Date: Sun, 18 Nov 2012 16:15:00 +0000
From: Ivor Sukwell <isukwell@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: A Boy part 2

This is the second in a little series of `boy admiration' short
stories. Each is complete in itself, but each leads to the next. It is not
knowingly based on real persons nor on real events, although the laws of
probability would imply that something very similar has happened at some
time and in some place between characters accidentally similar to the ones
portrayed here.

The usual warnings and disclaimers naturally apply, and if you break any
laws by continuing to read, you do so at your own volition and your own
risk.


Sucking a Boy
By Ivor Sukwell


There is no set pattern, no definitive list of instructions on how to lead
a boy from simply liking his own prick to having a craving need for a man
to take him on the path of sexual adventure. Each boy is different, each
begins from a different starting place and each moves down the primrose
path at a different pace. A man who likes boys, really likes boys, likes
them because they are boys and not just a preferred method of satisfying
his own sexual cravings, knows that both man and boy obtain greater
satisfaction and pleasure from a want and desire achieved than from an
unexpected and possibly unwanted surprise. Some boys start at almost the
very end of the path, others, especially the younger ones, have only made
the first, tentative step on the journey to fulfilment.

He was one of the latter. At the age of ten or eleven he had discovered the
pleasure to be obtained from the thing that hung between his legs and
learned, as all boys learn, that rubbing it induces very nice feelings and,
being fortunate enough to have a friend of a similar age who had also made
that same discovery, that things feel even better when someone does them
for you. Only a few short weeks past his thirteenth birthday he had taken
another, bolder, step along the path, finding that when a man does those
things for you it is even better still, perhaps because now pleasure is
combined with a sense of wickedness, and what boy, what real boy, can
resist wickedness, especially when the wickedness is combined with
pleasure.

Now he had found an even greater pleasure, a man who could make his prick
experience delights that were beyond his imagination when he and his young
friend first began their mutual gropes and fondles, a man who treated his
developing cock to pleasure it had never dreamed of when it first
discovered the instinctive urge for masturbation.

He found, to his initial disgust, that what his cock spurted out and he
wiped up or carelessly left where it fell, depending where he was at the
time, the man wanted in his mouth. That, he thought, was dirty, but rapidly
decided it was not dirty dirty, but wicked dirty, sexy in some way dirty,
and the thought of squirting his spunk into a mouth excited him by the very
nature of its wicked, sexy dirtiness. And so, although the idea of actually
having his cock engulfed by a mouth was still a step too far, the idea of
shooting his spunk into it while he was adoringly wanked was something he
could definitely cope with.

And cope with it he did; by the third time I wanked him, lovingly giving
his cock all it so craved for, edging his slender, thirteen year old body
towards its climax, he had the tip actually inside my mouth several seconds
before he spunked. Good, tasty spunking it was as well, thicker than the
first watery offering he had given me.

"Only wanks once now," he cheerfully confided to me when I complimented him
on his creaminess, "Just does it before I gets up. Saves all the rest for
you, `cos I knows you likes it," he giggled.

He was gloriously pleased with his accomplishment, his restraint and
delighted that he was giving me what I wanted, though he still couldn't
understand why anyone should want spunk in their mouth. Even though he
couldn't understand that, he was still proud of the fact that he had a man
who wanted to eat his sperm, and thrilled with the naughtiness of squirting
the stuff into that man's mouth.

I cheated just a little that third time, allowing my lips to brush his
foreskin covered head as I wanked him to climax and even daring to use the
tip of my tongue on the very end of that skin bud when his body tautened
and his balls drew up, ready for discharge.

He never objected, and my guess was that he was coming slowly to terms with
the idea of actually being sucked, what had been initially gross and
off-putting was now naughtily tempting. Spunking in my mouth was good, it
definitely added something to being wanked; being wanked by a man was
something he knew he was not supposed to allow to happen, spunking in that
man's mouth was a thing that would be even more objected to; actually
having his spunk sucked out, not wanked out but sucked, his prick engulfed
by mouth, brought off by lips and tongue, that would be right up there
amongst the most forbidden things of all. And that, of course, made it
tempting.

I could have sucked him off that third time, but he would just have allowed
it to happen, not wanted it to happen and I needed him to want it, to want
it so much that when it happened it was a craving satisfied, just as being
wanked had been.

The craving was taking root, his seed, sown into my mouth, was slowly
germinating and growing in his mind. There is something primal, something
beyond the merely erotic for a boy when he feeds his seed to a man. Other
boys, all other boys, masturbate, but they shoot their sperm onto bed
sheets or into tissues or handkerchiefs, or perhaps merely on the uncaring
floor; he does not, he and he alone, orgasms into a man's mouth.

It is a secret, a secret so secret that it can never be revealed for it
separates him from all other boys that he knows and has known. Some,
perhaps, have similar secrets, but that is no concern to him, for if any
have their seed eaten he does not and will not know of it, just as they
will never know of him. He has a man who opens his mouth for him to spunk
into, a man who devours his sperm and will be there again tomorrow to eat
it again. He is special, and all teenage boys like to be special. He is
special, and he has taken another step along the path.

I knew when I wanked him that the thought was there; the delicate touch of
lips and tongue on his foreskin just before he orgasmed, held the promise
of more and he was growing curious as to what the more would feel
like. Curiosity had led him to being wanked by a man; that had been good,
had to be repeated and was now repeated regularly and enjoyed
regularly. Would that next step be just as enjoyable? Could it, was that
possible, be even more enjoyable? It was so tempting, so increasingly
tempting, to find out.

Curiosity and temptation are a heady mixture for a boy of thirteen; when
curiosity and temptation are combined with forbidden, the mixture is
irresistible.

"What's it like," he asked as he lay back in the Jensen's passenger seat,
his trackies round his ankles, his young, super-hard cock rampant and
delicate in my hand, "Getting' sucked off?"

"I love it," I nuzzled the hair on his head and twiddled his foreskin,
slipping into his mind the understanding that I, too, enjoyed such things;
"Ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times better than just being
wanked."

He thought as I enjoyed his foreskin and he enjoyed me enjoying his
foreskin. He'd come to really appreciate that little variation on a theme,
confessed to me that he did it himself now, making his solo wankings last
so much pleasurably longer than before.

"Do it to me if you want," he finally said, decision made, next step taken.

I took my arm from round his shoulder so he could lay back in the seat,
shifted position and went down to where my face had longed to be since the
first moment I held him, breathing in the intoxicating perfume of young
boy, young boy in heat.

I held his rigid delicacy upright, kissed the tip softly, then swallowed
him whole. No careful introduction of lips to head and shaft, millimetre by
millimetre, but an instant, complete engulfing, so the incredible,
indescribable sensations of mouth round cock flooded him with feeling,
rocked him to the very core.

"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh," he breathed as he was swallowed, my lips against
his five or six silky pubic hairs.

"Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," he sighed as my tongue swirled around his
solid boy-pride.

I sucked him tenderly, loving the feel of his hardness in my mouth as much
as he loved his hardness being in my mouth.

I adore having cock in my mouth, teenage cock, feeling it solid between my
lips, throbbing on my tongue; relishing, like a connoisseur with fine wine,
the subtle differences between this one and the last I tasted.

And there are differences, not just the obvious differences of length and
girth, the more subtle differences resulting from foreskin behaviour, or
the even more subtle differences of vintage.

Sucking a cut cock is like swilling a glass of crude, village table wine,
fit for its purpose of instant satisfaction, but no more. It is cock
because cock is needed and that is all that is available at the time. A
short foreskinned cock is more like an over-robust shiraz, better than vin
de plonk but falling short of its soft promise of more subtle, more
difficult to reach pleasures, the sensitive head thrusting through its
covering, filling the mouth with robust flavours in one, heady gush,
holding nothing back for later. A longer, easily slid foreskin, is
tempranillo, full of flavour and promise, both rich and teasing to the
palate, hinting at its fullness while the hood is in place, but releasing
its essence only when that hood is teased back and the head swirled around
with tongue.

Best of all is the long, tight foreskinned variety, the cabernet sauvignon
of cock, subtle, delicate and powerful, releasing its aromas not in one,
powerful surge, but slowly, softly, needing to be teased out by careful
tasting, the tongue gently probing inside to search out the nectar
within. The best of such cocks exhibit a wonderful complexity of aromas and
flavours, great elegance and refinement, and an ability to age gracefully.

A cut cock is suckable at thirteen or fourteen, but has no appeal at
eighteen; a long, tight foreskin can be enjoyed possibly beyond even that
advanced age. This was a grand cru of cock, slender and pulsing as it
rested on my tongue, filling my mouth with its subtle flavours. Young cock,
skin still the milky white of boyhood, not yet darkened by the frequent
wankings it now enjoyed, soft and delicate velvet to the lips,
counterpointing the tungsten hard rigidity below the surface.

My lips moved from the almost hairless base, slowly dragging their way up
the solidity of the shaft and over the prominent ridge; on, up, lingering
on the softer, spongier head before ending their journey at the very tip of
his bunched foreskin. A full lip suck, down as slowly as it had been up,
savouring every micro-metre of the young-teen delight that was now prisoner
in my mouth. As I neared the base I eased my tongue forward, along the soft
under-belly of his prick, pushing the still skin-covered tip to the roof of
my mouth, and reached for his ball sac.

He was big enough to enjoy and small enough to devour whole without ever
reaching throat. With the aid of fingers, easing his day-long filled balls
towards me, I was able to lick the smoothness of their covering while still
pleasuring his cock, rubbing the tip with my hard palate and drawing little
moans and whispers of joy from him.

I came up him again, this time covering teeth with curled over lips, a
firmer grip on his rigidness as I eased towards the top, his cock slowly
revealed from within its warm, wet cavern of delight, evening air cool on
his saliva wet skin. He sighed as the new sensations slid through him, the
air fresh on his wet, exposed cock shaft, lips warm on the still mouth-held
head.

Right up I went, till only the tip of his foreskin remained between my
lips, and that I teased with my lip-covered teeth, toying with it in
mimicry of the toying he had become so used to from my fingers, and now his
own as well. I uncovered my teeth, gently, so very gently, nibbling that
wonderful foreskin; pleasure-pain that made him gasp with its suddenness
and then mew softly, needing more.

Covering my teeth once more, I lip-gripped his foreskin and eased it
backwards, not far, just to the point where it became tight on his head,
but far enough to expose the eye of his boy-god-rod, an eye I tantalised
with my caressing tongue, making his skin-restricted head swell even more
as it tried so hard to push is way through imprisoning foreskin and burst
free into the paradise that was promised.

Without my aid it would never burst free and I did not aid it. I didn't
want any suck-destroying powerful surges of unwanted feeling to interfere
with his pleasure – it would be taking him too far to unpeel him at this
moment. Instead, I eased him back as far as he would go, just to the point
of discomfort, pushed my tongue against the eye of his joy, and then used
my lips to pull his skin back up, docking my tongue tip inside it and then
slowly and carefully easing that tongue tip around and inside his foreskin.

Young body tensed and relaxed then tensed again as tongue went where no
tongue had gone before and I heard a whispered, almost sighed,

"That is so fuckin' good," escape from his lips and I murmured appreciation
of his compliment into his groin.

Sucking a boy is a huge, huge pleasure, but it only realises its full
wonder when the sucking is designed and intended for the pleasure of the
boy. Selfishly, of course, I wanted him to enjoy it so that he would want
to enjoy it again and again; selflessly I just wanted him to experience
wonder.

Later sucks would allow me the opportunity to add to his pleasure, include
more of his body in the experience, but this was his first suck and I did
not want to distract from his new-found delight by adding more, or even by
employing pleasure he already knew of. This was sucking as a first suck
should be, mouth and lips alone would bring about his climax and all his
sensations would come from his cock and my mouth alone.

No wanking to speed up his arrival, no stroking of his wonderful thighs, no
searching finger probing underneath him, just wet lips and warm mouth to
call his sperms from their lurking depth.

This is not the quickest way to bring a boy to orgasm: the feelings he
experiences, though intense, are subtle, so unlike the, by comparison,
brutal driving out of his spunk by hand. Mouth alone teases, and
encourages, but does not force; the promise of orgasm is always there, but
it is a distant promise that grows closer with exquisite slowness.

It is not an easy thing to do for an older boy, a boy who's length and
girth can tire the mouth long before an ending is near, but for a boy of
only just thirteen, who's inches of joy fit the mouth comfortably, need no
uncomfortable stretching open of the jaw to accommodate, it is a possible
task. Patience is required, because there is a need for climax, the want
for hot sperm to flow and coat the tongue with its slimy taste, but this
need must be held in check, allowed to grow only as the boy's need grows.

And slowly his need does grow. As lips slide up and down his shaft, as
tongue teases and torments, the promise of paradise grows
brighter. Imperceptible at first, stirrings begin, the first, distant
warnings of ejaculation to come, flicker through his body and, as the
eruption to come moves from distant promise to inevitable, unstoppable
explosion, his body becomes a seismograph, the needle of his cock twitching
and pulsing as it forewarns of the boiling sperm-flow.

When you suck a boy for the pleasure of the boy more than for your own
gratification, these signs are obvious and a decision has to be
made. Should the lava-flow of sperm be stopped, delayed, or should it be
allowed to surge upwards, exploding from the teased and tantalised tip of
its four inch volcano?

Think of the boy now, think of him and not of your own need to taste and
savour his cream. Does his body beg for release or does he want to prolong
the moment of eruption, to bask longer in the heat of stimulation? Each
such moment is different.

I felt his hardness, rigid in my mouth, I felt its every pulse and quiver;
I heard his panting breath and the long silence as he held that breath. I
knew his eyes were screwed shut, his mouth open as he fought to drive his
sperm upwards and I sucked him to his end, trying to time the moment so I
drove my lips downwards and his cock as deep in the cavern of my mouth as
its four inches would reach and his explosion became unstoppable.

His lovely prick bucked in my mouth as his sperm surged up and out, a
small, hot glob the forerunner of the blasting shots that followed; hot
sperm powered to the back of my mouth-cavern, more hot boy-lava flowing
after, coating the roof of my mouth, smaller, aftershock drops onto my
tongue as I slid back up his slender length, easing his foreskin away from
the point of eruption so nothing was left behind.

His first sucking, but it would not be his last, a fact he confirmed as I
held his slender, satisfied body close;

"Oh, fuck, yes!" he breathed, "That was so amazing. Definitely way better
than bein' wanked," he sighed.


isukwell@hotmail.co.uk