Date: Sun, 03 Aug 2003 10:29:13 -0500 From: Fredric L. Brothers Subject: ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY - Part 6 (Man/Boy) ------------------------------------------ ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY ------------------------------------------ By Fred Brothers Copyright (c) 2003 Fredric Law Brothers - All Rights Reserved -------------------------------------------------------- NOTE CAREFULLY: The following is a copyrighted work and is intended for private, individual use. It may not be reproduced by any known method, distributed or posted on additional web sites, without the expressed written consent of the author. The following story is fiction. It bears no connection or resemblance to actual or specific persons and/or any real life situations or experiences. A Disclaimer: If you don't appreciate gay, intergenerational love stories (that means man/boy love to the uninitiated or brain dead) or you're under 18 years old, please leave this site now. Okay? You have been warned. Enough said! -------------------------------------------------------- Part 6 After driving Clay home, I return to the house. Before heading to bed, I go into my office and look at the drawings and sketches again... his drawings and sketches. They are all over, a few even hanging from the walls. The boy has done a marvelous job. He created a fabulous design for the renovation of the property. It is wonderful - truly wonderful ...and wondrous. He has an excellent eye, a beautiful sense of proportion and is, quite honestly, an exceptional artist. It's sad that his field of expertise, where his talents lay, is an area not recognized as being one of high artistic merit. Too bad for us all. The design is an amazingly unified whole. It eliminates all of the terraces, steps and blatantly artificial areas currently existing. It instead utilizes contouring of the land to create areas for flowers, shrubs, wild flowers, vegetables, herbs, and entertaining. By using berms, dunes and artificial hillocks, he employs the land itself to demarcate the various areas. It is a brilliant design - well thought through and superbly realized. What I find most amazing is how Clay, in his sweeping design, shows his sensitivity to my needs...and wants...and tastes...and to my personality. He seems to know instinctively that I'm not a formal type of guy. I like things with a certain casualness to them - nothing up tight, too rigid or studied. The entire project has an interesting informality about it. There is a certain surface formality to the overall plan, but underneath, there is a casual, devil-make-care attitude. His remarkable insights...his instincts...his rightness... his awareness...they are all absolutely outstanding. ^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^ In bed, after turning out the lights, I can think of only one thing...one person. Clay. Lovely Clay - my beautiful, angelic, ethereal Clayton. His image...the indelible image burned into my cerebral cortex...moves before my now closed eyes. And what magnificent image it is, too! We had such a pleasant, fulfilling afternoon and evening together ...looking over sketches and drawings, eating dinner, watching the film. It was a wonderful day. It was so marvelous how I responded to his openness...and he to mine. The way he touched me...and the way he permitted me to touch him. His playing with my nipple piercing...the gentleness...the consideration...the intensely erotic manipulations...causing me to climax so powerfully. And how he removed his prosthesis and let me rub and fondle his stump...the beautiful remnant of his leg. God! That had to be the highlight of the entire day. I adored touching it...and him...and somehow...somehow, at that very moment, I knew that my feeling ran very deep...that I loved him. Maybe because it was so intimate...I felt so united with him...so incredibly close. But why? Why did I find him so incredibly sexy...his body so tremendously erotic? Why? When I'd never been sexually attracted to very young men...ever! Christ! Always questions! Always! Does he know how much I'm drawn to him? To his personality? And his physical appearance? Is it a sexual come-on? Is he luring me? Playing with me? Trying to seduce me? Are we playing games? Teenage boy game? Is he using his distinctive assets as an enticement? Is he aware of what he is doing? To me? Is he using his body as a lure? And for what end? Does he want me to take him? And what's wrong with that? Isn't that what I desire? Isn't it? My ultimate desire? Clayton? Do I think about him this way because...because I feel sorry for him...because I admire his spirit and his fortitude? Do I think he's desperate for love...and feel he will come to me because I am here, showing him affection...and demonstrating my desire? Showing him that his physical appearance is pleasing to me? Showing him that I think he is absolutely beautiful - despite what others may think...or say? Yes, Clayton has an incredible beauty...I must even say an overwhelming beauty...for me. He's a most marvelous boy...a delight to know. He is a pleasure to be with...a fine person...an interesting individual. My thoughts and ruminations slowly began to turn to another aspect of Clayton...and our burgeoning friendship...to that of Clayton as a potential companion...and the remote possibility of our becoming future bedmates...sex partners...lovers. Is it in my future? Our future? Is it too much to hope for? Maybe I'm being overly optimistic, but one day...one day soon...I truly hope we are. The boy turns me on like no other person I'd met in more than twenty-five years. Why? I cannot understand the reason. Never... never...never boys...I've never been with boys...or even one boy. Strange...so entirely bizarre. Yes. What makes the situation so incredibly weird is that I have never thought about the possibility of being monogamous...or having a regular, loving partner...or even desiring one. I loved playing "the field"...or so I've always convinced myself of that. Why has Clay done this to my psyche? How is it possible for this teenager to have this kind of effect on me...this kind of enormous, life-style altering effect? I see his smooth thigh...the thigh of that amputated leg. It's so soft...so nicely muscled...underneath the velvety...tantalizing flesh... flesh as fine and clear as a newborns skin. And the stump is so beautifully formed - lean, tapered, symmetrical. The surgeon did a truly first class job. I cannot believe how excited I became touching it...fondling it...petting it...working in that softening, soothing, delicate cream. It makes me anxious to see what the arm...the stump of his arm...looks like...and feels like. I'll bet it's beautiful, too... soft...and cuddly...and with a cute little scar at the end. And I long to see...to let my eyes gaze upon...and let my hands feel...his entire body. I still get whiffs of the body lotion I used on him tonight - and each flash of the aroma brings me back...to being with Clay...gently soothing his body...watching him luxuriate in the glow of my unbroken attention...and adoration. It was so strange carrying his prosthetic, though. Carrying a body part of another person. Holding Clayton's leg. Christ! I was so disconcerting...and such an enormous turn-on. And when he pulled up his boxers...and I could see almost the entire right side of his body...up to the hip bone...and the surprising absence of hair...so little hair...anywhere. Christ! What a tremendous rush! It was so incredibly exciting...seeing all that smooth, lustrous skin...what a fantastic trigger to my senses... creating an image indelibly imprinted in the catalogue of my greatest sexual moments. Let us hope there are many, many of them in my - our - future. Yet...yet...something is bothering me...seems to be bugging the shit out of me. Why is it...that...the area very close...closest to his crotch...seems devoid...absent of any hair. What is with that anyway? Does he shave his body...and is that why he was so quick to notice how I shaved mine? Could be...it's a possibility. But not really.... He doesn't even seem to need...need to shave his face. I know. It felt so downy...and so incredibly soft...when I gently stroked it...with the back...the back of my hand. So...so...soft...so ...silken...so supple...so...sleek...so... Questions...so many questions...so few answers...more and...more... and more... ^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^ The caffeine from my first cup of coffee of the day has not yet begun to percolate into my blood stream. I am in my underwear and stare out the kitchen window into the garden. I think about all the work Clay and I will need to accomplish to complete his vision of this large, open space. It is such a great and grand vision...and I long for us to begin working on it together. The weather is awful - rainy, windy and quite cool for spring. It is one of those days one wants to spend in bed - to sleep away the hours in sweet oblivion - particularly if one is sleeping with a cherished one. The ringing of the telephone breaks my thoughts. It's the business line. I'm tempted to let the answering machine get it, but I figure it must be important if the person is calling so early on a Saturday morning. "Yes, good morning, this is Cole Avery. How may I help you?" "Good morning, Dr. Avery, this is Clarence Ritchards." "Oh? Oh, yes! Good morning Dr. Ritchards." I immediately become anxious when he identifies himself. Has something happened to Clay? I start feeling panicky. "You muh-muh-must be Clay's...uh...uh..." "Grandfather," he interjects hastily. "I'm Clayton's paternal grandfather." "Yes, of course. How are you this morning, Dr. Ritchards?" Then I add immediately, "And how is Clay?" "I am fine, thank you. And Clayton is quite well." He pauses, and I know he's getting ready to explain the reason for the call. "Dr. Avery, Clayton's grandmother and I know that he has been busy working on a design project for the landscaping of your property. He has been devoting much of his available time to this undertaking." "We have met twice to discuss the project, sir, and . for him to present his plans and drawing. In addition, I am sure you know that he will be tending my lawn weekly." "Yes. So I am lead to understand. I also understand that the work he is doing is taking much of his available time. This is valuable time that could be better utilized by Clayton to devote to his studies and his schoolwork." I'm getting the distinct impression that there is a big change in the offing. After all, I'm not that slow. "Yes. I understand. But ...well he seems so interested and...so happy doing this type of work." "I am sure he is. But certain...um...shall we say some particular difficulties and problem situations have arisen at school. And we, his grandmother and I, believe that he needs to stop all extracurricular activities, sir. They seem to be interfering greatly with his academic pursuits. I'm truly sorry, Dr. Avery, but we have reluctantly been forced to conclude that Clayton cannot assist you with the landscaping renovation. He must become more committed to his lessons, his studies, and his schoolwork in general, and expend more effort on both. I'm sorry, sir." I hear a loud "NO!" in the background and the sound of a door slamming. I'm very disappointed...and greatly saddened by the grandparent's decision. To say the least, I was looking forward to working with Clay. His design is wonderful. In addition, he is the main participant in my current series of intense, sexual fantasies. "Dr. Ritchards, may I ask a question?" "Certainly. But I need to ask you something first." "Then please proceed." He's quiet for about ten seconds. I have the feeling he is trying to formulate how he is going to say whatever it is he wants to say. Finally, he comes out with it - slowly, haltingly and deliberately. "Dr. Avery, would it be possible for you to meet us today so...so that we may discuss Clayton's...uh...Clayton's future course of...uh...the course of his studies? And his progress...or rather seeming lack of progress...in school?" I am quite surprised by the request. I must admit that despite my longings and desires, I hardly know the boy...and don't know anything about the family. Yet, I am being invited to discuss Clay and his school situation with them. Why? I answer quickly and with conviction. "Yes!" Why pass up an opportunity to be with the boy? "That will certainly be possible... and most desirable. Yes. Thank you for asking." He seems pleased with my reponse. "Thank you, Dr. Avery." Would you like me to come to your home? I think it would be easiest since the weather is rather foul." "Yes." I hear him breath a deep sigh. Is it a sign of relief? "Excellent...thank you. Thank you so much. Say about 11:30?" ^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^ The house is small. It is the first time I see it in daylight. It seems to be nothing more than a one-story bungalow, and in the light of the gray, overcast skies today, looks very plain and extremely ordinary. What sets it apart from the neighboring structures is the beautiful landscaped grounds surrounding it. They are stunning and so artistically defined. There is no doubt in my mind the person responsible for this splendid effort. Clay opens the door before I get a chance to ring the bell. Again, I am thrilled to see him. "Oh, God! I'm so glad to see you Cole." He goes to hug me, but pulls back quickly. I'm sure he's has immediate second thoughts about an open display of affection...especially with his grandparents present. "Please come in." "Thank you, Clayton." He gives me a rather big frown. I call him Clayton. I decide on the drive over to take a rather formal approach to things, playing it professional and as cool as possible. We shake hands. "You look great," he says. "Your clothes are like real cool, dude." I smile. "Thanks." I'm dressed in what's called "business casual" - an ecru shirt, khakis, no tie, socks matching the shirt, brown loafers, Italian black leather jacket. I think the outfit says a number of things - I have taste, I have a sense of style, and I have money. Today Clay's wearing the arm prosthesis that most looks like a natural hand...and it is very attractive. It almost matches like his real hand. As I grasp it, I look directly into his eyes. I feel the sponginess of the hand...see the beauty in his face...feel the almost vice-like grip of the hand...see the tension in his body language. I hope I can control my body...and prevent severe embarrassment while I'm here...and near him. "What happened to your hair?" I ask loudly. I am startled! He has been shorn. He looks even more adorable with his hair no longer than a eighth of an inch - all around. And he looks younger, if that's possible. His face definitely looks more youthful. However, no twelve year old was ever that tall, except maybe for Lew Alcindor. "Got it cut this morning. I always ggget it cut short before the sssummer. More comfortable this way. Easier to wash, too and keep clean in hot weather." Clay's grandfather comes to the entry foyer. He's tall, bald, thin, distinguished and much older than I had expected. I'd guess he's well into his seventies. He almost looks like an aged Clay, but the teen is taller than the old man. He is dressed in an oversized gray sweater, gray slacks, with a white shirt, a gray tie under the V-neck sweater, and black, wing-tipped oxfords. His overall appearance matches the weather. We shake hands, and he leads me into the living room/dining room area. The rooms are rather cramped. They look stuffed. The furniture is old but nice (a throwback to the 1950s craze for Danish modern and, apparently, original), the carpeting slightly worn, and everything in need of a fresh coat of paint. There are plants everywhere, artfully arranged and seemingly very healthy - obviously Clay's tender care. And books! Shelf upon shelf of books tucked into every corner, occupying every square inch of wall space, and even piled in some corners. There is a display of family photos on a piano, on the cocktail/coffee table and over the fireplace. "Thank you for coming, Dr. Avery. My wife and I appreciate your concern for Clayton...and his difficulties at school." "Thank you, Dr. Ritchards. My pleasure to be of any help I can. I think Clayton deserves every assistance we can provide." Again, Clay frowns; the old man nods. Clay is obviously displeased - he must think that I'm immediately siding with his grandparents. "Good morning, Dr. Avery. Welcome to our home." I turn around and see the other Dr. Ritchards. She is this incredibly petite woman, holding out her hand to me. "Thank you for joining us." She in impeccably coiffed, wears very little makeup, and is sporting a simple, flowered shirtwaist dress and sensible shoes. I extend my hand and we shake. He skin is amazingly soft - not old woman soft, but like that of a woman half her age. "Thank you, Dr. Ritchards." She laughs lightly. It is a very appealing laugh and sounds like a young woman...maybe even a girl. "Please, please, let us not stand of such formality. Please call me Franny." "I would be honored, if you agree to call me Cole." "Cole it is." The old man seems to be rather displeased with this level of familiarity. Franny walks over to the dining room table. There are coffee cups set there, along with a variety of small sandwiches, scones, and muffins. Somebody's been quite busy in the kitchen. "Would you like a cup of coffee? And maybe I can tempt you with some of my homemade goodies?" "Yes, thank you, Franny." She pours three cups of coffee. Clay walks into the kitchen and comes back with a Coke. He's wearing various articles of baggy clothes again, the preferred "couture" of the teenage set. They look somewhat ridiculous, at least to me they do. I can't tell what the pants are supposed to be - they come down to his mid-calf. Are they long short pants or short long pants? He is wearing high white socks so I cannot see the real leg or any part of the leg prosthetic. He holds the can of soda in his artificial hand. The hand seems quite functional and remarkably realistic. I have to keep reminding myself not to stare...and to get any idiotic grin off my face. After we drink the coffee, eat the food Franny has prepared and made endless amounts of small talk, the male Dr. Ritchards gradually begins the move to the topic and the situation that has brought us together - Clay and his underachievement in school. I can see the boy immediately becomes agitated. He does not like the subject, and I suppose he hates me for being here. But I feel it's the least I can do...to do everything possible to help him. I kept telling myself that I'm here to help Clay become the man he wants to be - to realize his full potential. And, yes, it is also selfishness. I most definitely want to see my property developed the way Clay has envisioned it. "As I mentioned in our earlier conversation, Dr. Avery, Clayton has some serious difficulties with his current schoolwork. At this particular time, he is in danger of receiving failing grades in two subjects - algebra and social science. His grandmother and I do not take this grave matter lightly...and we are determined to correct the situation." "I understand, sir. I know if I were in your position, I would take the same position as you are taking." "Thank you, Dr. Avery." He glances quickly at Clay. I look at the boy. He's staring at the carpet, his face totally impassive, maybe a touch angry. I notice an occasional tick in one cheek muscle whenever his grandfather speaks. Must be a conditioned reflex. "His grandmother and I have reluctantly reached the conclusion that Clayton must spend more time - and make a more concentrated effort - on his studies...on all his studies." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Let me state for the record that Clayton is not one of the top students in his grade level. He is nowhere near that! He is, unfortunately, a straight `C' student." "That's not true!" Clayton gets flushed and sits forward and looks at his grandfather. "I get B's!" The old man looks at him. "Yes. That is true...and you also get D's...so it averages out." He looks back at me. "We have gone through this before with Clayton and without any notable success. However, this time will be different. We are prepared to take on the services of well-qualified tutors to assist him. He has successfully argued against having us take this step - until now." Clay and his grandfather look at each other, and it is not a pleasant exchange. "He needs to be drilled, to have instilled the proper need and reverence for learning, to stimulate in him a desire for learning, and to bring him up to a passing level in the subject subjects where he is defective." I immediately cringe at that word. I get the impression that this man has the bare minimum amount of social graces. Franny coughs slightly, to get her husband's attention. He looks over at her, and it gradually dawns on him - he has made a bad faux pas. I look at Clay; he has become quite red in the face and very worked up. I know I need to break the oppressive silence that has settled. I know we need to get to the point as quickly as possible now. I get the distinct impression that this man can talk around a subject for hour upon hour. He is, after all, a retired college professor. I shift my weight and lean forward in my chair. "Are you asking me to be that tutor?" "Yes we ARE!" Clayton is speaking. We all turn and look at him. He stands and walks to the center of the room. He immediate takes charge. Both grandparents stare at him - open-mouthed. "And when would you like me to begin?" I ask, addressing the question directly to Clay. "TODAY!" he replies, looking directly at me. "We...uh...I mean... I would like you to begin TODAY!" he says most emphatically. Franny smiles. The old man looks sullen. The End of Part 6 If you have any comments about this or any other story I wrote, please send them to me at flbrothers@hotmail.com I appreciate all emails - ALL! Thanks