Date: Fri, 23 May 2008 21:18:10 +0100
From: jerryfell@hushmail.com
Subject: Boy at the wedding

Pure fiction.  Don't read if likely to offend.

----

Alexander Steel said goodbye to his secretary at the PR Agency
early that Friday afternoon, hoping to beat the traffic.  "Hope you
enjoy the wedding!" she said, handing him the present that she had
purchased on his behalf and wrapped with care that afternoon.  He
had hired her for her attention to detail, and her dedication to
this personal chore was typical of the calm professionalism he had
come to expect of her.  He wasn't even exactly sure what his 3,000
had bought, beyond that it was a decorative piece of silverware and
that, knowing his PA's good taste, it would be sure to delight the
newly weds.

The road out of London was congested with the usual summer weekend
traffic.    He went south across Chelsea Bridge then east, past
Lambeth Palace and the South Bank to get onto the main road that
led down towards Canterbury and the coast.  London shimmered in the
summer heat-haze.  Around the air conditioned Audi, pneumatic
drills hammered away, cyclists rode past like crazed zombies
missing wing-mirrors by millimeters, pedestrians diced with death
on their hurried way to the closest tube stop.  But Alex was in a
great mood.  For the past few months he had been thinking of the
wedding as a chore, and had toyed with making his excuses.  But now
the weekend was upon him, it felt like just the sort of break he
needed.  A long weekend in the Kent countryside.  A rural hotel.  A
wedding reception and a chance to catch up with old friends who
didn't care about his business, and who knew nothing of the daily
pressure of running a company of 500 people.  He made a mental
pledge to himself not to talk about work, but to spend the weekend
being interested in other people for a change.

A bendy-bus broke his mood as it bullied its way into his lane, and
he cursed it.

But with patience, eventually the congested arteries of London
eased, and the Audi found itself picking up speed on the motorway.
At first he kept at eighty miles and hour, his usual cruising
speed, above the speed limit but not enough to worry the police.
But as London was left behind Alex thought - what's the rush? And
his foot eased off the accelerator.  He had ample time.  The
wedding was on the Saturday, and the only thing he was going to do
that night was check into the hotel; a picturesque former country
mansion set in the rural estate of some bygone aristocrats.

He was glad to turn off the motorway onto the rural roads.  As he
pushed deeper into the Kent countryside the lanes narrowed, until
there were times when they were  only wide enough for one car, set
deep in the hedgerows.

It was a glorious summer day.  A crystal blue sky above.  Early
summer, so the fields and woods were a mix of vibrant greens of
every hue.  He pulled over onto a farm track and with a push of a
button the Audi's roof slid back and tucked itself away.  He hardly
ever used the Audi as a convertible.  In London it was too
ostentatious and he preferred the car to act as a cocoon rather
than a statement.  But out here it was time to enjoy the open air
as it sped him through the lanes and the scent of mown fields over
the final few miles to the village of Little Headingham.

The entrance to the estate was a pair of rampant sandstone Lions,
badly weathered now with the passage of time.  They framed a long
driveway that curved across the estate past a huge oak tree that
crested a hill.  Then the drive dipped down, sweeping along the
edge of a glittering lake and up to the house which stood squat and
square.  A warm sandstone house, that Alex guessed was late Tudor,
with its leaded windows and arched doorways.

There were five or six cars parked on the gravel to one side of the
house and Alex swung in alongside them and turned the engine off.
Immediately rural peace seemed to swallow him up.  Unlike London,
there was suddenly no sound.  Or rather, there was the tick, tick,
tick of a lawn sprinkler somewhere.  There was birdsong.  There
was, far off, the lowing of a cow.  And the tinkling sound of
children playing somewhere unseen.  It was exactly as he had been
hoping, and he sat there in the car to take it in until he thought
it unseemly.

He retrieved his luggage from the boot and made his way up to the
house.  He enjoyed the feel of the old wrought iron doorknob as he
pushed the door open and entered into the cool interior.

Within half an hour he had unpacked, thrown open the window to his
room, showered and changed into a light flannel suit and crisp
white shirt.  He had the olive skin of his mediterranean ancestry
and the fine bone structure that his mother, when she had been
alive, never tired of telling him had once been immortalised in
stone by the greatest sculptors of the Roman Empire.  At forty, his
temples were now framed by some silver grey  that he thought added
to his powerful good looks.

He walked down the plain solid staircase, past the darkened
portraits of the house's ancestral line, through a large reception
room and out of the french windows on to the terrace.

In front of him the gardens swept down to the lake beyond.
Carefully maintained low hedges formed a tudor geometry that led
the eye to a central statue in the middle distance, and beyond to
what seemed to be the tall hedges of a maze.  To one side was a
manicured croquet lawn, complete with hoops and pegs but empty of
players.  Towards the lake was a grass tennis court.  A line of
poplars appeared to lead to the crest of a hill in the far distance
beyond the lake.

A butler in a white jacket appeared at his elbow.  "Good evening
sir.  Would you care for a drink?  A gin and tonic perhaps?"

"Yes thank you.  I'll take it out here."

Alexander settled down at a small table surrounded by upholstered
rattan chairs and looked out at the garden.  It was still
pleasantly hot despite the late hour and the shade from the canopy
was welcome.  He noticed that the poplars were casting long shadows
across the lawn, reminding him of his school days in Florence.

And then in the distance, appearing from around the corner of the
maze, a small group emerged.  A man in a white shirt and pale
trousers.  A woman in a summer cotton dress and two children, a boy
and a girl.  The girl dressed like the mother, the boy shirtless
and bare footed.  He thought he recognised the man, but couldn't be
sure.  They were heading towards him.

"Alex!  You old bastard!"

"Henry!" the wife scolded.  The children were grinning at their
father's bad language.

"Henry!  Is that you?"

"It certainly is."  The man jogged the remaining distance to the
terrace.  "Only twenty years since we last saw each other.  You
can't have forgotten me already!"

Alexander went to shake hands, Henry pulled him into an embrace
with a hearty amount of back-slapping.

Henry turned to his wife.  "Mary, Alex.  Alex, Mary."  Smiles.
"The rotten bastard told me you'd be turning up for his wedding to
the monster, but I had no idea we'd be staying at the same hotel."

"Henry!"  His wife exclaimed again.

"And who are these?"  Asked Alexander, turning to the children.

"Yes, have to admit it.  Guilty as charged.  Pumped out two
sproglets along the way old chap.  Sproglet number one is
Sebastian.  Sprog number two is Matilda.  And don't ask.  Left the
names to the wife."

Alexander shook hands with the girl, a little light thing, perhaps
eleven years old, pretty as a picture.  Then the boy.

As the boy's hand slipped into his, Alexander had a rush of
vertigo.  His vision seemed to narrow dramatically in a blur to
focus on the boy.  Everything else, the garden, the house, the
group around him - all shot away out of focus.  The boy's hand was
soft and limp.  The softness to his touch seemed to run like an
electric shock to his brain.  The boy was next to naked barring his
baggy khaki shorts.  Alexander had to stop himself from falling
over.  He was aware of the boy's white grin, his vivid green eyes,
the downy peach fuzz hair on the boy's brown arms and legs.  The
sweat on the boy's naked chest.  The soft stomach with just a hint
of puppy fat.  Shaking the boy's limp hand felt like a sexual act.

"Sebastian, shake hands like a man!  Tell him Alex.  In business
you have to grip it like you mean business, not like you are
offering a cold fish!"

"No, I, er, you shake hands pretty well young man."  Offered Alex.

"He is being polite.  Come try again on me."

And with that the boy's hand slipped away and the group stood
around as father demonstrated the true grip of an alpha male.

"Now try it again.  Alex, shake his hand and tell me if there is
any improvement."

So again the thirteen year old hand was in his.  This time the boy
was gripping tight, his little fingers pressing in.  Alexander
smiled at him.  The boy flashed a smile back.  "Henry, I'd say this
one is ready to be a corporate predator in the footsteps of his old
man.  But I hope you have taught him the two hander."  With that he
took the boy's hand in his right, and his young wrist with his
left.  "This is a deal closer, young man.  Makes them think they
are in good hands.  Give it a try.  Yes that's it.  Don't forget to
shake at the same time."

"So what are you having?"  Asked Henry, as he and his wife settled
down at the table and Sebastian demonstrated his new two handed
shake to his sister.

"G&T, old man.  Time for a refresh."  He signaled the butler who
took their order.  "It's great to see you again Henry."

"Mary, Alexander and I go back to university days.  He was with me
at Kings.  He was smart as you like, and the women were around him
like flies.  Are you hitched, Alex?"

"I was, but sadly...."

"Too bad.  Sprogs?"

"No, but you two.  What great kids."

"Wait till you get to know them."  Joked Mary.

The drinks arrived and the conversation looped back over time,
catching up on news of old university friends, family, and tennis -
since they had once been tennis partners.  The girl joined them at
the table.  Sebastian pulled up one of the rattan loungers that
flanked the terrace and lay on it, his brown skin against the white
of the linen cushions.  His bare feet, pointed towards Alexander,
rocked from side to side as he grew bored of the adult
conversation, offering Alexander a tantalising glimpse of the boy's
soft inner thigh inside the looping trouser-legs of his baggy
shorts.

In the end Henry stood up, followed by the rest of the family.
"Well old chap, we better retire to get ready for supper.  This one
in particular needs a sheep-dip."  He said tousling Sebastian's
hair.

"Are you eating here?"

"Only place to eat, old chap.  Michelin star and all that.  Will we
see you later?"

"Yes.  In fact I was thinking of challenging young Sebastian to a
game of croquet after dinner."

"Splendid.  He'd like that."

"What is it?" Sebastian piped up.

"A vicious game son.  You will love it.  You get to punish people
without mercy.  Right up your street.  See you at dinner Alex."

And with that they were gone.

Alexander moved onto the recliner vacated by Sebastian.  It was
still warm from where the boy had been lying.  He put his hands
behind his head and closed his eyes.

The vertigo had been completely unexpected.  Since his divorce he
had been too busy to look for another partner.  He was not sure he
wanted one.  His sexual fantasies had seemed to regress to his days
at boarding school.  At night he remembered himself as he had been
at Sebastian's age, younger in fact.  He had been seduced by older
boys and had seduced younger.  Despite the risks he had crept into
a dozen or so of the beds in the dormitories he shared with the
other boys.  Some he had fallen in love with and some had fallen in
love with him.  It was these memories that now fueled his sexual
imagination.  And it was as if, in Sebastian, his fantasy had
become flesh in this surreal house and fantasy gardens.  His
fantasy, that was at that moment, upstairs somewhere, naked in an
old wrought iron bath tub, lathering up his thirteen year old body,
getting ready for dinner.

Alexander took up the offer of another gin.  And spent the next
fifteen minutes sipping it, thinking about the age that boys first
ejaculate.  He tried to calculate his own age when he first cummed.
 He remembered it vividly.  It happened one school holiday, at
home.  Seeing the tiny blobs of white appear at his piss-slit he
panicked.  He was sure he had contracted "VD" as the boys called
it.  But then an alternative theory presented itself.  And he spent
the next few weeks masturbating like crazy to prove over and over
again that it was in fact semen.  Which ever way he calculated it,
he figured that Sebastian was of an age to cum.  It was when
Alexander began to imagine the soft small fingers of Sebastian in
that context that he had to stop abruptly to avoid having his own
mishap.

Dinner was excellent.  The owner of the house was a professional
chef and the twelve house-guests who had eventually filled up the
house were hosted in the large kitchen at a rustic table with crude
long wooden benches along each side.  The wine and conversation
flowed.  He caught the boy's eye several times during the meal and
smiled.  At one point, bored, Sebastian had left his place and come
over to him to ask when they were going to play their game.  "Won't
it be too dark though?"

"No.   Not a bit.  Croquet is better in near darkness." he said
smiling and putting his hand reassuringly into the small of the
boy's back, feeling his backbone and warm skin beneath the white
shirt.

After dessert, as the other adults turned the conversation towards
politics and it looked as though Sebastian was about to drop dead
from boredom, Alexander excused himself.  Thanked the host and
announced that he was going to thrash Sebastian at croquet.
Immediately Sebastian's face lit up and he rushed on ahead, out
into the balmy night.

The croquet pitch was some way from the house, but the light from
the windows gave enough illumination to play.   Looking away from
the house the gardens were now dark and grey-green, almost sinister.

Sebastian was selecting a mallet.

In the semi-dark they began a game.  Sebastian was concentrating
hard on knocking his balls through the hoops.  He had kicked off
his shoes and pulled his socks off, unbuttoned his white shirt that
flapped around his bare chest and was scampering about in
excitement as he learned the new game.

"Remember what I told you about sabotaging your opponent."
Alexander said as he aimed for one of Sebastian's balls.  If my
ball hits yours, I get to hit your ball wherever I like.  Sebastian
was hopping from foot to foot in anxiety.  Alexander took aim.

"Missed! You missed!"  Squealed Sebastian.  "Does that mean I can
aim at yours now?"

"It certainly does."

Sebastian's ball made a solid clunk as it struck.  "Hooray!  Now
can I whack it anywhere?"

"Yup.  You hold your ball against it and hold it steady with your
foot then give it a good thwack.  Be careful not to hit your toes
though"

Alexander's ball was sent rocketing off towards the lake.
Sebastian had fallen in love with croquet.

Some of the adults had come out onto the terrace.  Their muffled
conversation drifted towards the croquet players but they were
engrossed in their game.  Sebastian seemed less interested in
winning than in enjoying punishing Alexander.  Time after time
Alexander was having to play back from far off the croquet lawn.
Sebastian was lining up a killer punishment shot.  He was gripping
his own ball with his toes, placed alongside Alexander's ball, so
that the kinetic power of the mallet would send his opponent's
ball, once again, into the bushes.  "Shall I be kind?"

"Do what you have to do.  I am still going to win."

"You make me laugh.  You are miles behind."

With that the young teenager swung.  A thud.  A wail:  "My foot!"
as he sat down hard on the grass nursing his toes.

Alexander hurried over.  "Ouch.  Let me see."  He knelt down beside
the lad and took his slender foot into his strong hands.  Sebastian
arched his back.  "Ow.  That hurt!"

"I bet it did."

With thumb and fingers Alexander explored the boy's foot.  "Bones
seem to be Ok.  Where did you hit it?"

"On the side."

The boy was sitting on the damp grass leaning back on his elbows,
head arched back on account of the pain, his shirt open
accentuating his graceful long neck.

"Let me rub it a little.  I don't think you've broken anything."

And so there he was, massaging the foot of a nearly naked thirteen
year old, a hundred yards from the boy's parents.

"You have beautiful feet, Sebastian.  Does it still hurt?"

"Yeah, not as bad though."

He moved from massaging the foot, to gripping the boy's ankle.  "I
can get my hand around your ankle."  Then he ran his hand, in a
tight grip, up the boy's calf.  "You have strong calves.  Do you
play a lot of sport?"

"Yeah.  At school I do."

"I can tell.  Strong thighs too."   With his left hand he kept the
boy's foot elevated.  His right hand stoked up onto the boy's
thigh.  Inside the leg-opening of his shorts.

It was dark.  The light from the house lit the boy's face.
Sebastian was looking at him intently.  The boy's leg was tense.
He was just inches away from the boy's immature scrotum.  Time
seemed to hang suspended.

"Sebastian, you... are... very....  You are very beautiful."  He
said, taking his hand away, to rub the boy's foot again.

"I'n not a girl."

"No, I know that.  But boys can be beautiful.  Perhaps I should use
the word handsome.  How does your foot feel?"

"It is better now."

Alexander felt a surge of panic.  "Now we should probably pack up.
The grass is getting damp and you are in bare feet.  Can you help
me put the stuff away?"

Alexander felt mortified.  He had come within inches of wrapping
his fingers around the boy's soft prick.  Worse, he had thought
better of it, and yet still almost dropped himself in it.
Sebastian was thirteen.   Old enough to know that men, some men,
lust after boys of his age.  Old enough to tell his mother or
father if he suspected.

As they walked back towards the house he put his hand on the boy's
shoulder.  "Sebastian, I really like you.  I hope we can be
friends."

He left his hand there longer than he should have.  He was
completely overwhelmed by the desire to possess this young body.
To love him.  To make love to him.

Then they were back on the terrace, and Sebastian went inside with
the mallets and balls.

"Good game?"  It was Henry armed with a bottle of red wine and
glasses.

"Yes, your son has a splendid mean-streak.  You would have been
proud at the way he was hitting me all over the place.  Still
thrashed him though."

"I heard that" said Sebastian returning, "No way I was well ahead."
 Sebastian plonked himself back down in his favourite recliner and
listened to the two men talk as the twilight turned to darkness.
Eventually his father said: "Off to bed Sebastian.  Long day
tomorrow.  Want you at your best for your favourite aunt."

"But Dad..."

"Off with you.  And say goodnight to uncle Alex."

"I am not your uncle, but goodnight Sebastian."

The boy kissed his father, approached Alexander and, much to his
surprise, kissed him too on the cheek.  "Goodnight."

And he was gone.

"Great kid you've got there Henry."

"Yes, he has his moments.  Thanks for playing with him.  He was
excited about it."

They sat deep in conversation until they were alone on the terrace,
and the subject turned back to young Sebastian.

"Causing endless problems at his boarding school."

"How so?"

"Oh you know, usual stuff.  Boy's school with all the little tykes
walking around like puberty time-bombs.  Good looks are not always
an asset."

Alexander let the silence hang, as they drank.  "Has he been in
trouble?"

"Came close.  I had to have a heart to heart with the Head Teacher
who was minded to expel him.  Changed his mind after I gave him a
few home truths"

"What was he in trouble for?"

"A younger chap from the junior school blabbed."

"Crikey.  How young?"

"Ten.  It's all part of some sort of hazing they go through at
thirteen when they enter the senior school.  The prefects put him
up to it."

"Interesting.  Thought hazing was a thing of the past.  Plenty of
it around in my day mind you."

"Same here. Harmless, mostly.  But he should have known better.  I
told him to stick to his own age if he is going to do that sort of
thing."

"What did he say?"

"Oh there were lots of tears.  Said it was either that or else the
prefects make you their fag for a term.  So he chose the junior
school raid."

"It was a raid?"

"Apparently.  Rather a sick game where the prefects goad them to
force a boy from the Junior School to do the honours, come what
may."

"So to speak!"

"Yes, silly bugger.  Still he has learned his lesson.... So are you
all set for tomorrow?"

"Not much to do bar turn up."

They sat watching fireflies out at the edge of the light cast from
the house.  Alexander's imagination was working overtime.  It was
hard to believe that young Sebastian had forced a ten year old to
masturbate him surrounded by jeering, leering prefects.  To look at
him he was a picture of pure innocence - but British boarding
schools have layer upon layer of emotional complexity.  But the
story reinforced the idea that the small lad was a sexual object of
desire, not just to him but to a gaggle of prefects who had watched
him brought to immature orgasm by the clumsy fingers of a
protesting ten year old child.

Alexander finally made his excuses and retired to bed.  He fell
asleep in foreign crisp starched sheets.  The open window letting
the black night curl into the room and wrap around his restless
dreams.

He awoke to bright sunlight streaming in through the window.  A
glorious day was in store.  He could hear muffled conversations
from the terrace below, and the occasional squeal from a child.  He
rolled out of bed naked, and went to the window.  The view was
magnificent, right across the lake and the grounds.  In the
distance he could see that Sebastian was back on the croquet lawn,
this time with his sister who he seemed to be humiliating in the
ritual fashion of small boys who have younger sisters.  But he was
too far away to see clearly.  Alexander checked the time.  It was
Eleven.  Shocking.  At home he was up at 05:30am every day, at his
Gym by 06:30 and at work by 07:45 on the dot.  Something about the
country air must have relaxed him.   He returned to bed and slipped
once more between the sheets.  He thought it wise to cum before
setting foot outside the room.  That way he might be able to
control his ridiculous urges towards the boy.  He wrapped his
fingers around his chubby cock and brought the monstrous swollen
sausage to boiling point within seconds, fueled, unfortunately, by
the image of Sebastian climaxing to the relentless slapping of the
ten year old's fist.

The wedding was not until the mid afternoon, so there was plenty of
time.  He had brunch on his own in the kitchen, served by the
owner's friendly wife.  Then put on a pair of sunglasses and went
out into the garden.  Within seconds his new friend had rushed up.
The lad's face was bright red.  He had been sprinting.

"Do you want to play tennis?  They've got racquets and balls and
everything and you can borrow them?  Dad says you and him used to
play.  I can play a bit so I won't be rubbish."

Alexander smiled.  "I don't have proper tennis shoes with me."

"Please?!"

"I'm not really equipped...."

"Oh pleeeeeease!!!"

"Why don't I watch you play your sister?"

"No she's rubbish.  Oh pleeease!!!"

"Okay, okay.  You win."

And with that Sebastian took him by the hand and was pulling him
playfully down the garden towards the court.

Henry hailed him from a distance.  "Has he roped you in?"

"No choice in the matter!"

And with that the game began.  Sebastian once more bare chested,
bare footed, just in his baggy shorts at one end of the court, and
Alexander the Roman senator at the other, armed with tennis
racquets, shooting balls back and forth over the net with Alexander
falling deeper and deeper in love with every point.

And it didn't help that Sebastian was a good player for his young
age.  His service action burned images into Alex's memory.  The
arch of the bare back.  The rib cage.  The thin arms.  The upturned
chin.  The shock of blond hair.

And the game was fun.  Alex underestimated the boy's ability and
had to claw back points and games to get on an even footing.  One
set became two became three.   They were both enjoying it.

"Don't let me win."

"I'm not."

"Are you really trying?"  said Sebastian, picking up the balls with
a flick of his racquet.

"Yes.  You are pretty good."

"I'm the MASTER!"

"I wouldn't say that.  You serve like a girl."

"Shuddup!  I do not.  How do you serve then?  Like a pensioner.
Shall I bring you your wheelchair grandad?"

"You little monkey."

"A cheeky monkey"

"Yes."

"So why do you like me then?"

"Who says I like you?"

"You did.  You said I am beautiful."

"When?"

"Yesterday.  Yes you did."

"I may have done, but that was before I knew you."

"I think you luuuuv me, you think I'm sexxxxy." chimed Sebastian.

"I think you young people say `In your dreams'!  It's my serve."

And before long Mary was coming to them carrying iced orange
cordial.  "You two must be parched.  Sebastian you should let Mr
Steel alone for a while now.  And just look at you, you are quite
pink Sebastian you should put on a hat and some sunscreen".

So the two of them flopped down on the grass in the shade of the
poplars that fringed the court and sipped cordial as they watched
Mary make her way back to the shade of the terrace.  Alexander was
sipping the cordial but it was the lines and soft curves of the boy
that he was drinking in, from his extraordinary long eyelashes to
his perfect feet stained by the grass.

The boy was looking at him smiling and gulping his drink.

"I am very glad to meet you Sebastian."

More smiles.

"My god you finished that quickly!"

"I was thirsty."

"So I see."

"Hot ain't it."

"Yes."

The boy shaded his eyes with his bare arm and lay  back on the
grass.  Every inch of the young teenage body seemed to Alexander to
glow with a golden, sexual nakedness.   Alex's senses were
overloaded.   That was it.  The boy, despite his shorts just seemed
to be completely naked, lying back there on the soft grass, just a
few inches away.  The boy's armpit was completely hairless.
Alexander was helplessly staring.  Just as well the boy had shut
his eyes.

"When is Henry taking you guys home?"

"Monday."

"That's good.  So you get the whole Bank Holiday here."

"Yeah.  Dad said he would be too hung over to drive on Sunday
anyway."

"Fair enough."

"Dad said you are really rich."

"Did he."

"Yeah.  He said you are like in the papers because you are like
Richard Branson or someone."

"Hardly."

"Are you rich though?"

"Well....  yes I am."

"How rich?"

"You are never rich enough."

"Please tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"How much money you have."

"I have more than I can spend."

"I can spend it for you."

Alexander laughed.  "Yes you probably could.  What would you spend
it on?"

Sebastian was thinking.

"Dunno.  Treat my mates....  Dunno."

"Anyway, I am sure you'll make lots of money if that's what you
want."  and then he couldn't resist any longer.  He bent forward
and brushed the boy's damp hair away from his brow.  Then stroked
the side of his face.

"I am all sweaty."

"I don't mind."

And he continued to stroke the boy's baby soft cheek.  His body
blocked the view from the terrace so he knew Mary would not be able
to see.

"Won't be long before you start shaving....  And getting hairs
under your arms."

"Yuck."

"Ok I admit it you are a beautiful boy."

"Handsome."

"Okay.  Handsome."

"Yup.  Every Ho tells me so.  Do you know what that means?"

"Ho?"

"Yeah it means a prostitute."

"Really?!" he feigned ignorance.
"Yeah or you can say `My beeyatch'!"

"Bitch?"

"Yup."

"Well, Mr Gangster, you are still a very beautiful gangster." he
said running his fingers through the boys thick blond hair.  "And
your hair is incredibly blond.... Do you mind me touching it?"
Alexander's heart was in his throat.

The little naked shoulder's shrugged.  "I dun mind.  Live and let
live's what I say."

Alexander's mind went into overdrive.  What did that mean?  Had
Sebastian just acknowledged the sexual advance and shrugged it off?

He put his hand on the boy's knee.  The boy now put both his arms
over his eyes and spread his legs wider on the grass.  He stroked
upwards over the boy's sweaty thigh towards the hem of his shorts.

Again the summer heat seemed to slow to a stop.  The only sound was
the thud thud thud of his heart.  He saw the vivid blades of grass
along the boy's bare legs.  Saw his hand brown and large against
the boy's pale skin and small thigh.  He saw both hairless armpit
and pale underarms as the boy sheilded his eyes  from the sun.
>From seeing.

He saw his finger tips disappear under the hem of the shorts.  Felt
them nudge against the rim of the boy's boxers.  Felt them slip
under.  Inside.  Along soft skin, and getting softer.

Any moment now.

Every millimeter a terrible risk.  Every millimeter an act of
surrender by the boy.

Surely not far now.

Against his finger tips.  The warm walnut skin of the boy's scrotum.

A fraction higher.

The taught skin of a small, skinny, rock hard erection.

Finger followed finger and then thumb to grip lightly.  To explore
the full small shaft.  the boy was uncircumcised.  The scrag at the
tip was super soft.  He rolled it back to run a thumb over the
shiny crown.  The boy's legs were rigid.  Toes curled.  Eyes shut.

The boy's mother was a hundred feet away.  Her son was being
masturbated by a  man in the grass by the tennis court surrounded
by empty cordial glasses, discarded racquets and vivid green tennis
balls.  Her son's cock was sliding between fingers and thumb, his
foreskin peeled back.  He was sweating now with the tension of
being a thirteen year old beneath the hand of a forty year old.
His toes were clenched, his ball sac tight around his immature
testicles.  While she looked over and smiled to see her son,
apparently in conversation with her husband's friend - her boy
shook as he spasmed in orgasm inside his shorts - sending slippy
cum in rapid spurts between the man's hungry fingers.

Alexander reluctantly removed his fingers.  Noting that the boy's
scrotum was completely hairless - the cum smeared over soft skin
rather than pubic hair.  He inspected the boy's cum for a moment in
amazement before wiping it off on the grass beside them.

"Well.  Sorry about that Sebastian.  But it seemed like you needed
that."

The boy was silent.  His arms still covered his eyes.  Alexander
reached up and pulled one away.  "Look at me."  he pulled the other
arm away.  To his horror the boy was crying.  "Oh god, Sebastian.
I so sorry.  So very sorry!"  he whispered urgently as he tried to
wipe the tears away.  But more flowed in their place.  Panic was
rising in Alexander Steel as he looked down on the small sorry
figure in front of him.  A little crumpled boy.  "What's wrong?
What's wrong?"  As if he didn't know.

"Sebastian, leave Mr Steel alone now darling, it's time we were
getting ready!"  It was his mother who had walked half way towards
them.

"I'll fetch him indoors, Mary."  Alex shouted.  "Come on little
man.  Cheer up.  It's only a bit of fun."  The boy was sniffling.
At least the tears were starting to dry up.  "Come on old chap.  No
point getting upset."  He took the boy's wrists in his hands, stood
over him and pulled him to his feet.  "Tell you what.  I'll give
you a piggy back."  And in a sublimely surreal move the thirteen
year old was now sitting on his shoulders.  His pale thighs pressed
against Alexander's red hot ears, flushed with the blood of
embarrassment and awkwardness.  And the two of them made their
tottering way back to the house, both in a wild jumble of emotions
and mental confusion.

"There you are!"  It was Henry.  "Matilda is in the bath.  I want
you scrubbed and brushed in twenty minutes young man."  Henry was
in his splendid black morning coat already.  "how was the game?"

"Good.  Your boy has a lot of talent."

"And the school does a pretty good job with them.  He is always off
on tournaments.  Mostly inter-school.  Come on hurry up Seb."

And with that the boy disappeared into the shadows of the house.

"Thanks for befriending him."

"Not at all.  He is quite a character.  He is fun to be with."

"Well you can take him off our hands any time you like!"  Joked
Henry.  "And Matilda too for that matter."

-------

The next episode?  Also email me if I can turn your fantasy into a
story for you.  jerryfell@hushmail.com