of the same age had left over. He wore them well, for my nephew was a whisper of a boy, too. For the first time in his life, Aran looked content, until later that evening when the withdrawals began. "I want to go!" He whimpered, as I held him tight, "I want to and you can't stop me!" He was correct. If Aran decided to leave, then there was very little I could do. I wasn't his parent or guardian, I was a stranger who'd picked him up off the street. He battled with me for hours, screaming, crying, begging and threatening. He puked on himself, messed his pants, punched the floor and promised to throw himself from the balcony. He fought the bath, he refused the towel, and he shook in the corner, wet and naked, and told me that he'd kill himself if I didn't let him leave. "There's the door" I said, when I knew that the pain was dwindling, and I prayed that he'd be in his right mind. "If you want to leave, leave". He stood up on autopilot because he'd spent the last six hours demanding his release. When he walked however, with his little worm swinging between his legs, he realised that by walking out that door, he'd return to a life of misery. Aran wept as he crawled onto the couch and nuzzled his head into my chest. His naked body was warm and moist, and he sniffled softly until sleep came again. I lifted him up, scooping him into my arms and bringing him to the only bed I had. My own one. It was large enough for both of us, but I kept my underwear on for the first time in years. He whimpered something in his sleep as I covered him to his chin, and slipped in next to him, holding him against me and feeling his body move with each sweet breath. The second morning came, and I was met by the same sight. Aran pleasured himself like a boy gone wild. One hand slipped up and down his small shaft, the other was pushing a finger into his back passage, and a pair of my boxer shorts were draped over his face. It was nothing more than a teenage crush. His mind confused kindness with sex, and he had convinced himself that he was into me. I smiled as I watched. His innocence was so very evident when he was naked, more so when he was aroused. Another grunt, another thrust, another soft breath of air, and when Aran pulled my underpants from his face, I decided to keep my eyes on him, leaning on my hand and smiling. His cheeks burned red and he scrambled to get rid of the evidence. "Relax" I whispered, holding him, "there's nothing wrong with feeling like that. But I'm an adult and you're a boy, you'll have plenty of time for boyfriends or girlfriends as you grow up, but for now, you need to get healthy". Being open with Aran seemed to work. Unlike most boys his age, his modesty had been cruelly ripped from him many years prior. He regularly walked around with nothing more than a smile on, but he was more careful about his morning masturbation sessions. He pleasured himself in the bath each day, leaving the door open so that I could keep an eye on him, and when I began to notice carrots and hairbrushes going missing, and found them down the side of the tub, I realised that my young friend was far more advanced than most his age. His health improved day by day. There were still times where his rage broke through and he'd scream and cry through the night. There were still times when I'd wake to find us both in a pool of urine, and there were still times when he'd sweet talk me with depraved propositions to just let him have one hit. They didn't work, and two months after I'd rescued Aran, he was a changed boy. "I think we should enrol you in school" I told him one winter's evening as we ate on the couch. "You'll do well to mix with boys your own age". "I want to stay with you" he said, his bottom lip quivering. "Have you ever been to school, Aran?" He lowered his head and shook it. The boy broke my heart. School was a blessing for him. He flourished like a boy of his age was supposed to flourish. Given his lack of education, he spent most of his classes with the younger boys, but he proved to be quite the soccer player, so he made enough of an impression on the older ones to find himself surrounded by friends. He was growing up before my very eyes. His cheeks became fuller, top and bottom. His eyes began to sparkle again. He had meat on his bones, and he looked as healthy as any boy should. The scars on his arms began to fade, the joy in his heart returned, but every single night, Aran undressed fully and crawled into bed beside me. I never touched him. I never wanted to. He'd been through enough at the hands of sadistic perverts, but there was a relationship between us that transcended everything. "I got hair, dad" he told me one evening, though I'd noticed it a week prior. "Look". A small brushing of blond pubic hair was beginning to grow above his pecker. I hugged him as though it was an accomplishment. "Good job, champ". A month later, Aran woke me in the middle of the night. He still had the occasional accident, so I was sure that it was only for that reason that he'd stirred me. "Look dad" he whispered, and switched on the bedside lamp to show me a few watery spurts across his mostly smooth stomach. "I made sperm". "Well done, champ" I whispered, wiping it off with a tissue. Perhaps what we had was a depraved situation that never should have happened. Maybe I should have left him there to rot when I walked by the damp lane way that night. But one thing is for sure. I'm very glad that I didn't.