Date: Thu, 4 May 2023 17:26:11 +0200 (CEST)
From: maxkent69@tutanota.com
Subject: ARLO MY LOVE - Max Kent - Adult Youth

ARLO MY LOVE

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As with every story that appears in Nifty, this story is complete
fiction. It's a production of the imagination. And, as with every story on
Nifty, it does not condone or promote illegal acts of any description.


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ARLO MY LOVE

Part 1

Arlo is 14 years old. Arlo turns heads in the street. In restaurants and
cafes, both men and women find it hard to take their eyes from him. When he
flicks his ginger fringe from his eyes, women sigh and think eyelashes like
his shouldn't be wasted on a boy.

When he rises to go to the toilet, they marvel he can be so slender, so
slim, and yet not seem skinny. Women would die for those hazel eyes,
perfect skin, small white even teeth, and those pale pink lips that lick so
casually at his ice cream cone.

Imagine a young Timothée Chalamet - albeit red-headed - and you'll be
close to Arlo Martin.

Arlo is in the wrong place at the wrong time. He should be naked in the
baths or gym in 5th century BC Athens, the eyes of men caressing his body.

Even Arlo's rosebud is beautiful. I know because that's what I'm looking at
now. The pale pink of his skin gives way the the faintest tinge of brown
that finds its centre in the portal to his anus. I pry open his cheeks a
little wider and flick my tongue against the starfish.

I'm stretched out on the bed, full-length, naked. Arlo, naked, is stretched
along my length facing in the opposite direction. He holds my hard-on at
the base, his finger-tips touching as they meet. He licks tenderly at the
head of my dick, then slips it inside his mouth, something he certainly
couldn't do when he was ten years old.

The fingers of his other hand play with my balls, slide in the sweaty
crease that leads to my own bruised starfish. His lips, tongue, mouth
tenderly caress my glans, make little circles, plant tiny kisses.

Arlo is a happy boy - perhaps young man now. He focuses on his work, his
long middle finger sliding back and forth in my arsehole, mirroring what I
am doing to him.

I place my thumbs on either side of his hole and gently prise it open. A
musky smell fills my nostrils, and I tickle the entrance with the tip of my
tongue. I hear him giggle in his broken voice.

The boy's penis is as hard as a stick of asparagus, the head poking out
from the foreskin. I fight my desire to lick it because I know how easily
Arlo can cum when he is fully aroused. I feel him pull my open legs even
wider as he plunges his face between my legs, between my buttocks.

He is kissing and sucking at my hole, almost frantically, as if he wanted
to find and suck the life essence out of me. He learned this as a boy from
me. I can feel one, then two fingers, fight their way inside me. They start
a sawing motion I know will open me wider and wider. A third finger tries
to join its brothers, but I clench my buttocks, the sign that's enough,
enough for now. To tell the truth, my arse is still sore from Jack's four
little fingers last night.  Jack is still too young to do anything
subtly. I wonder if I'll use Jack tonight.

"I said 'Aren't you...?' You're not even listening!"

I realise Arlo has been speaking to me. Gently I ease his fingers from my
hole and swing his body, feather-light, round so his hard-on is against my
belly, his shoulders against my chest, his face and lips to mine. His
breath is so sweet, a wonder when you consider where his lips, tongue and
mouth have just been.

"I said," he repeats,"is it okay if I'm out till 9 tonight. I promise I
won't be late. Frankie has to be back home by nine too."

Like most boys, Arlo flits from one topic to another with hardly a breath
between. I'm still amazed how innocent he can still look. Stretched out
along me, his chin resting on his arms crossed on my chest, his face a
picture of concentration, a frown that only serves to make him more lovely.

"Okay... but not later thatn 9. You've got a test tomorrow. If you're late,
you're grounded for the weekend? Capisci o no?"

"Capisco, capo. I'll be home in time."

'Time, time, time See what's become of me While I looked around for my
possibilities...'

Arlo is ten years old. He is sitting on a swing in the park. He looks so
small, so alone. It's only 5 o'clock but already shadows are long, there's
a chill in the air. Who the fuck leaves a ten-year-old kid on their own in
a public park? The toilets are only a few steps away, for Chrissake, and
these toilets are not only used for the obvious. I sit down on the next
swing.

"Hi, kid. You on your own? What you doing?"

The boy raises his head, and for the first time those big hazel eyes look
into mine. My heart skips a beat, no, it skips half a dozen beats. He looks
at me brightly.

"Waiting for mum. She's in there."

He turns his head, and I realise he's looking at the local clinic.

"Oh, is she a nurse?"

"No," he says. "She cleans the place in the afternoon. I come and play here
till she comes out at the end of her shift."

"What time does school finish?" I ask.

"Four o'clock. I usually play football in the playground. Then I head for
the park at quarter to five."

"And when do you get your homework done?" That must seem a strange question
from a stranger.

"I have to do that as soon as I get home. Mum's very strict about that. But
I like doing most of the homework anyway."

It's hard to believe a ten-year-old can be so confident.

"Arlo! Arlo!" and a young woman, looking remarkably like a red-headed
version of the dearly departed Amy Winehouse comes clicking across the
tarmac.

"Hi, mum," returns Arlo, leaping from the swing.

Arlo's mother stops in front of us. I see where he gets those big eyes
from. "I've told you not to speak to anyone," she begins to scold him.

I intervene with "But Arlo knows that strangers give the best sweets."

She looks at me uncertainly.

"And, anyway, Arlo didn't speak to me. I spoke to him. I'm a teacher. I
guess that's what we do when we see a little kid sitting on his own in the
park at this time of night."

Amy - for that turns out to be her name - says, "Oh, a teacher... well,
thanks. I know I shouldn't have Arlo wait here for me. But it's only for a
couple of weeks. We're new around here. I don't know anybody. And I've got
to keep this job. I've just got to."

Almost desperately.

"You understand, don't you?"

"Coffee?" I say.

"Pardon?" she says.

"Coffee?" I repeat. "And juice for him. No Cola, no Pepsi... juice."

I turn and point to a high-rise behind us. "That's mine. Way up
there. Twentieth floor. Top flat. Fabulous view."

Uncertainty flits across her face.

"Can we? Please, mum, can we?"

Amy shrugs her shoulders. Sighs. "Oh, hell, why not? Anything to get off my
feet."

Pauses.

"You sure you're a teacher."

I laugh

"Well, at least I was at 4 this afternoon. And I'm pretty sure I will be
again at 8.30 tomorrow morning. St. Stephen's. Deputy Headteacher."

Amy blushes, "Sorry," and takes Arlo's hand. The boy takes my hand, or at
least wraps his little fingers round mine.

"Come on, let's go," he pipes, and off we go.


Part 2

I love boys. There. I've said it. I've learned to live with it. I've
learned to accept it. I've spent most of my working life amonst boys. I am
not a saint, but I like to think I've helped more boys than I've
hurt. Actually, I don't think I'd have it in me to hurt a boy. I've
certainly never forced myself on a boy.

When a boy is lying on the carpet, stripped to the waist, an obvious bulge
in his jeans, and he looks seriously into your eyes and whispers, "I like
having a hard-on," it's difficult not to believe he has an agenda in
mind. And if his agenda concides with yours, well...

Why me? Why boys?

Honestly, I don't know. I imagine a Freudian would have a field day with
me, but for the life of me I can't recall wanting to murder my father and
fuck my mother. To be honest, even the idea fills me with horror. And
nobody seduced me, nobody molested me when I was ten years old - my rotten
luck I guess - but I knew when I was very young it was boys I desired. As I
grew older, the objects of my desire didn't. That put me through hell for a
long time.

Oh, to be fair, I graduated to 13 and 14 year olds, and I had a 'go' at 15,
16 and 17 years old, but to tell the truth the magic wasn't there. Gone was
the intense desire that drove me to the edge of the abyss time after time,
but I'm nothing if not self-controlled, and even though the ice creaked and
cracked under me a few times, I never plunged into the icy waters of
disaster, despair.

Now, those of you who have already pulled down your zip and fished yourself
out in anticipation, just pop yourself back in. I'm the writer; I say what
goes. Actually Arlo does, but since he's not here at this moment, I'll
sneak in a few bits of the grown-up stuff.

Of course, you can always use Ctrl+F (FIND), pop in whatever you fancy
(dick, cock, hole, anus, and so on), skip the grown-up bits and head
straight for the other stuff. I have to admit Arlo is your oyster as much
as he is mine.

Arlo... ah, Arlo... the little fucker who sneaked up on me when I wasn't
looking, who sneaked into my heart even before I sneaked into his
underpants. You'd think a man of my experience would be immune from 'lust
at first sight', but no - for Arlo I fell head over heels like Jack with no
Jill right down that fucking hill.

Now where did that come from?

Oh yes, it was one of Arlo's favourite nursery rhymes, and I still see him
as a ten-year-old standing buck-naked in my shower, chanting out nursery
rhymes, whilst I...

You have to admire the boy's powers of concentration. Not many
ten-year-olds would remain word-perfect with an adult naked man kneeling
before them in a power shower.

And where was the lovely Amy, mother of Arlo, when all of this was
happening to her beautiful boy? Out at a pub or club probably. And who
could blame her? After all, the lovely Amy was only 27, having had Arlo
when she was a mere 16, a kid herself.

And where was Dad, father of Arlo, impregnator of Amy? You might as well
ask 'Who was Dad?' And the answer wouldn't be much better, though Amy, to
her credit, could narrow it down to one of three who'd taken it in turns to
fuck her on a bit of wasteground behind 'The Red Lion'.

Now before you go hollering 'rape' it was definitely not that. Amy herself
will tell you that though she was out of her mind on rum and blackcurrant -
Do kids actually drink that stuff? - she really enjoyed that Big Night Out,
or what she can remember of it, which, to be sure, isn't very much.

And to her credit, instead of snuffing out the embryonic Arlo, she went
through the whole messy business of pregnancy, giving birth, and raising
Arlo as best she could, which was pretty good all things considered.

Her family disowned her, chucked her out, which is to be expected from
strict, devout Plymouth Brethern, or some such sect. But like most single
mothers, Amy was doing a great job with Arlo on the proverbial shoestring
and the last two-quid on a Friday night.

Then along came me.

And when Amy'd checked me out: (a) I was indeed a deputy Headteacher, and
therefore CRB-checked, (b) had a beautiful flat, (c) had a BMW, (d) and
obviously liked by Arlo, she saw her chance for a bit of freedom.

And, to be honest, I saw my chance - to spend time with, support, and enjoy
what I admit I've always been drawn to - a cute boy with high spirits. But
ten years old? That gave me pause, but he was so sweet, so cute, so funny,
so precocious, that, when Amy asked me if I'd mind - "I know it's an
impossible favour, but we've no-one else... and Arlo really likes
you... and it would only be twice a week, and..."

Oh. come on now, you'd need a heart of stone to refuse a request like
that. So Tuesdays and Thursdays it was, from 4 to 5.30, Arlo was to be with
me -and Arlo? - he loved it so much that when he begged for weekend
sleepovers neither Amy nor I had the heart to refuse him. And everyone was
happy.

Amy was happy as she dolled herself up for The Roxy Club.

I was happy as I showered, shaved and scented as I waited for Arlo to be
delivered into my safe-keeping. And Arlo was delighted. What boy wouldn't
be in a four bed-roomed flat (one of the rooms equipped as a small gym),
another room with not only bunk beds but with a host of toys from Hamleys
(all of them new!) - and with its own laptop, and a master bedroom with a
giant double bed, a wall-to-wall mirror, and a balcony on top of the world.

How the hell could a teacher, even a Deputy Head, afford a penthouse like
mine? They couldn't. I couldn't. My dad could. He owned high class
properties all across the town and beyond. So that's what I got from Mum
and Dad as my graduation present.

Arlo wasn't much interested in the bathroom at first - What ten-year-old
is? - until he saw the jacuzzi in action... ah, the jacuzzi - every
boy-lover should have one; they are irresistible to boys. And did I mention
the DVDs - a whole shelf of them from which Arlo could have his pick?
Well, not those, not quite yet - "You have to be at least twelve to watch
those."

Could I have kept my hands off Arlo?

Could you?

When he was sprawled across me as we watched 'Toy Story', or
'Transformers', or 'Gladiator', or 'The Terminator' together. Could you
keep your hands off a boy as he wriggled around in your lap making himself
comfortable, his pyjama top riding up to his tiny nipples, the pyjama
bottoms hanging from his bottom?

If Arlo asked you, "Can I sleep with you tonight? Mummy lets me
sometimes.", would you have the strength to say 'Fuck off'? Remember "sleep
with you" doesn't have the connotation you immediately read into it.

If Arlo climbed into the jacuzzi with you and wanted to make your duck
quack... but I digress. Or rather I jump the gun. I held out. Honestly, I
held out for four weeks, but that Saturday night, yes, that one, was the
beginning, and I guess you want to know what happened - with all the
details, because it's the details that matter, isn't it?

Well, who am I to refuse you? So here goes.


Part 3

I'll mention here Arlo is the most intelligent kid I'd come across in seven
years' teaching. What did he want to know? Everything. And how did he
learn? Read. Read. Reading. Questions, questions, questions. And once he
got the hang of his laptop - there was no stopping him.

Arlo's eyes are huge as he gazes directly up at the shark circling above
his head in the aquarium.

"Sharks don't have any eyelids," he whispers. "Did you know that?" he asks
without turning towards me. "No, I didn't," I reply, my gaze fixed on Arlo
as intently as his is on the grey-white circling above us. "And did you
know..." the boy continues giving me a potted history of the life of the
shark with a confidence startling in a ten-year-old.

But I'm not surprised when a yawn escapes his pretty pink lips. After all,
he has only just turned ten, and it has been a packed day.

We've already spent two hours in the aquarium and its artificial
beach. Arlo has spent time in the water with me in close attendance since
the boy cannot swim -something he is determined I will put right.

"Mum's frightened of water," he confides, "but don't tell her I told you,"
he instructs me. "Promise?" I promise. "Solemn promise?" he insists.
"Solemn promise," I assure him. "Believe me, Arlo, I know how to keep a
secret," adding, "Mums don't have to know everything."

He smiles his agreement.

The conversation takes place, as with an oversize beach towel, I shield him
from from eyes in the changing room, but not from my own. I'm not surprised
by the beauty of his body; that could hardly be otherwise. But I'm startled
by the size of his penis.

Nothing outlandish, but it wouldn't look out of place on a boy slipping
into puberty. A good four inches, it sticks out in the way that dicks on
younger boys often do without being in any real sense erect. Four inches,
slender though not skinny; creamy, except for the little pink mushroom
peeking out from his foreskin.

As he wriggles into his satin Speedos - two shades of blue, electric and
royal, I note his bum deserves the over-used description of 'bubble
butt'. It's like a firm peach slashed through the middle by the crack of
his buttocks.

"These things make my bumhole itchy," he announces, pulling a fold of
fabric out of the crease. "That's better," he sighs, "but I wish my mum
would get me baggies." To myself I laugh, "I'll fukin' kill her if she
does."

"Now hold my towel for me," I instruct, "and turn your eyes away," I add a
bit primly.

"What for?" Arlo laughs. "You're a boy, too. Well, you're a man, but you're
a teacher, so..."

"Avert your eyes, you wretched creature!" I command.

Arlo gets the message, laughs, but turns away as I slip into my baggy swim
shorts.

Two hours, two hours of sharks, crabs, sting rays, turtles, and the good
ol' Pacific Octopus, and we're both ready for home, stopping on the way to
pick up a couple of ready-to-bake pizzas.

I settle Arlo down in front of 'Merlin' on the TV and head into the shower
since sand still clings to me. I've got a Walk In Shower Surround,
silver-framed, toughened clear glass, a left or right hand opening, and
built in speakers.

I chuck my clothes onto the bathroom floor, turn on the music (Bryan Ferry
and Roxy), and step under a welcome flow of warm water. I try to keep
images of Arlo at the beach - his dick, his balls, his bubble butt - out of
my mind, but it's hopeless, and within a minute my cock is tumescent and
hoping for more. Nobly I resist - Thou shalt not touch! - and I might have
made it if...

I only realise the Arlo is there when I feel him bump into me. The shower,
the music, the soap, my own lewd thoughts...

"What the fuck?!"

"You said a bad word!"

I turn to find Arlo standing in front of me, his head bumping against my
chest, my semi-hard cock poking against his I'm-not-sure-what. I turn down
the music.

"Arlo! Get out of here. Get back to Merlin!"

"But it's all kissing stuff," he protests.

"I don't care what it is," I yell. "You can't be in the shower with me. I'm
naked," I add superfluously.

"So am I," he says - superfluously since I can't keep my eyes from
him. "Mummy lets me share a bath with her sometimes. We gotta protect the
Planet," he says.

I'm about to correct his English but realise there are bigger issues at
stake. I kneel down in front of him and take him by the shoulders - my
fingers slide on the silk of his skin - and try to explain.

"Listen, Arlo, there's really nothing wrong with sharing a shower with
me... but some people don't like it. Some people think it's wrong."

He gives me a frown.  "They think it's wrong because... because..."  How do
you explain to a ten-year-old boy that most people would not see the funny
side, the sweet side, the reasonable side of man and boy sharing a shower
of hot water after a sweaty day at the beach.

"I can't really explain why some people would think it is wrong. They just
do.  I'm not even sure your mum would like it."

Arlo frowns.

"But remember," he begins, "we don't have to tell mums everything. 'Cos we
don't want them to worry. But I know mum likes me to be clean. So... can I
have the soap, please? And can you put the music back on? It's for old
people, but it's really nice."

I sigh and hand Arlo the soap. I turn away. Fortunately my erection has
already collapsed - anxiety will do that - but my dick is still swinging
like a small trunk between my legs.

A tap on my bum.

"Yes?"

"Can you do my back, please?" comes the request. "Mum always does my back,
and the soap is too big."

"Too big for what?" I think, but I dutifully take the soap and begin to
stroke the cream bar up and down Arlo's back, satin on silk. The bar and my
fingers slip lower and lower until they are caressing Arlo's bubble butt in
unison.

The ten-year-old stands there, legs apart, so that the crack in his
buttocks is open to my caress. I drop to my knees and begin to soap him
from the ankles upwards, my hand sliding up the front and back of his legs
until I can only be centimetres from his ball sac and his four inches of
wondrous flesh. It would be so easy to...

"I'll do you now," Arlo pipes.

"What?!"

"Let me do you now," the boy repeats.

I glance down. I'm fully erect. In fact, I've started to ache and drop
pre-cum.  I risk a glance at Arlo. Fukin hell! The boy is erect, too, his
cock stiffly upright against the lower part of his tummy. How the hell did
this happen?!

Flustered and frankly scared by my own lust, I step out of the shower and
grab a towel, fling it round me and announce, "Thanks, Arlo but I wanna get
those pizzas in the oven. You finish off. Get to your bedroom and get your
jammies on.  You got 15 minutes exactly."

"Okey dokey," chirps Arlo, and I can't help pausing to observe how the head
of his dick has forced its way out of its foreskin for a breath of fresh
air.  My cock leaps in response, and I beat the hell out of there, not
caring whether my erection has collapsed this time.

Pizza on the terrace as the sun goes down. A ten-year-old boy, cute as a
button, sitting opposite me, his lips wet with a variety of flavours and
juices, once again showing me how bright he is, though he clearly isn't
aware of it...

Arlo, you're one special kid.

"May I choose the DVD?" he asks, not adding something like "You said I
could," because above all Arlo is being raised to be polite. "Of course you
may," I echo, "but nothing too long, and nothing too violent."

"Toy Story 3?"

"'Fraid I haven't got that one," I admit.

"I do," he grins. "I got it with me. It's in my bag. I wrapped it in my
jammies. Case Mum said I couldn't. Remember what we said about mums."  His
grin is even wider.

"What's it about?" I stupidly ask.

"Well, then toys should get delivered to the attic the night before Andy
goes to college. But there's a mistake, and they get delivered to a
day-care thingy instead. And Woody has to convince the other toys they
should..."

"Whoa Whoa, young man. How often have you seen this movie?"

An Arlo frown of concentration.

"I don't know. I don't count. But I got most of the words off by heart."

"Well, just stop there," I admonish him. "I haven't seen it even one time,
and I definitely don't want to know what happens."

"Sorry," murmurs the penitent ten-year-old.

I smile. "No probs. Now get to your room, get the DVD, and load it up
pronto.  We've got to get this show on the road."

Before I can get the plates and glasses into the kitchen, let alone the
dishwasher, I hear, "Ready! Hurry up, you slow coach." I abandon the
dishwasher and head into the salon. The DVD is loaded, the TV switched on,
and Arlo is standing, waiting.

Waiting for what?

"Where you watching from?" he asks.

I point to the couch; it's a four-seater.

"Stretch out on it," the ten-year-old instructs.

"Please," he insists.

I humour him by stretching out full-length on the couch, which, I have to
admit, is the only way to watch a DVD with a boy.

Arlo leaps onto the couch, and onto me, and manoevers me until I'm
stretched against the back of the couch with him pinned full-length against
me.

"This is the way me and Mum always watch Toy Story," he explains and
cuddles down against me.

Don't ask me how I survived Toy Story 3 - 98 minutes, and I couldn't tell
you a fukin' thing about it if my life depended on it. But I remember every
second of how Arlo's hot little body pressed against me. How when he got
excited - and he often got excited - he would squirm against me, his back,
bum and hips pressing into me. How when he got sad - not often - he would
turn to me and look up into my eyes as if he needed assurance to be sad.

Can you imagine how difficult it was not to lean down and kiss him on those
pretty pink lips, stained a darker pink by fruit juice? How when he needed
a cuddle he reached for my hand and dragged my arm round him - my hand
resting on his naked tummy, my fingers instinctively stroking his belly
button, sliding up his chest, circling his tiny nipples until Arlo pushed
them away because they broke his concentration.

If this wasn't Paradise, it wasn't far from it.

And yet, and yet... (and I still smile) by the end of the movie, he is
asleep. Sleeping, yes, but probably running the final part of the movie in
his dreams.

Gently I rise and gently I carry the boy through to my bedroom and deposit
him gently on my double bed. Oh no, don't get me wrong. I have no designs
on Arlo's virtue whatsoever; at least I have no conscious desire. I simply
want to be sure he is sound asleep before I deposit him in his own bed.

'Deposit' rather than 'tuck him up' because although it's September, we're
enjoying an Indian summer and a single cotton sheet will do. Arlo murmurs
as I lay him down, and it's a challenge to untangle his arms from round my
neck without waking him as I lay him on the silk top cover.

The dishes are done and tidied away. I've checked our plans for Sunday -the
Toy and Model Museum - then sports for kids - I've tried to settle down to
a book, to TV, to...  but nothing works. I'm so conscious of Arlo stretched
out on my bed. I must take a peek - to see he's okay.

Arlo is okay. He is stretched out on his back. His pyjama top has ridden up
his chest, his pyjama bottoms have slid down to his hips. His pyjamas have
been chosen to last - two sizes too big. His thumb is in his mouth.

Ten years old... that's quite a bulge under his pyjamas.

Gently I sit on the edge of the bed, and even more gently I grip his
pyajama bottoms and slowly lower them to his knees.

The boy's penis is fully erect, the foreskin completely retracted, the
little pink head wet and glistening. Surely not pre-cum? No, of course, it
can't be, but it makes it so delicious, so tempting. And it will do him no
harm as I lean over, flick out my tongue and run it across, then round the
naked glans. My fingers toy with his balls, tiny walnuts in a sac.

Enough - enough - that's enough. But of course it's not. I lower my head
and draw the full four inches into my mouth, let my lips slide up and down
the shaft, as a free hand slides up the silk of his chest.

All of Arlo is in my mouth. No, not all, and I lower my head further and
let his balls slips inside my mouth along with the shaft. I can't slide my
lips up and down on his shaft like this, but it feels so good, so right. I
set his balls free - the sac is wet with my saliva - and slide my lips up
down the shaft, squeezing, easing, tightening, freeing.

Arlo's legs begin to twitch, his tummy seems to flutter, he seems to suck
harder on his thumb. I let one finger slide into his crack, let a fingertip
play across his tiny opening, then bring it to my nose to smell my Arlo as
he is - all boy.

Enough - enough.

No - more - more.

Gently I rise, stand and slip off my robe. I am naked. I am so erect it
hurts. Believe me, I am stripped to finish my interrupted shower. I had no
intention of... I have no intention of...

I see Arlo stretched below me, naked from nipples to knees, his thumb deep
in his mouth. I climb onto the bed, not quite sure of my intentions. Gently
I remove his thumb from his mouth.

I place a knee on either side of his head, take my cock and rub the head
along his pretty pink lips. My balls hang floppily on his neck below his
chin. I ease my arse until the boy's hard-on is snug between the cheeks. I
begin to masturbate.

At first I am slow and gentle, working my own foreskin until my precum
drips onto the boy's face, his cheeks, his lips. Then faster, working the
foreskin over the head until my fingers are a blur. It's going to be
messy...  and then...

No, you can't.

Yes, you can!

With my free fingers, I pinch Arlo's nostrils. His head rolls slightly. I
hold the pinch gently. His mouth opens. I slip my finger in his mouth and
roll it in circles. His mouth widens in response. His mouth is almost a
perfect pink circle. I can see his pretty little tongue.

I can't hold it any more. I squirt once, twice - that's enough to fill his
mouth. I free his nostrils. He coughs a little and the cum bubbles through
his lips. I twist my body and squirt the rest of the semen onto the silk
cover. There's so much of it I'm relieved I kept some control. I didn't
want Arlo waking up, choking.

I lower my lips to his, lick away the cum on his lips, chin, neck and
chest. I keep on licking till there's nothing left to lick. I press the tip
of my tongue against the boy's lips and I'm rewarded when he opens them a
little and I can slide the tip in.

No semen. Where's it gone? Down his throat, all the way to his tummy.  It's
strange to think there are thousands of tiny me's swimming around inside my
very own ten-year-old.

I pull his pyjama top down, the bottoms up. I get my arms under him, raise
him - only the merest of protests - and carry him through to his own bed. I
lay him down, kiss his nose, and leave him to sweet dreams.  I hope they'll
be as sweet as mine.


Part 4

I'm not proud of what I've done, I play the same image over in my mind
agaion and again. I, a fully-grown man, naked, kneeling, one knee on either
side of a ten-year-old boy's head, squirting semen into his open mouth and
across his face. I see one drop of cum hanging from the long eyelashes of
his right eye, another splashed across his fringe, his lips, cheeks and
chin a mess of splattered cum.

I see my buttocks clenching, my dick so stiff it hurts, as I fire glob
after glob across the sleeping boy's face. And I can't understand why the
image is so intensely erotic, probably more erotic than the experience
itself because I have time to replay the scene again and again from every
possible angle.

The detail amazes me. I see my thumb in close-up as it eases open the boy's
mouth, my finger circling inside his mouth, the way he gasps for breath
when I pinch his nostrils, eyeballs fluttering beneath the thin skin of his
eyelids.

Why is this all so intense as I stand in the shower jerking myself
furiously to orgasm, or lie on the same silk topcover - now washed - as I
take all the time in the world to replay the scene again and again before
finally allowing myself to shudder to a climx that leaves me gasping like a
goldfish out of water?

I try to explain it to myself, but none of the explanations seems to
fit. Power?  Am I really enjoying my power over Arlo, his powerlessness
when faced the relentlessness of my desire? I don't believe so. Apart from
the sex, I try not to exercise any power over the boy. In fact, if I'm
guilty of anything, it is allowing the boy to have so much power over me.

I present Arlo with the options - whether it is having mayonnaise on his
chips, a sip at my lager (he loves it), going to the park or the Marina,
choosing a movie, showering alone or with me - and he decides.

If I'm guilty of anything, it is of spoiling the boy, the saving grace
being that Arlo remains as polite and unspoilable as ever.  I'm not proud -
I'm scared - scared of my own lust - scared of the this ice I'm skating on
- knowing I should end the relationship, gently, but finally.

I can't.

But the focus of this story is not on me. I'm not here for analysis, self
or otherwise. I'm here to tell the story of Arlo, Arlo my love, and then at
the end, if there is an end, and only at the end, try to figure out what it
was all about. And ever at my back I hear your voices: O for fuck's sake,
get on with it. What happened next?!

Well, let me tell you that what happened next didn't happen next day, or
even next weekend.  I tried to keep myself under control, I really
did. Even when Arlo was sprawled across my lap, more naked than clothed,
even when my fingers were permitted to stroke, caress and tickle more or
less where desire led me, I resisted the compulsion to...

It was the showers that were most difficult, especially when Arlo insisted
that if I helped wash him, he was obliged to offer the same service in
return. Not that Arlo, no matter how precocious he was, put it quite like
that. All he said was "My turn now," and who was I to deny him.

"My turn now," pipes Arlo, reaching for the wash cloth. He giggles as he
jumps to wipe my face, then solemnly reaches to do my shoulders and chest.

"You've got big nipples," he remarks, "but not as big as mum's. Hers are
like strawberries - but ladies need them for carrying the milk and feeding
their babies, don't they?"

Oh how I would like to feed Arlo, have him suck the milk right out of me.

Arlo doesn't use childish terms for things such as pee-pee for penis,
though equally he doesn't use words such as cock, dick and balls. Amy
recognised early she has a remarkable boy on her hands; she doesn't treat
him as a baby, and she is never condescending or patronising towards
him. So nipples they are as Arlo circles them with the wash cloth.

Arlo is used to the little trunk swinging between my legs but I wonder what
he'll make of it as it stiffens and heads upwards towards my belly
button. I soon find out as he steps back and says, "Wow! Look at your penis
growing."

I'm surprised by his matter-of-fact statement until he adds, "Mine does
that, too." He points down to the evidence and for the first time I see
Arlo getting a stiffy, a hard-on, an erection that stands vertical rather
than horizontal.

"But look at you," he continues, "when does it stop growing?" His hand
keeps running the cloth across my belly.

"And your balls..."  (I guess gonads or testicles were too much even for a
ten-year-old as bright as Arlo.) "...they're huge, too. And hairy."

He pauses, then... "But you haven't got any hair on your chest. Just
this..." and he trails a finger in my pubic hair.

"One of mum's boyfriends was as hairy as a gorilla. Mum called him her
'Kong' - but not to his face, of course.  That would be rude." He pauses,
then...

"I better do your penis. Mum says you have to be clean everywhere -
specially under, under... what's this bit called again?"

"Foreskin," I manage to blurt.

"Yes, that's right. This is your foreskin, and this is how you should clean
under it."

He lays the wash cloth aside, take the soap, make two handfuls of bubbles,
and places his small hands round the swollen head of my penis. And Arlo
begins to circle the glans again and again. Then he lets his cupped hands
slide down the shaft into my bush before heading back to caress the head
again.

I'm going literally insane with desire. I see the top of his head, see his
hands round my dick, watch his fingers slide up and down, and I can't help
myself. I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, and like Alice I've
no idea where this is taking me.

Reaching down, I close my big hand round Arlo's two little hands.

"Oh, am I doing it wrong?" he pipes.

"No, no, you're doing great, but it's even better like this."

I enfold both his hands in mine, and guide them up and down the shaft. Arlo
catches on almost immediately, and I'm able to watch his small hands and
fingers work my cock. Now I'm not huge, but I might just squeeze into the
category of big, about seven inches, and fat with it. I'm not huge except
maybe to a tenyear-old boy whose fingers barely lap over each other.

Arlo looks up at me, those big hazel eyes shining. "Am I doing it right
now?"

This time I can't speak. I grunt like a chimp in heat. Arlo, ever the
scientist, is carrying out little experiments of his own, varying the speed
of the the stroke, and the pressue of his fingers against my tumescent
flesh. I have a decision to make, but in truth the decision has already
been made as I hit the point of no return.

Huge spurts fire from the head of the shaft, splattering Arlo's face, neck
and hair.  As if it were an electrical shock, Arlo hangs on tight watching
each spurt from the little mouth on my cockhead.

Only when I push him gently away does he react with, "What the fuck?!"

I don't know who is shocked more - Arlo or me. I look down. He is bright
red except where creamy globules spatter his face. I shouldn't burst out
laughing but I do, which makes Arlo go even redder, and for the first time
show a bit of temper.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It slipped out."

I realise he is on the verge of tears and scoop him up into my arms. I
plant little kisses all over his face, at the same time licking away the
cum. I give him a huge smile, and, relieved, he smiles right back.

"Guess it slipped out of me, too," I tell him, though I doubt whether he
got the import of the remark right then.

"Let's get under the shower again," I say, "and get the rest of this stuff
off us. Remember we're meeting your mum at seven, and we're all going out
for dinner."

The boy babbles on charmingly as we shower again, I dry him off, and send
him to his room to dress in the jeans and shirt we bought in the afternoon.

As we wait for Amy, he asks me again, "What was that stuff that came out of
your penis? It didn't hurt you, did it? You're not sick, are you?"

Arol is in Year 5. There's no real Sex Eduxation in junior schools until
they're in Year 6 - 11-year-olds, preparing for secondary school where
they'll learn just about everything in weeks.

I sit Arlo down and give him an outline of what he needs to know. Of course
that sets him off and he wants to know 'everything'. He's not shocked, he's
doesn't see any of it as 'dirty', as usual he just wants to know. And he
explores the topic on my his laptop, learning more about using the computer
in a few weeks than I've managed in a few years. I don't learn, until much
later, he teaches himself to wipe every site he has visited after every
session.

The doorbell rings, and Arlo rushes to the door. It's heartening to see a
boy love his mother as much as Arlo loves Amy, though Amy has less time for
him now that she's recovered some of the freedom she lost as a single mum.

Now don't get me wrong. Amy adores Arlo, and she has done a wonderful job
of bringing up a wonderful boy single-handedly. But she is only in her
early twenties, and if someone has come along, someone she can trust, who
can take Arlo off her hands now and again, and who can actually benefit
Arlo, she'd be stupid not to, wouldn't she?

As Amy remarked, "Arlo needs men in his life. There's nothing but women in
his school, and a boy needs role-models, doesn't he?" She admits some of
her past boyfriends had hardly been role-models for a small boy but she'd
always dumped the worst ones as soon as she saw there were no good for
Arlo.

"You wouldn't believe what pigs some men can be," she told me as if it were
a secret known only to women. "When you came along, it really was a bit of
a God-send. I can tell you now I was struggling to make ends
meet. And... well, Arlo adores you - he can be very choosy, you know - and
you like Arlo, so..."

There was no need for Amy to finish the sentence, and I was touched when
she laid her hand on mine. "I know whatever you do," she said, "it will
always be what's best for Arlo.  And he knows it, too, because I've told
him so."

Sunday afternoon and Arlo's curiosity is far from satisfied.

"So, you see, the stuff that comes out my penis is semen, and the semen
carries the sperm, and the sperm is what makes the lady have a baby," I
tell him in a tone that's close to condescending.

"I understand that," says Arlo, but you weren't making a baby, so why did
it shoot out of you."

This is more delicate, but in for a penny...

"The semen shot out of me because I got excited," I tell him.

"Excited?" he repeats. "What got you excited?"

Deep breath.

"Well, to be honest, it was your hands on my penis, and it was you rubbing
my penis that got me excited.  First the rubbing got me hard..."

"You were hard before that," he interrupts.

"Okay... being in the shower with you got me excited. Your hands got me
more excited. And in the end I got so excited I couldn't help shooting the
sperm."

"Being with me got you excited?" he questions. "You must like mo lots and
lots."

"I do."

"That's good." He thinks. "So if you rub my penis, I'll get excited and
I'll shoot sperm just like you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're so young. Boys can't make sperm until they reach
puberty. Remember, I told you about that."

"Oh yes... puberty... that's when I get hair, and my balls get bigger, and
my dick - May I say 'dick? - Thank you. - and my dick gets as big as
yours."

"You got it."

"Good."

Arlo thinks some more. "But can I get those feelings you get? My dick gets
hard, too."

"Yes, you can get those feelings, but you can't cum until you reach
puberty. Remember what 'cum' means?"

Arlo gives me a look that says, I'm ten years old but I'm not a dummy.

"I want to try it!" he announces firmly.

"Try what?" I naively ask.

"Rubbing my dick, of course. I know I can't cum but I want to see if I get
those feelings." The ten-year-old twists round against my body, and looks
up expectantly.

Decision time.

"Well, go into the bathroom and have a 'go'," I say as if I were sending
him to try a new computer game.

"No way," he says. "You have to do it for me. I did it for you in the
bathroom. Fair's fair. You always tell me that."

"Arlo," I protest, "this is man-stuff, real man-stuff. You're a
ten-year-old boy and I'm..."

"My best friend!" he finishes for me. "But maybe you dont want to do it cos
you don't really like me. Maybe you like my mum better than me. Maybe
you're just like her boyfriends."

His voice tails away.

"No, Arlo, that's not it. I like your mum, but I like you better... better
than anybody in the whole wide world, and you know I'd do anything for you
you, but..."

But again Arlo finishes for me. Not by saying a word but by pushing his
trackies and his underpants - psychedelic orange!  where does Amy get them?
- to his knees. His dick is in the small-boy position, somwehere round 45
degrees.

As I hesitate, he struggles his way out of the bottoms and underpants. I
say nothing but reach to help him off with his T-shirt. I shift positions
so that I'm sitting on the couch with Arlo stretched across my lap,

A naked ten-year-old boy is stretched across my lap, knees dangling on one
side, head on the other, helpless to my gaze and touch. I reach to stroke
his penis with one set of fingers while the others play with his body. I'm
startled by how quickly he becomes fully erect. His erection remains just
over four inches, but it has the hardness of a school milk bottle.

With thumb and forefinger I draw his foreskin as far back as it can
go. Close it over the head, draw it back, close it over...  sometimes slow,
sometimes faster. I feel the tension in the boy's body as it rises from my
knees, his back arching until the strain causes him to fall back, only for
him to arch again a few seconds later.

Arlo's head, hair hanging back from his face, dangles over my right knee
now, his legs hooked over my left. He is truly helpess in my grip, and in
the excitement that is coursing through his body. He begins to whimper, to
make tiny mewling sounds like a kitten.

I want to lean over and take him in my mouth but that would be for my
pleasure, not his, so I concentrate on the rhythms and pressures that seem
to give the him the most pleasure.

His bottom, hips, belly, chest and genital region buck out of control. Eyes
tight shut, he finds the only words he can to express what is happening to
him: Fuck! Fuck!  Fuck!

Even before the convulsions subside, he pulls himself up, turns towards me,
throws his arms round my neck, and buries his face in my chest. I'm growing
sick with worry until I hear: Awesome! Fuckin' Awesome!  Then he pulls
away, looks at me with glazed eyes, and whispers: "Did you feel that way
when I made you... cum?"

"Yes," I nod.

"Do it to me again. Do it again."

I laugh and bounce him from my knee, slapping his cute little arse before
he hits the carpet.

"Get your clothes on, you little minx. We've both got school tomorrow. It's
Sunday. Your mum will be here in half an hour."

"Oh," he murmurs, standing naked before me. He puts a finger to the side of
his nose and whispers, "Man-stuff. Don't forget."

"Man-stuff," I echo as I stoop to help him step into his undies, then say:
"Now get your bedroom tidied up - it's a mess."

I slap his arse as he heads in the right direction, clicking on the music
as he goes. Out comes the music, and, of course, it has to be Bryan Ferry:
Love Is The Drug.



Part 5

Time rolled on as it always does, and Amy wondered if she should move Arlo
to my school. I told her what I thought without giving all my reasons.

Arlo's school was as good as ours. That's where his friends were. He had
never raised the possibility of moving schools. Mid Year 5 was not a good
time to move schools. All Year 5 kids were moving towards Year 6 and their
first serious examinations. Our track would not be identical to theirs, and
Arlo could be at a disadvantage.

Amy took all of this and agreed.

What I didn't say was how distracting it would be for me to have someone I
cared so much about around me every school day. I didn't trust myself. The
Head and Deputy Head of any school must be quite distanced from the pupils;
their word was law; and I wasn't sure I could manage that.

I had Arlo two afternoons a week, and quite a lot at weekends when things
suited Amy's and my plans - and Arlo's. He seemed very happy and balanced,
so rocking the boat was unlikely to be for the best.

Time ticked on.

"Your son's a very handsome boy. You must be proud of him."

"I'm not his dad. I'm his uncle."

"Yes," piped up Arlo. "This is my Uncle Dan. I'm his nephew Arlo, and we're
very pleased to meet you."

He extended his hand. The tailor took the proferred hand and shook it
solemnly. I see you're also a very polite boy. Always a good thing in a
young gentleman. Now let's measure your inside leg."

I must say Arlo looked particularly fetching as any boy should on his
eleventh birthday. We'd spent the morning at a Boot Fair where Arlo had
bought a Moroccan cap for 50 pence. Brightly coloured, it fitted round his
head pushing his red hair behind his small ears and over his collar.

The odd thing is that no matter what Arlo wears, he never looks
girlish. Cute, yes, stunningly cute but rarely did anyone take him for a
girl. Now, on his eleventh birthday, he was melding into a remarkably
attractive boy.

This, of course, was helped by his height. In a group of boys his own age,
Arlo always stood two or three inches over the tallest. And slender, yes,
but skinny, no. His flat chest was taking shape, his hips more noticeable,
his legs running on forever.

Arlo's eleveth birthday, and Amy and I had agreed I could buy him a new
outfit. Like any good mum, she'd then left it to the 'boys', and thouugh
Arlo and I had decided on new jeans, shirt and light leather jacket, I'd
decided to have the jeans tailored rather than store-bought.

There's not much point earning a deputy head's salary and not being a
little extravagant now and again. Later we'd meet Amy and off we'd go to
the restaurant of Arlo's choice. He didn't mind which restaurant it was as
long as he could have 'mule's mareenyer', by which he meant moules
marinieres.

He'd tried them on our day out in France. Arlo could tell you they were
mussels cooked in white wine with onions, herbs and a tiny splash of cream,
and they were on the list of things he wanted to try and make for his
eleveth birthday. Fortunately, we'd compromised he could have them as a
special treat when the three of us dined out to celebrate the great day.

After dining, Amy would go on to her club, and we'd head 'home' to watch a
DVD of Arlo's choice, and... there was something very erotic about knowing
Arlo, on his eleventh birthday, would be lying naked over my knees as I
stroked and pressed his tummy - full of 'mule's mareenyer - squeezed the
cheeks of his buttocks, kissed his nipples, and worked his hot hard-on to
orgasm as his whole body shook and trembled beneath me.

Arlo would then climb into his terry-towel bath robe and snuggle into my
body as we watched whatever he had chosen for that Saturday night.

I'd done well. You have to give me that. I insisted Arlo shower on his
own. I insisted he sleep in his own bunk bed. I insisted he kept his hands
off my dick, no matter how hard it pressed into his hot little body. Arlo
accepted the rules gracefully, if not always cheerfully. He loved me
playing with his body but did not seem overly interested in mine.

Perhaps that's a characteristic of young boys; they are more interested in
having their own bodies pleasured than pleasuring others. This made sense,
and it also helped emormously not to give into the lust I felt for him, and
every part of him.

I hope I was protecting Arlo. I know I was protecting myself. Frankly, I
was sometimes terrified, though far less often than I'd been only a few
months before. I knew how ready children were to 'tell tales' - not with
the intention of getting their 'accomplice' into trouble, but simply
because 'secrets' aren't real secrets unless they are shared.

I also know that Arlo might be under immense internal pressure to express
his sexuality with others. But it seemed that when Arlo classified
something as 'man stuff' that's exactly what it was. To be shared with me,
but with absolutely no one else. Still, despite this assurance, I didn't
want to take risks, especially since I didn't know if I could limit myself
if I gave into the desires that prowled my imagination.

I couldn't forget that image: my knees on either side of the sleeping boy's
head - my fingers prising open his mouth - the cum shooting from my cock
into his open mouth. If I could do that, what else was I capable of.

"That in the shop man was feeling my willy," says Arlo, his fringe bouncing
on his forehead in time with his skipping by my side.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask.

"Because it felt nice," he replies. "I've got a hard-on now," he adds.

"Well, don't think about it."

"Don't be silly," he says. "You can't just NOT think of a hard-on when
you've got one. When you try NOT to think about it, you just think about it
even more, and that makes it worse. Wait a minute." He pauses, sticks his
hand in his pocket, and angles his erection up his tummy.

"Can we go for a Pepsi now, please?"

"Half a glass," I compromise. "We'll share."

"Okay," he agrees, "and we can sort out things for my birthday party
tomorrow."

"Agreed. Come on. And remember ... no thinking about that hard-on. I'll do
the thinking for both of us."

Ten minutes later we're sitting over a large glass of Pepsi - one glass,
two straws. I'm not going to do well out of this arrangement. We're sorting
out Arlo's official birthday party, the first that will be attended by
other boys. The party will take place in my flat, but I won't be there. Can
you think of anything more off-putting for boys than their knowing there
was a teacher in the room?

Amy will do the honours. Arlo has invited seven boys from his class, and
I've arranged for a professional party person to organise the games and
activities. It seems a weird sort of career: a PPP (professional party
person) to make sure kids have a great time at their parties, but I guess
if you are a BL or GL, it must be a sort of Nirvana.

Not for me though. I'll be elsewhere, among adults, in my role as pillar of
the community, rising star in state education, eligible bachelor, and
all-round good egg.

If I were writing a novel, rather than simply telling a tale, I would give
some account of the our birthday dinner, the moules - gobbled by everyone -
the slightly tipsy single-parent mother and the deputy headteacher, and the
bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ivory-skinned, Moroccan-cap-topped,
ginger-fringed boy to whom an entire restaurant sang 'Happy Birthday' and
meant it.

I would describe Amy kissing the cheeks of son, before bundling herself
into a taxi with the words, "See you tomorrow, birthday boy," before she
and the taxi disappeared into the night. I would recount Arlo and I
catching our own taxi, negotiating the lift, and Arlo, rather than I,
working the key into the door of what he sometimes absent-mindedly called
home.

"Right, birthday boy, into the shower with you," I say. "Properly
dried. Sort out the DVD. Then onto the couch. I'll be back in ten
minutes. The boiler's a bit wonky. I'm going down to see the caretaker. And
remember, birthday boy, properly dry, and... no thinking about hard-ons!"

The ten minutes take thirty minutes. The caretaker is a happy idiot, but a
brilliant engineer, and after a bit of clanking, banging and dinging at
assorted pipes, he convinces me the problem with the boiler is no more. I
take the lift, my excitement rising, my cock hardening as I think of a damp
Arlo, slippy as silk, stretched out naked on the couch, his hard-on stiff
against his tummy. I'm humming as I open our front door.

Arlo is naked. But he is not stretched out on the couch. He is sitting
there, watching a DVD, eyes wide, mouth open, one hand holding the remote,
the fingers of the other working his cock - it still looks outlandish on
his eleven-year-old body - he does not look towards me as I cross the
room. Surely he isn't watching 'Toy Story'!

It is not 'Toy Story'!

I stand in front of the boy.

How the hell had I been so stupid as to leave that one in the bundle under
the tele?

Arlo looks up at me, smiles and says, "I know what to do now." He reaches
out and runs his little fingers down the front of my trousers. I know I
should push his hand away, but a beautiful boy is sitting before me, his
robe open to revealed his nakedness, his fingers moving the foreskin
quickly up and down over the head of his sweet prick.

I haven't the strength to resist. I feel myself growing hard. He leans
forward and places his mouth against the bulge and presses with his
lips. With his free hand he undoes my belt, not easy for such a small
hand. He flicks open the clasp.

Slowly pulls down the zip. Begins to edge my trousers down and over my hips
and backside. I throw the remote on the couch and help him push my trousers
and boxers down together. I kick off my shoes, then with a slightly comic
struggle kick off my pants and boxers.

My prick, taut and hard, stretches from my bush up to my belly button. I
feel Arlo's fingers, so light, so feathery, run up and down the shaft. I
feel him weigh my balls in his hands, one ball at a time in such small
hands.

I'm surprised and a little shocked to feel him kiss my belly, my pubic
area, my thick curly hair, and at last the head of my cock which looks
bigger than his tongue. Now he is running his little pink tongue up and
down the shaft while his fingers explore my bush and the trail of hair that
runs up my belly.

"Am I doing okay?" I hear his voice below me ask.

Somehow I get the words out: "Beautiful, just beautiful."

He is moving the skin of the shaft harder and faster now - Where the fuck
did he learn this? - while he tries to fit the mushroom head of my cock in
his little mouth. I hear him gag. He can't do it. So he licks round the
head, up and down, slow and fast.

I feel the pre-cum ooze; Arlo licks it up as fast as it reaches my
glans. Behind me I hear the soundtrack of the damned DVD. Did I really
leave it where he could find it? The moans, the groans, the slapping
sounds, the squeals, the muffled unbroken voice of an adolescent boy being
used by two - or is it three grown men? I'm not going to last much longer.

I push Arlo away from me. Once more his eyes are fixed on the screen. I
flick a mechanism on the couch, and the back slides down, turning it into a
double bed. I throw off my sweater and shirt. No time to get my socks off.

I push Arlo onto the couch and go down on him, making sure he can still
watch the screen. I take his four inches between my lips. He couldn't be
harder. Foreskin fully retracted. I lean back at marvel at the purity of
his skin - not a hair, not a blemish, his ball sac almost completely round
with two 'walnuts' inside. The sac with the 'seam' that my tongue can
follow to paradise.

I feel a push on my head. Arlo is pushing me back down on him. I manage a
little control, running my lips up and down the shaft. It is actually
throbbing. He is pushing his hips up from the couch, sliding into my mouth,
withdrawing, sliding in again. I feel the tension in his body rise. Like
me, Arlo isn't going to last long if I keep sucking like this.

I release him, flip him over onto his tummy - small boys are so flexible -
making sure he still has full view of the screen.

His bum, bottom, arse, ass... is open to my gaze. He is unbelievably clean
with the merest hint of an opening shaded in darker pink. I want to lick
that opening, kiss it, suck it, so I do, though it's practically impossible
to suck something so tiny with my adult lips.

For a moment, I expect surprise, shock, protest from the boy, but he simply
pushes his ass into my face.  I would like to work his hole with my tongue,
my fingers, my dick, but that will have to wait. The last thing I want to
do is take the boy in a moment of heat and risk injury to something so
fragile, so beautiful, so perfect.

I flip him onto his back. His head is hanging over the edge of the
couch. He is watching the action on the screen upside down.  I wonder if it
makes any difference to Arlo. I glance at the screen - the boy, 13 or 14
years old, is being arse and face fucked simultaneously.

I swallow Arlo's dick and balls and slurp on them for a while. I slip my
finger between his buttocks, find his tiny sphincter and stroke it. I
release his balls and suck his four-incher as fast and as hard as I
can. His body tightens, bucks, shivers, trembles. I hear squeals and yelps
and realise they are coming from Arlo, not from the screen.

His orgasm hits him like a silver bullet. He clutches me so hard I feel his
nails nip into me. Pain and pleasure. For the moment there is no
difference. He writhes below me, his cock throbbing in my mouth. Then with
a whimper he subsides, collapses, and for a moment I think he has fainted.
Sure that he hasn't, I turn his body lengthways on the couch.

I kneel over him, one knee on either side of his head.

"Open your mouth. Open wide," I whisper.

Arlo opens wide.

"Close your eyes," I whisper.

Arlo closes his eyes.

I place the head of my cock between his open lips and jerk as fast as I
can.

It's a matter of seconds. Sports and squirts of warm cum fire into Arlo's
mouth, hitting him on the back of the throat.  He tries to swallow. There's
a brave boy. But there's too much.

Reflexively he closes his mouth. Cum escapes from the sides of his mouth,
dribbles down his chin. He begins to cough - cums fires like snot from his
nose. His pink tongue snakes out and tries to lick the cum from his lips.

I pick him up. He has already lost the bath robe. I carry him into the
shower.  I hold him in my arms as the hot water beats down on us. The
jacuzzi filled, I climb into it, still holding him as the water fizzes and
bubbles round us.

In time, Arlo opens his big hazel eyes. I am worried how he will
react. Then he speaks.

"Can we watch the rest of that DVD, please, sir? I want to see what else
they do to that boy."

I laugh, relieved, and say, "Nope, we're going to watch the DVD you
chose. What is it by the way?"

"It's the one called 'Braveheart'. I saw a bit of it on youtube. The
battles look well wicked."

Oh, Arlo, my sweet Arlo.

Oh, Arlo, my love.

Happy birthday.


Part 6

I'm looking at a photograph of Arlo, taken on his eleventh
birthday. Getting ready for bed.  He isn't wearing a top. He never
does. The elastic on his white briefs is folded back on itself, low down
below his hardly-existent hips, exposing the ivory of his pubic area.  He
has a slight tan, all over, since I allow him a few minutes on the sunbed
now and again.

He is slim but not thin, slender but not skinny.  His skin is flawless,
immaculate. He is in mid-step, and even in a still photograph, one senses
the fluid grace with which he moves.

Arlo has flicked his fringe back from his eyes.

His eyes, hazel flecked with gold, are startling. His chest is perfectly
formed, his nipples are pert brown cherries that set off the porcelain of
his skin. His chest narrows towards a V as it reaches his hips. Tummy
button an innie I've explored with my tongue so many times.

Yes, Arlo is beautiful, and yet there is nothing sissy about him. Arlo is a
man's boy.

We continue to reach compromises. We can share a jacuzzi but not a
shower. We can lie in my bed while I'm reading a story to him, or him to
me, but he can't sleep overnight in my bed.

I am to suck him off two times before a DVD but not three times - "My dick
starts to get sore," - the boy explains.

He sucks me off but I've got to tell him when I'm going to cum -"I hate
when it comes down my nose," he explains.

He can go around the flat naked when the central heating is running riot -
the caretaker is not quite the genius I took him for.

I've got to come and watch him in 'Robin Hood' - Arlo plays Robin - and any
other school plays or pantomimes he is in (as if he could keep me away!)
And I've got to come to Parents' Evenings because "Mum doesn't understand
shit about education." - for which remark Arlo forfeited a a DVD session.

And, finally. Arlo has the right to watch any of my DVDs; his demand not
mine, and I resist nobly for a couple of weeks but then weakly give in.

"I'm not a baby," says Arlo. "I'm nearly twelve." - "I know that boys and
men have sexual intercourse," - He can mame what is happening now - "and
it's educational."

My Arlo is a born politician.

He also has his own key, hung on a string round his neck, because Amy
doesn't finish until six, and I've got two meetings after school a
week. What I do not know - until it is too late - that Arlo, in time, will
invite boys round to watch DVDs with him, and charge them for the
privilege.  Not only a politician, but an entrepreneur - Dragons' Den has a
lot to answer for.

We see less of Amy. She has a steady boyfriend, Nigel (!), and Nigel does
not like children, in particular, he does not like Arlo because Arlo is as
bright as Nigel is thick, and that takes some doing. But Nigel, to give him
his due, (Nigel can have anything he wants except Arlo.) is genuinely fond
of Amy.

He is bourgeois middle-class, assistant bank manager, own flat, nice car,
and his intentions towards Amy seem honourable. But like men young men he
doesn't have much time for kids, and certainly not for a precocious,
gob-smacking beauty like Arlo. So we see less of Amy, and very little of
Amy-and-Nigel, and that suits me. It suits Arlo less, but as he has been
spending most of his weekends with me, he shrugs his shoulders and comes to
terms with the set-up.

One night, as he is stretched out naked across my lap (second suck), I hear
him ask, "Wonder if Mum is doing this to Nigel."

Minutes later, as his tremors subside, I turn him over and playfully smack
his backside, though I make sure it hurts a bit. "Don't you be rude about
your mother," I say.

"I'm not being rude," I hear him protest from beneath me. "I was just
wondering. And - Ouch! - do boys suck girls? - Ouch! - They can't, can
they? - Ouch! - I mean girls don't have anything to get sucked. - Ouch!" I
realise I will have to extend the range of DVDs Ocsar is watching.

Rarely does Arlo give me cause for anger, but I recall one occasion when he
thoroughly deserved a serious spanking - if I'd been able to bring myself
to administer one.

It's Saturday evening. We're going out to the cinema, but first I've got to
get a few domestic chores out of the way. These include dumping Arlo's
school shirt, socks and trousers into the wash.

I'm emptying his trouser pockets when I find a crumpled £5 note. At
first I assume Amy gave it to him after school on Friday. Then I remember I
picked him up, and Amy hasn't seen him since Friday morning.

I walk into the salon where Arlo is completing a jigsaw. I hold out the
£5 note and ask: "Where did this come from?"

As soon as I see Arlo's reaction, I know that something is up. The boy's
lip trembles. There are tears in his eyes. His cheeks are on fire. Arlo has
a problem. He is congenitally unable to lie, at least to his mother and
me. He has the tiniest of speech impediments that only emerge when he is
under stress.

"A m-m-an gave it to me."

"A man?"

I sit on the couch and pat a space next to me. Arlo pulls himself up off
the floor and sits next to me.  I turn his body to face me. I raise his
chin so he is looking into my eyes. God, they are beautiful even when full
of storms.

"Who? Where? When? What? Why?"

This is the formula I have taught Arlo to use when he is writing stories at
school. He understands by asking and answering these questions, he'll never
be stuck on what to write about next."

"Take three deep breaths, then tell me."

The boy follows instructions and...

"After school on Friday. I didn't come straight home." He pauses, expecting
a lecture. I say nothing.

"I was coming straight home. But I stopped in the toilets, you known the
ones in Albert Street. I really needed a piss - a wee," he corrects
himself. "I was having a wee. A man stood next to me. He pulled out his
cock, his penis."

He pauses again.

"I took a peek. I should've put mine away, I know, but his was so big. I
kept on looking. It started getting bigger. And he wasn't really
peeing. Just sort of playing with it. I started playing with mine, not
much, just squeezing and pulling a bit."

Arlo frowns and looks at me. "I was feeling, you know, horny." This is not
a word I've taught Arlo. Damn those DVDs.

"He was a very nice man. Not dirty or smelly or anything. And there was
only us two in the toilet. His penis was standing straight up. I could see
the hair sticking out of his flies. Then he said, 'Like what you see, young
man?'  I nodded my head, I think."

I interrupt with, "And you went into a cubicle."

"No, no," says Arlo, "we went in his car."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Arlo..."

The boy can't resist a giggle. "Watch your language," he mimics me so
accurately, sees my scowl, gulps, and goes on with his confession.

"We went down to the harbour. Remember it was sunny on Friday. He parked so
we could see the ships. He chatted really nice. He asked me lots of
questions about school and stuff. He was really interested. Then..."

"Then?"

"Well, you know. He started playing with me - through my school pants. He
was really scared. He kept looking out of the window. He kept asking me if
I was okay. And okay with what he was doing. He said I was pretty. I didn't
like that, but I didn't tell him. I got really hard, and he went down on
me."

"Down on you?"  (I'm going to confiscate those DVDs.)

"Yeh, for ages. I started getting bored. So I wiggled my bum, and jumped up
and down a bit, and went 'oooh', 'aaah', and stuff like that. I pushed his
head away and said it was getting sore. He looked happy, but I stopped him
when he started pulling my shirt out of my trousers and stuff like that.

Then he had his cock out. It was huge, sir.  I mean humungous, like those
cocks on some of your porno vids. I wasn't putting that down my throat!

"So I put my fingers from both hands round it and started jerking the skin
up and down. Wow! He only lasted ten seconds - that's just a guess - but it
was about that. Then he came all over his trousers and shirt and right up
on to his tie.  I just held on 'cos I didn't want it to turn and squirt on
me. I knew you'd be mad if I came home in a mess."

"So you didn't let any of it in your mouth?" I ask.

"Oh, no!" he protests. "I wouldn't do that. I might catch ADHD or
something. I remember what you told me."

I resist the urge to laugh, but I'm sure Arlo catches my smile.

"And then he dropped you back at Albert Street."

"Well, no actually," Arlo begins. "He took me for a Big Mac. You know the
place in Harbour Street." Which explains why Arlo had such a poor appetite
on Friday evening.

"And then he dropped you at Albert Street?" I ask hopefully.

"Yep," the boy says confidently. "But he gave me that £5 note... and
asked me what school I go to."  (pause) "But ha, ha, I told him a different
school, your school."  Arlo says this as if it answers everything. It
doesn't.

We are quiet for a few moments, then...

"Arlo, do you know WHY you went to the toilets? Why you let that man...? I
know you were feeling 'horny', but..." and this is hard to say... "couldn't
you wait till you got home?"

We are quiet for a few moments more, then...

"'Cos you won't let me try stuff?"

"'Stuff?' What kind of stuff?"

It's Arlo's turn to find the right words.

"You know... man-stuff, sex-stuff."

"Arlo... I didn't know... I thought that... You can always ask me. You know
that. What is it you want to...?"

Fifteen minutes later - and I find this incredible even as I write it - I
am lying naked, stretched out, face down, on the double bed. Arlo is
sitting, naked, half way down my body, pulling my legs ever wider apart.

His fingers wiggle through the hair until he finds my anus. "It's like a
little door," I hear him say. "You've got lots of hair. Where is it now?"

I imagine I feel his breath on my arse hole. Surely not. Then I feel his
middle finger stroking the length of the opening. "It's like a little
mouth," he tells me.

"Can I get my fingers...?"

I feel the pressure against sphincter, Tension keeps it tightly closed. But
Arlo is relentless. He presses and probes, until 'pop' his middle finger is
in to the first knuckle. Then unceremoniously out it pops.

"I know what's wrong," he announces. I hear him clambering from the bed,
pattering across the bedroom, clinks from my dressing table, and he's back
on the bed. "Here, this should help," he tells me, and there's the sudden
shock of cold cream on my arse hole.

I think I should say something, but for the life of me I can't think
what. I can imagine the look of solemn concentration on Arlo's face as his
fingers, first one, then two, twist and turn against my hole until the
muscles give way, and his fingers are in as deep as they can go.

I can feel the boy's fingers - digit and middle -pushed into the knuckles
twisting, turning, circling, stretching as I loosen up for him. That must
be a third finger because for the first time there is some discomfort, but
most of that is cancelled out by the sheer erotic intensity of the
experience.

A twelve-year-old boy is finger-fucking me with ruthless intensity. My
prick is so hard I think it might break. I realise if Arlo tries to jam his
little fist right up my arse, I'll do nothing to stop him, but hopefully he
hasn't see that on a DVD yet.

Damn it! His fingers are gone. I suddenly feel so empty.

"Up, up, please, please," I hear him whisper as he pulls my hips
upwards. In response I get half on my knees, my face still burrowed in a
pillow, lavender-scented.

Once again I feel him probing at my entrance. I try and relax and will
myself to open for him. It's a shock when I realise it's not Arlo's fingers
- it's his hard cock - just over four inches, but he's eleven years old,
for fuck's sake!

An twelve-year-old boy is trying to fuck me, and I want to help him. I
reach behind me, grab my cheeks and wrench them as wide apart as I can. I
can hear Arlo grunt, but I'm not sure what the grunt signifies.

Suddenly he's inside me!

Really inside me!

And he's not finger-fucking me, he's fucking me for real - and I can hear
and feel his little belly bouncing off my buttocks.

I try to help by pushing back but realise he's not going to bottom out on
four inches. I only wish I could see his face, see his fringe flopping onto
his face, see his slim arms as they hang onto my shoulders, watch his belly
bounce against my bum, and, above all, watch his four-inch shaft sliding in
and out of my hairy hole.

Although I can't reach my own straining cock, I realise an orgasm is
building. It's hard to believe I'm going to cum without anyone touching my
erection; it's just as hard to believe I'm not going to cum if Arlo keeps
this up. And he does. Holding on tight, he pushes in and pulls out faster
and faster until I feel like a bitch in heat being fucked by a randy,
unforgiving mutt.

At last, with a yelp, Arlo gives one final push, holds himself inside me,
then collapses onto my back. I collapse beaneath him.

We both lie there, man and boy, still joined - satisfied, satiated, dead to
the world... until...

"Sir, sir, are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" I grunt non-commitally.
"Remember we're going to the cinema. We'd better hurry up. Don't want to
miss the adverts and trailers."

Half an hour later we're sitting in the cinema. Arlo turns to me. "Please
may I have a choc ice?" I reach in my pocket and pull out his £5
note. "Make that two choc ices," I say.

"Hey, that's my £5," he says.

"No, young man. That's MY £5. Unless, of course, you'd rather have that
good spanking, you deserve?"

There's no answer. But as he squeezes past me, Arlo leans over, kisses me
on the cheek, and whispers, "It was worth it."


Part 7


If you are thinking that Arlo and I were leading a life of unbridled lust
and sexual activity, you're wide of the mark. In fact, most of the time
Arlo led the life of a fairly typical twelve-year-old boy, though it might
strike some as odd that Arlo spent as much time with me as he did with his
mother.

Amy went happily along with the fiction I was Arlo's uncle and hence her
older brother. She took some pride in introducing me as "my elder brother,
Cam, Arlo's uncle, the deputy headteacher."

Do I think she knew about our 'extra curricular' activities? The answer is
a categorical 'no'.  Amy loved her son, but accepted he was getting a
better deal with me than he ever could if he'd continued to be raised by
her alone.

We did have several heart-to-hearts; she did worry whether or not she was
spending enough time with Arlo, but he was 'as happy as I've ever seen him'
and so the arrangement suited everyone, including Nigel, her beau, the
assistant bank manager.

And Arlo?

He'd moved onto secondary school - one of the best grammar schools in the
county - and he loved being amongst boys and girls, some of whom were as
bright as him. He had a flair for languages and chosen French and
Italian. Now there was every reason for us to have day trip to France - and
Italy was on his cards for the summer.

He struck me as a very happy boy, especially as I'd widened the parameters
of our relationship.  Not only did Arlo have his own key, but he was
permitted to bring friends home with him as long as (a) his friend's
parents knew where their son/s was/were, (b) I was home, and (c) the boy/s
was/were collected by at least one parent.

Surely some parents were suspicious? About what? They usually knew Arlo's
mother, they knew I was a senior teacher of some sort, and Arlo was on his
most solemn word never, but never, to mention or allude to anything sexual
to his friends unless it was the usual stuff about girls. That's not
entirely fair. His school was relaxed about homosexuality and
discrimination was forbidden. No holding hands - or anything else - around
the school was a strict rule for every student.

I loved watching Arlo bond with his school friends, especially with Charlie
and Elwyn (father Swedish - mother English), both blonds, both long-haired,
both cute, and both with happy, well-balanced personalities. Both were wary
of me at first; after all I was a deputy head, I could silence a school
assembly with a look, but as they realised I was just something in the
background, just Arlo's uncle, they let their hair down, so to speak,
sprawled across the carpet, and squabbled like blackbirds over a worm.

Me, I was just someone who supplied the cold pizza slices and plastic cups
of cold juice, with ice! And I never asked about school, never asked about
their hobbies, the movies they liked, or any of that stuff which may be of
great interest to kids, but should be of no interest to adults.

I became so accepted that occasionally, just occasionally, I was invited to
make up a two-versus-two teams as we battled alongside Captain America,
swept through Ultra Mini Golf in 3D, or blasted an unbelievable assortment
of aliens into oblivion.

Make no mistake. Arlo was not spoiled. He had three Playstation 3 games,
but his friends had a seemingly inexhaustible supply and were at their
happiest when Arlo allowed them on his set up.  Arlo was a natural leader,
but he didn't need to assert himself, and often seemed happier when he was
letting others take the lead.

Me? I was content to sit on the couch, doing marking (not much), completing
forms (endless), scanning the evening paper...  and rejoicing in the pairs
of bottoms presented before my uninterrupted gaze.

God bless the Age of the Saggers, when boys of all ages were only content
when their jeans or trousers were hanging halfway down their arses. And God
bless mothers who do not cover up the beauty of their boys' bums with those
tedious boxers that so frustratingly conceal so many charms.

Of course, in an ideal world, I'd be able to sit on the carpet between the
legs of each boy in turn, slip down his trousers and underpants, part his
buttocks and slide my tongue up and down their unblemished slit. No doubt
each boy would wriggle a bit, but it's amazing how much concentration a boy
has when engaged on a Playstation.

I'd masturbate happily, and as I felt myself coming, I'd prise open their
anal lips to make sure I could squirt at least a spurt or two into the pink
hole. There would be the problem of ejaculating three times within the time
available, but I'm sure I could improvise if I had to.

Dream on!

Dreams came partly true when the central heating went wonky and the
temperature soared. Charlie, the more aggressive of the boys, decided these
were ideal conditions for a wrestling contest.

My apartment leans towards minimalism in style. The salon, in particular,
hasn't much more than the couch, one armchair, bookcase, computer area, TV
screen, and a huge biscuit-coloured carpet. Off came the school shirts,
socks, and before I could stop them, school flannels, all flung haphazardly
onto the couch.

I, naturally, was designated referee, and as such was able to lay down
pretty strict rules. I hardly wanted a parent to arrive and find a sweaty,
semi-naked boy with a broken limb.

It still amazes me how unselfconscious younger boys are about their bodies;
it's only when the teen years strike that embarrassment about shape, size
and colour come into play. So there I sat observing three semi-naked boys,
striking poses across the carpet.

It was difficult to decide who I wanted to fuck most at that moment. No
doubt Elwyn was slightly over-weight but his bum was so large, so round, so
perfectly curved, the thin white fabric so tightly stretched across the
cheeks, the crack so blatant, that it was all I could do not to grab him
then and there, pull down his underpants, pull his buttocks apart and jam
my already- throbbing seven inches into his guts. Down, boy, down!

Then there was Charlie who gave the appearance of being frail but who
turned out to be wiry, cunning and indefatigable in the clinch. The bulge
in Charlie's briefs also promised that his 'frailty' was more than balanced
by a cock he'd already moved up his tummy. Or was this an incipient
hard-on? The prospect of battle will do that to a boy.

Then there was Arlo, my Arlo, so elegant, so serene, so untroubled you
might have suspected the contest was fixed in his favour before it began.

The contest was not fixed. Before I'd counted out the mandatory 1 - 2 - 3,
Charlie was on Arlo like a ferret on a rabbit, both then flattened beneath
Elwyn who straddled Charlie's back pressing down his arse onto the boy's
spine.

Arlo wriggles free and throws himself sideways at , dislodging him onto the
carpet. Down Arlo goes, determined to pin Elwyn in a quick fall, only to
find Charlie is riding him, sitting across his back, careless that his
underpants have ridden down his skinny hips to his knees.

Charlie makes a desultory attempt to pull his underpants up, but almost
immediately abandons the attempt in favour of flattening Arlo who...

This could not go on long. Within ten minutes, all three boys were sprawled
on their backs, sweaty, slippy, panting, trying to laugh but
breathless. And yet everyone demanded Round 2, which I denied them. Quit
while you're ahead, I decided, and declared the contest an honourable draw,
and silencing protests by mention of frozen lollipops in the freezer.

A scamper of bare feet.  Banging of the freezer drawers. Squabble over
flavours. And joyful screams as each boy tried to push his lolly down the
front of each other's underpants. But soon I had them on their fronts
again, arms on huge pillows, lapping up the great battle scenes in 'Lord Of
The Rings', and licking their ice lollies with a lasciviousness that would
put a Parisian whore to shame.

I confess I had to retreat to the bathroom for a while where my imagination
played riotously on what I'd like to do with these boys and their lollies.

As I wiped the semen from the bathroom tiles, I reflected on how wonderful
life was. O, dear reader, never tempt Fate. It is true that all was well in
our world... until I discovered by chance that Arlo was breaking not one
but several of our 'man-stuff' rules.

God bless the boy.



It is Friday around 5 o'clock when I get home from school. The meeting went
more quickly than I'd anticipated, probably because it was a Friday and
everyone wanted home and into the weekend rather than spend time on duties,
schedules, time-tables, and the ever-present threat of an OFSTED
inspection.

I wound up the meeting early and hurried home, not because I'd any worries
about Arlo. He was heading for thirteen and perfectly capable of
entertaining himself till I got home at the expected hour of six o'clock.

I turn the key in the lock and step inside. It's the silence I notice
first. It doesn't surprise me. Arlo sometimes takes a nap after
school. Quietly I slip off my jacket, tie, shoes, slip into slippers, and
pad across the salon. Quietly I peek into Arlo's
room. Nothing. Nobody. Quietly I open my bedroom door and peek in.

There are two boys on my double bed. Both are naked. Though I see him only
from behind, I recognise Arlo immediately. How often have I kissed these
shoulder blades, nuzzled the nape of his neck beneath the thick tumble of
chestnut hair? The other boy I don't recognise until Arlo half turns to me,
puts a finger to his lips, and goes 'Shhhh...'

The other boy is Elwyn.


Elwyn is lying on his back, his hands folded on the pillow beneath his
head. His eyes are closed. Arlo sits facing Elwyn.

Arlo has placed his legs under Elwyn's bottom and pulled himself forward so
that his legs, one on each side, are stretched alongside his friend's naked
body so that his feet rest on the pillow, one white-socked foot on either
side of his friend's head. I step forward and with a shock see that Arlo's
penis is half-buried up Elwyn's anus.

Arlo beckons me, and, as if in a trance, I move forwards to sit on the edge
of the bed.

Arlo's hard-on, at least two inches of it, is embedded inside
Elwyn. Elwyn's skin from the bottom of his ball sac is a creamy ivory,
divided by the thin seam that runs round to his anus.

His out-stretched legs are the same creamy ivory, not a flaw, not a
blemish, faultless. His ball sac, ever so slightly wrinkled, looks as if
it's planted as an after-thought, and above it, his cock, still sheathed in
its foreskin leans away at an angle.

I look up Elwyn's body, see his strong chest, his slender arms, his armpits
like freshly-polished chalices, his lips red rather than pink, his cheeks
blushed, and his thick eyelashes highlighting the curve of the lids.

A small gold earring winks at me from his right earlobe.

Arlo jerks his hips forward a little to drive more of his cock into Elwyn.

"Ooof," I hear; then, "Not so hard. That bit always hurts."

I can't help myself. I reach out and stroke Elwyn's tummy. It flutters
under my fingers.

Arlo jerks his hips again, and I see another inch disappear into Elwyn,
stretching the gap on either side of his hole. The boy's eyes fly
open. "Fuck... that really hurts."

He sees me.

I expect him to panic or at least show signs of distress, but Elwyn smiles
weakly and says, "It really does hurt when he does that."

I make soothing noises and continue to stroke his tummy, his chest, his
nipples, his lips. The boy opens his mouth. I slip in a finger and he sucks
on it. Arlo begins to fuck his friend, jerking his hips gently back and
forward, penetrating just a little more each time until bottom meets
bottom, and he can get no deeper unless he changes positions.

I lower my face and begin to such Elwyn's five-inch prick to full erection,
pushing back his foreskin with my tightened lips.

My nephew and I are a team.

As Arlo speeds his fucking up, I speed up my sucking, matching my rhythms
to his. Elwyn's body begins to turn, twist and wriggle in time with Arlo's
thrusts and trembling body.

The boys cum together.

As Arlo collapses over Elwyn's body, Elwyn thrashes from side to side, and
I gently release his hot, hard, swollen penis. It collapses almost
immediately. I look up to see Elwyn is shielding his eyes as if he is
ashamed of the amount of pleasure he has given and taken. Arlo slides up
alongside Elwyn and whispers in his ear. There's an almost imperceptible
nod and Elwyn rolls forward onto his front. No words are required.

I slide onto the bed, part Elwyn's gorgeous cheeks and inspect his
freshly-fucked hole. There's a distinct redness around it, but no real
signs of bruising, and no signs of damage, though the rosebud of his hole
is larger and browner than Arlo's.

I lower my face and lick the brownish skin tenderly. The skin is a deeper
shade of brown immediately around this entrance to the boy's body.

I raise his legs onto my shoulders - ah, the flexibility! - part them as
wide as is comfortable for the boy, and fasten my lips against his
hole. The tip of my tongue pushes and probes, and I'm almost immediately
awarded by its opening to admit a fairly large part of the tip.

The smells are intoxicating. Shit, yes, but it's so mild it seems to be
swallowed by the other smells. I swear I can taste Arlo. I don't really
care what makes up these tastes. I want them whatever they are.

Satisfied, but unsatisfied, I eventually stand up and consider ejaculating
into Elwyn's bowels. He is so open I'm sure he could take a considerable
amount, but a glance at the bedroom clock brings me to reality. How can
half an hour passed so quickly? Abruptly, I change from crazed boy lover to
sensible teacher.

"Right, boys," I say, "into the jacuzzi with you. You've got fifteen
minutes in there. First out gets double ice-cream."

Squeals of delight from the boys.

We sit around the kitchen table later, and Arol takes the lead.

"Elwyn's gay you see. His mum and dad know it. They don't mind. I mean they
accept it. They think we are boyfriends. They really like me. They even
gave me a packet of condoms!"

God bless the Swedes.

"I'm sorry we didn't ask your permission, sir," says Elwyn.

"And I'm sorry I didn't ask yours," I say. "But this can never happen
again." Both boys looked crest-fallen. "No, no, I mean it must never
involve me again... and you must promise never to have sex with men."

"Scouts' honour!" chimed Elwyn.

"Arlo. Elwyn. Call Elwyn's mum and ask if Elwyn can stay for dinner. Tell
her we'll bring him home by 7 o'clock... and tell Elwyn's mum your mum will
be here too."

The boys shone with delight.

"And... as for the rest..." I began.

"The word's mum!"

Sometimes I think Arlo is too bright for his own good - or at least too
bright for mine.

"Right, boys. I'm off to get the pizzas."

There are times when boys don't need men, and this was one of them.


Part 8

Tick tock tick tock - and the boys are already touching fourteen.

"Lift your bum, Elwyn. I want to see it going all the way in and all the
way out."

I feel rather than see my cock sliding out of Elwyn's anus because the only
thing I can see is Charlie's belly button, and only that for a moment as
Charlie pushes himself back into my mouth, my throat, and continues to
face-fuck me aggressively.

Charlie has six inches and his cock is thicker than those of the other
boys. I can feel my lips slip and slide along his shaft.

"Wow, Elwyn, doesn't that hurt?"

Arlo's voice is enthusiastic rather than solicitous. "You're sitting right
down on sir's hairs when it's all the way in."

"Yeh, it hurts," says Elwyn, and his voice is so tiny I remember just how
young he is. "But... ooof! - when you get used to it, it feels good. Is it
really stretching me now?!

"You bet," says Arlo. "Your hole is like an elastic band stretched round
a... a..." The boy struggles to find an apt comparison. "...stick of
Brighton rock," he adds triumphantly.

"Lift up again. I want a close-up of about six inches so you can see the
start of his knob."

It's a little discomforting to hear Arlo discussing me in the third person,
but he's the director as well as camera boy so I guess he is being
professional. To tell the truth, I haven't much time for discomfort as
sensations rush through me,

I manoeuvre Charlie up and forward until my face is fixed between his
wide-spread buttocks. Being on the skinny side, Charlie is easier to shift
than the others, and he is co-operative though he could be cleaner down
here.

I feel his fingers wrapping my hair round his dick as he wanks happily
away. I use my thumbs to loosen his sphincter muscles, prise open his hole
before pushing my tongue inside as far as I can. I don't care what these
juices are; they are a a boy's juices and I want as much as I can get.

Why do I enjoy licking - rimming - a boy's hole so much? Not so long ago I
would have thought the practice pointless if not disgusting. Now I can't
get enough of it. Oddly enough, I'm not that keen on being rimmed, but
offer me any reasonably attractive boy and I'll happily rim him all night
long - and all day, too, if he isn't at school.

Men?

They don't attract me, but then men have never attracted me, though there
may be aesthetics involved here. A boy's anus can reasonably be described
as a rosebud... or a little mouth waiting to be kissed, licked, sucked,
worshipped. And, of course, there is the pleasure of introducing a boy to
sexual pleasure he'd never suspected existed.

Analingus feels erotic for the same reason that anal play in general is
arousing. The anus and surrounding tissue are richly endowed with nerves
highly sensitive to erotic touch, which is grand for the receiver, perhaps
less so for the giver.

Rimming is a way, I guess, for the rimmer to say, "I love all of
you. There's no part of you that I don't want to have. In turn, it's a way
for the boy being rimmed to say I trust you, you know what you're doing, so
there's no part of me you can't have.  This is true for boy lovers.

Boy lovers don't simply love their boy-of-the-moment; they worship him; if
they could, they would devour him, swallow him whole, and keep him
forever. Of course, if the futile silliness of worship can give way to
genuine love, the man will put the boy's needs first, even if the boy's
gain involves the man's loss.

All of which wasn't particularly relevant as Arlo directed Charlie to sit
facing the other way while continuing to grind his hole against my lips,
for which I was duly grateful.

"Now, Charlie," instructs Arlo, "start jerking Elwyn off... but don't let
him cum... and if you can, lean over and kiss his dick.  No! Don't suck
it. Just kiss it lots and lots. I'm gonna walk round and take shots
-they're called 'establishing' shots, so that everyone can see exactly
what's going on." (pause)

"And, sir, raise Charlie up and down a couple of times so we can see your
tongue licking his actual hole." (pause) "It'll look like Charlie's gonna
take a shit," (collective giggle) "but don't worry, he's not gonna do
that... I hope."

When had Arlo fallen in love with making movies?

His interest had become an obsession. I'm inclided to think it's when we
watched 'Wild Tigers I Have Known' together.

For the first time, Arlo realised you could tell people what to do, they
would do it, you could record it, and what you did could be beautiful.

In making his 'porno' movies, Arlo was not simply interested in the sex,
nor the feelings of power it gave him. He was genuinely interested in the
aesthetics of the images he captured, though he didn't yet have the
conceptual capacity to desdcibe what he was doing in these terms.

But he would capture trickles of sweat running down a boy's back, the
expressions on a boy's face as he came, the blush that ran from my chest to
my neck... even the whorls of hair that ran round my arsehole, for
Chrissake!

I'd bought a Sony HDRCX115EB High Definition Handycam Camcorder, and we'd
agreed that, for the record, it belonged to me, thouugh in reality Arlo was
the proud owner. It wasn't terribly expensive, but I'd made a point of not
spoiling the boy, and as far as Amy was concerned I was encouraging her son
in a new hobby.

To tell the truth, Arlo quickly outstripped me in using the camera, and the
101 magical tricks it could perform. I'm not here to sell the CX115 to you
(LOL) and will only mention if you connect your camcorder directly to an HD
Ready TV you can view your video in spectacular HD on the big
screen. Arlo's bumhole, beautiful in real life, was positively ethereal in
High Definition on a 42" screen!

What next - 3D?!

"Turn round again," instructs Arlo. Charlie duly obliges and sticks his
hard-on back in my throat. "Elwyn, ride sir faster...  but, Sir, tell me
when you're gonna shoot. Then you pull it out... but don't shoot till I
take a shot of Elwyn's hole wide open.  Then, when I tell you, shoot your
cum right on Elwyn's hole." (pause to plan)

"Then suck Charlie faster and faster. But don't cum in his mouth,
Charlie. When you're gonna cum, tell me, so I can get a big close-up of the
cum shotting right out of your pee-hole and into his mouth. And fire some
on his face as well. That should do it."

Arlo completes his movie by having the boys slide up my body to lick the
cum off my face before snuggling down like contented kittens in my
arms. His closing shot is Elwyn's bumhole, breathing as my cum trickles
from it. Plastered across the shot is a stolen: That's All Folks.

Was I insane?

Not one, but three adolescent boys performing sex acts that would make a
bishop blush. Yes, I was insane - insane in the way that alcoholic or a
junkie is insane. I knew that the dangers were; I knew the risks; I knew
the consequences of discovery would be catastrophic?

Why then? Oh, why? Take the last drink, take the last fix, then run, run
like Hell. But I couldn't. Not quite yet.  Not quite now.


Part 9

Arlo discovered gay teen sites when he was thirteen. I'm not sure when he
set up Skype. And I have no idea when he began 'performing' for perverts
around the world. I'm smiling at my use of the word 'pervert' because I
know that I would happily sit in front of a screen watching a boy fuck
himself with a home-made dildo as I tried to keep it going before my cum
splashed its way messily over the keyboard. A boy pleasuring himself for
your pleasure - would you sit and watch that?

Like many modern computer-savvy kids, especially boys, Arlo knew more than
I did about the magical mysteries of cyber space. I wasn't even aware he
could set up a separate account on his laptop of which I was completely
unaware.

Later, when I mentioned this to him, he protested: "But, uncle, everyone
has their own account. And it's private.  I wouldn't look into your area
without your permission. That's invasion of privacy."

At the time, Arlo's middle finger was trying to locate my prostate - with
my full permission.

I discovered what was going on by accident. When it comes to boys, parents
find out most things by accident. It is not that boys try to keep secrets
from their parents; it's just that they feel much of their lives has
nothing to do with adults in general and their parents in particular.

>From around the age of 13 onwards, the real lives of boys take place in
their heads, in their bedrooms, and in the company of their peers. Watch a
group of boys as they come out of school at 3.30. Watch them as they change
into their street gear. Watch them as they meet up with their friends in
pre-designated meeting places.

Within half an hour, they are different creatures entirely, and, if one did
not know better, one would imagine they were feral pack animals, set on
carrying out as much mayhem as they can. Not true. Their aim is not
mischief, though recklessness, can lead them into it; they are pack
creatures, playing follow-my-leader, out to find excitement or create it
when they cannot find it ready-made.

I've no idea how I broke Arlo's password. I was merely fiddling around
trying to remember my own password which does begin with OSCAR... when an
entirely new planet swam into my ken, and I sat silent, staring at the
Pacific as Arlo's private world - OSCARSWORLD - opened up to me. Folders
neatly organised: 001PICS - 002VIDS - 003STORIES - 004CHATS.

CHAT 31

RAY69 Hi, Oscar. You're looking hot, Had a good day at school.

OSCAR Hi, Dan. Yeh, not bad. U?

RAY69 Pretty good. Some of the customers are dumb shits, but as long as
they pay on time, I don't give a fuck.

OSCAR Sorry 'bout yesterday. Uncle came home a bit early. Just got off in
time.

RAY69 No worries. I saved it for this session.

OSCAR You didn't cum then?

RAY69 Nope. No point cumming if I'm not looking at you. I like to see your
sweet little mouth when I'm cumming Even better is when I'm staring your
cute little hole.

OSCAR Wanna see it again?

RAY69 No hurry. When's your uncle getting home?

OSCAR 'Bout 5'clock. What you want me to do first?

RAY69 That's my boy. Stand up. Pull your school shirt out. Rub your fingers
over the front of your trousers. I want to see that bulge. I want to see
your stiffy outlined under those flannels. That's it. Take your time.

OSCAR Like that?

RAY69 Yeh, just like that. Get closer to the cam. I want to kiss you right
there. And tell me what you do to your uncle again. That sounds really hot.

(I leave this out. Frankly I'm too embarrassed to relate Arlo's description
of what we do in the privacy and intimacy of our love-making.)

RAY69 Shit, your uncle's a lucky bastard, Oscbaby. Now work your trousers
and underpants down your stomach. But don't let me see you dick, not
yet. Yeh, that's it. Down a bit more. Right there. Get closer to the cam
again. My God, your skin is so beautiful. Stop giggling. I really mean it.

OSCAR What would you like to do?

RAY69 I wanna lick and kiss your tummy. Suck your belly button. Push down
those undies with my tongue. Lick the head of your sweet little dick. For
fuck's sake, push them down to your knees.

OSCAR Look the way it jumps up!

RAY69 Work your foreskin back. Yeh, like that. Shit, I want my lips round
you. Get those fucking things off.

OSCAR Give me a min. Got get my shoes off first. Hold on. I'm gonna sit on
the couch and get this school shit off.

RAY69 Fuck it. Every time I see you I can't believe you're for real. You're
so f-u-c-k-i-n-g gorgeous.

OSCAR Dan... can you put your cam on, please? You can keep your clothes
on. I just wanna see you.

RAY69 Sorry, kid. No can do. I'm on my work laptop. No cam.

OSCAR You're always on your work laptop. How old are you really? I don't
care. Just want to know.

RAY69 Turn round. Bend over. Lift your shirt. Pull your cheeks open. Finger
that sweet little hole of yours. And when I tell you, go get that
dildo. The big one.

(If I don't go any further, it's pure embarrassment. And also because the
scripts in the end became repetitive. There's only so many things a boy can
do with his body when limited to a camshow.)

I learned later that the term for Arlo is 'cam whore. Arlo loved performing
on cam. There were few things he wouldn't do if asked politely or
persistently enough. To his credit, he refused to piss or take a shit on
cam.

When I tackled Arlo about this, he was his usual forthright self.

"I only use my laptop," he said. "I would never use your computer for this
stuff. The shows are only for perverts."

"How many men have you been on cam with?" I ask.

"Mmmm... do you mean one at a time or when there's a crowd of them?"

"A crowd of them?!" I'm horrified. "Do you mean more than one man can watch
you at a time?"

"Yeh, lots." Arlo sighs. "You don't know much, do you?"

"Never mind how much I know. How many?"

"Well, one afternoon on Tiny Chat I had 22 viewers."

"Tiny Chat? Viewers."

"Yeh." He sounds a little exasperated. "Tiny Chat is one of them sites
where anyone, everyone can just visit and open up their cam. We all do
it. But I set up my room - chat room - and then invite viewers. Nobody can
watch if they're not invited."

The learning curve is steep but I'm getting there.

"On Blog TV you can get hundreds of viewers."

"Hundreds!"

"For God's sake, Arlo. Do you know how dangerous this is. Some of those
pervs are dangerous, really dangerous. They could track you down."

Arlo let out a huge sigh.

"Uncle, you don't know much about the web, do you? I use VPN. That makes it
impossible for anyone anywhere to track where the lap top is... and where I
am... and who I am?"

"What's VPN?"

Another huge sigh - and he kept it simple for me.

"VPN stands for Virtual Private Network. When you send or receive a
message, any kind of message, the message goes whizzing round the world
from one server to another. It makes it possible to pinpoint where you're
server is. Where your computer address is. Who you are, where you are, or
anything about you."

"Can anyone break through it?"

"No, they can't. You're invisible."

"And have you got VPN or your laptop?"

"Yes, I have. I've had it for ages."

Arlo sounded a little exasperated.

"Arlo, sit down."

We both sat down.

"Here's what we're going to do?" I paused for a moment. "First you're going
to show me VPN works on your laptop. Then you're going to dismantle it,
dump it, and promise me you'll never use it again."

I raised a finger to silence his protest.

Then we're going to take all the videos we've made of you and me and
Charlie and Elwyn. We're going to take them - all of them - down to the
furnace and throw them in."

I raised the palm of my hand.

"And this weekend we are going away. We're going to the New Forest. My
friend, you know Mr. Miles, he has a log cabin there. You're going to take
your camera and take shots of the wild life there. We're going to enter the
best three of them for the competition in 'Nature Alive' and another three
into the Nature Selects on the BBC."

Silence.

Arlo edged along the couch. He threw his arms around me. He hung around my
neck.

"Oh, God... Oh, God..."

Tears were running down his cheeks.

"Can we burn them now? Can we burn those fukin' videos now? Then I'll show
you how to delete VPN, and I'll never use it again... I'm sorry. I'm so
sorry. I just didn't know how to stop."

He held him from me and looked into the boy's eyes, and said something I'd
never said before:

"I love you, Arlo. I love you and I'll always love you."


Part 10

It's getting very near the end - but not the ended I could have anticipated
- and probably not what you expected.

The day that changed everything.

Arlo was 14 and 6 months, doing brilliantly at school, and well settled
with a girl friend. You read that correctly. Arlo had a girlfriend... and,
although we sometimes had sex, Arlo wasn't gay. He wasn't even bisexual, as
far as I know, unless you count me. But even that was fading, happily
fading. If I were to have a relationship with an older boy, or young man,
it wasn't going to be with Arlo.

Out of the blue...

"Arlo might as well go to secondary school in Brighton," Amy tells
me. "Nigel and I are moving to Brighton in August. I suppose Arlo will come
with us."

I'm stunned.

"But he's settled in so well at the Academy. He's got lots of friends,
including Holly, his girlfriend."

I play my last card.

"And Nigel... what about Nigel? Nigel and Arol have never really got along
well."

"Nigel's got this promotion in Brighton. He can't pass it up. And I'm not
leaving Nigel.  I can't pass him up."

I'm drowning, not waving.

"Mind you..." says Amy. "Naw, you wouldn't be interested?"

"Interested? Interested in what?" I ask. I'm too miserable to be interested
in anything.

"Interested in taking Arlo on," she says. "You've got him half the time
anyway," she continues. "Arlo practically lives with you. He goes to your
precious grammar school here. What about he comes to us in Brighton, say
one weekend a month. Maybe when he's older Nigel will start to appreciate
him... but I doubt it. What do you say?"

I can't say anything. I'm struck dumb, lost for words, literally
speechless.

"Aw, come on, you're a teacher. Teachers are supposed to have all the
answers. A simple 'Yes' or 'No' will do."

I can form the word in my head, but it's caught on my tongue.

"Shit, I'm going to take that as a 'Yes'."

Amy turns and opens the door of the apartment.

Arlo is standing there. He looks so young, so vulnerable.

"I think it's a 'Yes', kiddo," says Amy.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

That must have come from me.

Arlo runs across the room. He throws his arms around me. He hugs me so
tightly I'm even more breathless. He is crying. Amy is crying.  I am
crying. Then we're laughing. Then I'm whirling Arlo round in mid-air. His
long legs make it look as if he's flying. I'm flying, though my feet remain
on the ground.

That night, as I tuck Arlo in bed, I whisper, "Good night, sweet
prince. Good night, Arlo... Arlo, my love."

"Goodnight - Dad."

THE END THE BEGINNING

Footnote

All the incidents in this story happened quite a long time I ago. Those who
are interested may like know:

ARLO won a first degree in Philosophy followed by a PhD and a doctorate. He
now teaches at the same prestigious university. He is happily married with
three kids - all boys.

AMY married Nigel. They turned out to be a perfect match and now live in
Hampstead.

ELWYN and his family moved to Sweden where he runs a stud farm for
horses. With his family's blessing, Elwyn married Axel. They have adopted a
boy and a girl from Afghanistan.

CHARLIE took a degree in Law. He is now a barrister in Edinburgh. Of his
private life, little is known.

ME I became headteacher of our junior school. Then headteacher of a
prestigious junior school in London. Got bored. Bought - thanks, dad, - an
international junior school in Barcelona where... his name is Rafael.

...

Thanks for finding time to read this story. You may like some of these:

Boarding Boys - Adult Youth - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/boarding-boys

One Boy's Story - Adult Youth - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/one-boys-story

Learning with Leo - Young Friends - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/learning-with-leo

Let Me in - Adult Youth - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/let-me-in

Beautiful Games - Young Friends - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/beautiful-games

In My Secret Life - Young Friends - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/in-my-secret-life

Telling Tales - Young Friends https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/telling-tales

Here We Go Again - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/here-we-go-again