Date: Mon, 13 Sep 2004 09:02:29 -0700
From: gayauthor@hushmail.com
Subject: Boy on a beach

I hope you enjoy this story.  If you do, please, please, let me know:
gayauthor@hushmail.com.  Also, does this make you remember a great day
on a beach somewhere?  If so, you have to write and tell me!  :-)

---

It wasn't as if he had chosen that spot on the beach deliberately.  In
fact, when he arrived and smoothed out his beach-towel under that particular
parasol the beach had been half deserted.  The sun beds either side were
not taken.  He had simply chosen a nice quiet spot.

It was only later that the mother and her two young sons had made their
way down the beach.  The boys' flip-flops kicked up the fine sand, sending
a satisfying shower over the oily back of an angry fat woman whose mousy
husband had spent the past half hour oiling her blubber.

It was the mother that chose to deposit her voluminous beach bag on the
sun-bed beside his.  The boys had dropped armfuls of bright plastic buckets,
spades and balls, raffia mats and towels and then scampered into the
sea.

He guessed by looking at them they were Greek.  Or Spanish.  The younger
was, perhaps, ten.  The older, guessing, he put at twelve or a young
thirteen.  Both had incredibly deep tans.  They were both thin, long-
legged boys with jet black hair.

The mother was calling to them.  They were Italian.  The boys returned
to her and stood patiently as she fished suncream from her bag and smoothed
it over their shoulders, over their flat tummies.  Their thighs, oh and
their shins.  She turned them and did their backs, across their beautiful
dimpled shoulder blades.

He observed this closely, taking a forensic interest in the whole process.
 The boys closed their eyes and she did their faces and ears.  A few
more words in Italian and they ran off, mercifully bare-footed this time.

He lost sight of them for a while.  Not that he was scanning the beach
for them or anything.  But it was true to say that his book had lost
its grip on him.  It sat disconsolately in the sand, the pages turning
by themselves in the breeze.

But soon they were back.  The younger one was making use of the brightly
colored buckets to make a sand castle.  The older boy was making a drip
castle.  He sat just where the waves ended their little wash up the beach.
 He had one leg tucked under him, the other stretched out in front of
him.  The waves licked over his heel and calf, before running back into
the gentle undertow.

He admired the boy's concentration.  He scooped up a handful of sand
and, between his closed fingers aimed the drips at the growing stalagmite.
 He was doing pretty well.

Such boys should not be allowed to wear lycra Speedo's, but they seem
compulsory along the Mediterranean.  His bright blue pair showed off
his fabulous smooth legs.  His backbone was clearly visible as he bent
carefully over the knobbly tower of sand.  His back was so smooth.

A sudden wave shot further up the beach than the rest.  He let out a
little cry as it licked around his tower.  A corner fell away and started
a tiny sandy landslide.  It was wrecked.

Oh well.

He stood up and stomped on the rest.  He had big feet.  He would grow
tall.  Big feet, big hands.

He stood for a while with his arms by his sides, his fingers splayed
open, as if they were sticky.

Not that he was looking but the boy's penis was tiny.  The Speedo's had
only the faintest bump.  He felt slightly disappointed.

There was some chattering in Italian between the boys and then they began
to dig a pit, not three yards from where he sat.  The deeper they dug
the darker the sand.  They bent over the hole, their legs wide apart
as if they were about to do the splits.  Sweat was running down their
silky arms.

At length, the older boy flopped down in the pit and the younger one
covered him in sand.  His head and his toes were the only bits left uncovered.
 The younger boy tried covering his feet, carefully building up the sand,
 only to have his wretched older brother wriggle his toes to ruin his
hard work.  He ran protesting to mama, who, annoyed to be distracted
from her magazine rebuked the older boy.  No toe wriggling!

Now the younger boy was patting the top smooth.

Oh.

Patting right on top of where his brother's dick lay buried like hidden
treasure.

His hands patted their way up towards the chest.

But what was this?  A crack in the sand where the brother's dick must
be.  A case of cock-wriggling?  Call Mama!

The puzzled younger boy smoothed it flat again, only for the crack to
reappear.  Lots of patting and adding of extra sand.

Observing all this it was suddenly necessary to dust off his book and
put it in his lap.

Suddenly the older boy sat up, and shook off the damp sand.  He scampered
into the sea to wash off.

When he returned to drip water on his mother and hunt for a beach-towel,
 his silken Speedo's now told a different story.  He now sported a small,
 but very defined erection.

His mother said something and the boy fished in the bag for the sun-cream.
 He squirted it into his hand.  Oh, that was way too much.  She was clearly
not interested in helping her boy apply the white goo.

In a spirit of international co-operation he sat up on his sun-bed and
drew the boy's attention.  He pointed to himself.  "Shall I..." he made
circular rubbing movements, "help you with that?"  The boy pointed to
the tube of lotion as if to ask a question.  He nodded.  "Yes.  Yes."

The boy walked over.  Handed him the cream.  His mother looked over,
smiled weakly at him then resumed with her magazine.

He smiled up at the boy and sat on the edge of the sun bed.  He squeezed
out a little lotion then took the boy's hip in one hand, and rubbed the
back of the boy's thigh with the other.

It so happened that the way he was holding the boy's hip meant his thumb
stretched out and pressed on the boy's little erection.

The boy took a tiny step backwards, so he pulled him closer again and
reached down to oil the boy's calf.

His thumb rubbed up the soft stiffness.

Then down.

Once might have been an accident.  Twice might have been.

He was doing the boy's soft tummy.

His lower back.

Unfortunately, this repeated motion up and down the boy's shaft did suggest
masturbation rather than hip-holding.

He had to stop in order to properly do the boy's back, and thighs and
legs.  His thin arms were nice to do.  Also between his fingers.  He
took the boys feet in turn on his thigh and did the tops and between
the toes.  That was nice too.

But the tummy needed doing again, and so he gripped his hip again and
let his thumb explore.  He pressed down on the top on the boy's spongy
cock-head.

"OK, you are done, little man." he said, handing him back the bottle
of lotion.

Describing the look on the boy's face is a tough one.  I expect you have
seen the expression, but it is hellish hard to capture.  A mix between
embarrassment, surprise and complicity all wrapped up in a weak smile.
 Heart warming.

The boy dropped the lotion back in the bag and ran into the sea.

Actually a swim seemed appealing at that moment.  He decided to go in
himself, just for a few minutes to cool off.

The boy was right there, so as he entered the water he cupped his hands
together and soaked the boy good and proper.

There was a water fight of course.  Small boys don't allow such actions
to go unpunished.  He looked quite a sight, arms out wide, whipping them
round to send an arc of water in the man's direction.

After a while though, it was time to surrender.  He put his hands up
and walked over to where the boy stood in the water.  The boy made little
splashes that sprayed his chest as if to suggest he was ready for another
war if one was wanted.

But he didn't really want more war with the boy.  Instead he wanted to
throw the slippery loose-limbed boy about for a while.  He wanted to
allow the boy to dive off his shoulders.  Wanted to grip him by ankles
and wrists and throw him in a great splash.  So he did.

Until he was tired.

At which point he stood close to the boy and reached out underwater.
 The boy wiped water from his eyes and hair whilst the man fondled him
back to erection.

When no one was close he reached down and slipped the boy's Speedo's
down.  He could see through the distorting slabs of water that rocked
them the pale buttocks and the cock.  He could see his fingers working
below.  The boy had his hands against his chest to steady himself.  The
waves made them scrabble for their footing from time to time.

He pulled on the little boy, felt his tiny testicles.  There were soft
hairs in a tiny patch down there.

Looking down he saw a sudden puff of milky white.  It hung for a moment
in the water like some new sea-creature, before the boy swept his hands
through it and it dispersed.

He watched the boy walk out of the water and back to his mother.  The
beach-towel wrapped around him as he stood dripping, looking back at
the man.

Who stood waiting for his own cock to go down.  He wondered if right
now those tiny sperm were swimming through the ocean, searching out a
shoal of mermaids, who would give birth to a new generation of beach
boys.

Then a light plastic ball bounced close to him, spraying him, and a little
sunburnt British boy with straw-blond hair splashed by saying "Sorry
mate!"

It was going to be a long hot summer.

---

If you liked this story you might also like my long historical story
about Greek boys joining Alexander's army.  It is in the historical section
called "Little Alexander."  It is 23 chapters long.  Also I am going
to post a short story called Santa's Little Helper which may make you
smile.  PLEASE email me.  gayauthor@hushmail.com