(My stories are pure fantasy.  They merely ask, "What if..."    

Those who wish to comment may email me at will1599s@yahoo.com.)

Dedication to an inspiration

To a boy whom I saw once, just briefly, and then only from a distance:

a youth who seemed to epitomize the purity and goodness of the boys about whom I write.

Boy on the Rocks

By

Will S

Part 1.

The boy approached as I knew he would.

I have often described him as adorable, but today his pique had replaced that delightful countenance with something a bit more serious. So much was the same, though: He had corn-silk blond hair, mostly straight in a somewhat ragged "boys regular" haircut. Behind each ear, there was a gentle curl to his hair--just enough to accent that special, super-soft nude place usually hidden from view. The golden strands were long enough to touch the back of his collar. Deep liquid eyes sucked me in like warm whirlpools. In some light they seemed blue...in other light a soft hazel; in either case they were filled with magic that held me in their spell. He had a wonderful button nose--the kind of nose that would survive the vagaries of puberty. He had the sweetest skin--and by that I mean smooth, exquisitely soft, and it would be warm as well: perfect soft skin without a single blemish, and a wonderful, light, natural tan. In cooler weather, when he'd been outside for a while, his cheeks would pink up a bit, to a point where I could actually call them rosy. In all these years, I'd never seen him use sun block, but I'd also never seen him come near to burning. In the past, I had wondered about counseling him regarding the benefits of protecting his beautiful skin (for his future health), but then I would have been revealing more of my knowledge of him than I was--at that point--prepared to reveal.

I'd describe him as wiry, but no--lithe, yes, lithe--a much be a better word, for he possessed a grace that suggested his forebears had co-mingled with the elven folk. He was, as boys might say, "jacked," though he certainly wasn't muscle-bound like some adolescent jocks. Instead, he had--to my eye, anyway--musculature that suited his compact body perfectly. I had seen him on occasion playfully strike various body-builder poses, his set lips and jutting jaw suggesting he was all business--and then his biceps and thighs would tighten delightfully. His abdominals were in the process of transforming from one single out-swelling of muscle to a mesmerizing six-pac.

I'd guess he could probably outrun 90 percent of the athletes in his school, and with his inherent grace, I'm certain he'd outmaneuver them, too! He was about four-ten and probably about 85 to 90 pounds. His body was perhaps just hinting at the lengthening that would come soon enough. In stature and weight, he was just average...but that was the only way he was average. And he had a smile to die for. It was like the sun piercing the thickest clouds. He'd smile, and all I could think of was to suck his sweet, red lips into mine.

"Hi," he said simply, as he'd done so many times before I'd lost count. (Well, I could count our encounters if I had a mind to, for early on, I had found myself compelled to record my observations. I suppose this came from my years as a self-taught naturalist. Recording my detailed observations of this "specimen" had given me extraordinary satisfaction, and I often continued to derive pleasure from my "log" at night as I lay in my bed.)

So, "Hi" it was. Except this time, I knew he was visibly upset, and I also knew what would follow would be very different. He caught my eye--almost guiltily, it seemed--as he moved past my front yard. For almost two years, that had been the sum and substance of our relationship--a nod and a "hi"--except, of course, for my observations of him from afar.

"Hi," I said back, again as so many times before, but then I took a breath, and spoke again, stopping him in his tracks. "You were nice to that girl--what's her name?" I said.

"Loren," he answered obediently. Then he realized what I'd said, and he blushed. I went back to my gardening, but glanced up again almost immediately to see the confusion he wore on his face.

He seemed flustered, and uncertain as to what to do next. The fact that he'd stopped was momentous enough. I decided to help him along. "She really seemed...ahmm...'insistent'...ay?" He looked at me dumbly, paralyzed. His eyes, today as blue as a summer sky, gazed unblinking straight at me. His scrutiny caused the slightest stirrings in my pants. I continued. "You could have blown her off, but you didn't. I thought you were being very tolerant."

His face turned about the shade of a fire engine. "I don't know what you mean," a squeaky-raspy voice said timidly--timidly because he feared what was coming next.

My house is on the rocky coast of Nova Scotia, in one of the less settled parts of the province. I have a commanding view of a small cove and the open ocean beyond. There are all kinds of nooks and crannies in the cove, some big, some small, some with small sandy patches (hardly beaches) though most without; some secluded, some not so secluded, some sheltered from one direction or most directions, but not all.

For years the boy had made it a habit of playing down on the shore after school--and that's exactly what it was: play. It was so clear he loved it there, imagining pirates, basking on a luxurious South Seas beach, investigating like a scientist in an exotic place, and discovering himself. I think, like me, he loved the solitude, though at his tender age, he might not have been able to express it in those terms (or even realized it, for that matter). Like me he didn't need a lot of people around him to find excitement in life. I am certain he shared my love of the place--that much I knew absolutely. He'd search for crabs or other marine life in the tidal pools and under the seaweed, or climb up steep cliffs like Sir Edmund mastering Everest. I'd worry about him then, for though the cliffs weren't high, if he slipped even an eight-foot drop to the rocks below could have been disastrous. At times as I watched, I'd rehearse in my mind what I'd do if he fell. But he never did, and I'm certain if he'd known of my concern, he would have said I worry too much! Invariably, he'd reach his "summit" and stretch his arms out wide in triumph. Later, when he was a bit older, he'd take a book and listen to his iPod or whatever it was, and read. And then, inevitably, after he had played at whatever, he would settle down to what he'd really come for. If it were a warm day and sunny, he might take off his clothes and lie on a stone and bake in the sun--and begin his ritual of arousal. Oh, I must report accurately: he didn't do that at first; it was actually a very slow process of self-discovery, of growing self-awareness.

I think I was "there" at the very beginnings of that journey. I first noticed him in the spring, perhaps three years ago. He was much smaller then. He might have been ten years old, or even nine, for that matter. He'd come and just play like boys do, leaping from rock to rock, at times seeming to stalk some unseen prey, then pouncing like a lithe cat. He played the way boys play: with utter abandon--free and unfettered, completely without guile. He was, in short, simply being who he was--a beautiful, uninhibited boy.

I studied him for hours. Day after day, it was always the same. The boy would come and play. At first, he was all alone. Then, for a time, he'd come with a few friends. Those days were interesting ones. I almost felt betrayed--cheated somehow; the truth was I was jealous. I did not want to share my boy with anyone. In my mind, we had created something very special in this place. It was our secret, and now he'd gone and compromised that--defiling the place and what had developed between us. It was, I knew, an irrational thought, for what we "had" between us was nothing. He knew nothing of my obsessive observation of him, but I could not help feeling how I felt: it was betrayal. And then, it suddenly all stopped. He ceased coming. They'd stolen him from me--his "friends". Weeks went by, and I never saw him. Once or twice, I'd even gotten on my bike and ridden into town to try to find him, but it was futile, and I chided myself for being obsessed with a ten-year-old.

Then one day, after an eternity, it seemed, I was again tending my front garden, when I heard the school bus pull up at the end of the road, and a few moments later, a nearby noise, and there he was kicking stones along the road. "Hi," he said simply. And I nodded and offered an equally simple "hi" in response. Nothing was changed! My heart raced as I watched him pass by me and head for the shore.

The friends never reappeared. The scenario I created went like this: He loved this special place, and for whatever reasons, he thought he wanted to share it with some boys from school. But the ungrateful wretches had little appreciation for the world he and I had created down on the shore below my home. I suspect that world on the rocks was a world only he could fully appreciate (and I, of course). His little friends, I further suspect, found the world of video games more compelling, but not my boy, no, my boy had fallen in love with this special place. As for me, I had fallen in love with it long ago, and now, as he fell in love, I did so all over again.

Then one spring day, after I'd been watching him for a year or more, with the sun moving higher each day in the sky, and air ever-warmer, he seemed to be struck with a sudden idea. I had come to bewail the winter months, when the boy--if he appeared at all--appeared only in a heavy, bulky jacket, hat, pants, and boots, but on this day, the first truly warm day of the season, he paused--setting down the tiny crab he'd found under seaweed. Then after what seemed like some unseen internal struggle--a debate, perhaps, about what he was considering--his fingers dance over his shirt's buttons. Oddly, it was a rather "preppy" looking button-down--a pale yellow ("maize" the LL Bean catalog labels it, and indeed, much of the boy's clothing could have come from those catalog pages. Hell...he could have come from those catalog pages! I'd decided he must attend a rather prestigious private school that wasn't far. I had the impression he'd come with some urgency directly from the school bus to his secret place--our secret place. The shirt's color seemed a perfect compliment to his blond hair and to, even then, his sun-bronzed skin. At the shirt's open collar, I could see a simple white puka shell necklace. It was snug around his size 13 neck. He'd already been taking off his Nikes and socks. This was not a given, however, because the rocks were sharp in places, and if he were in his exploring mode, he'd leave them on; in his basking mode, off they'd come, especially if he'd opt for one of the tiny beaches where he could curl his toes and dig them into the cool sand. Oh, how I can go on about things where this boy is concerned. It was just a shirt, after all, and now he proceeded to unbutton it. This day--"the Day of His First Removal" as recorded in my journal--he placed his shirt carefully on a rock he selected--it always had to be just the right one. Next he quickly lifted off his t-shirt, gleaming white, and then he lay back, his growing body stretching to its full length, to soak up the sun's rays. The puka necklace was stunningly set off by his bronzed skin. In some ways, he might have been more at home in the South Seas than here on the chill North Atlantic.

His body instantly riveted my attention. It was so..."boy", pure, delicate even. It had an almost genteel quality to it, an exquisite smoothness. There was a slight tapering of his torso at his waist. His body was compact, and even then, there was no hint of "baby fat". He was lean, firm, muscled, and yes, he was definitely stretching out--growing taller, perhaps the first initial growth spurt of puberty. His "edges" were smooth and soft, still hinting at a younger boy, and I nearly orgasmed as I imagined running the tips of my fingers down his graceful jaw line from his ear to his chin. His long, proud neck, perhaps 12 inches in circumference, if that, caused me to ache as I pictured nuzzling him...breathing his essence, letting my warm lips dance over that perfection. In the cool sea air, his two tiny nipples were erect; his dime-sized areolas seemed like little launching pads for the two tiny rockets whose pink noses just poked above the pads. I was mesmerized by the simplest things about the boy--the gentle rising and falling of his chest and belly, for example, as his body drew in oxygen to nourish itself.

A few days later, he appeared with a bottle of root beer. By the time he'd gotten to the shore, the bottle was empty. Off came the shoes and socks, and the shirt. His cute tummy seemed almost distended. Perhaps a bit too much soda pop. He played hard for a while, and every once in a while, he'd tug at his treasures hidden in his pants. Then suddenly he stopped, squeezed hard, and held on. He glanced almost desperately in all directions. He sort of jumped up a couple of times, doing the dance young boys seem universally to know--the pee dance. He continued to bounce around. Looking this way and that, he finally dropped his shorts, just enough for him to aim his little tool. Unfortunately, he didn't want to soil his special place, and so he turned away from me just enough to shield my view of his "parts", but there were moments when I could see the thin golden stream arcing up and out. He lowered his shorts down at bit more and rested a hand on each hip. His penis was free, and by swinging his hips back and forth, he playfully sprayed the rocks in wide, arcing patterns. In those moments, he taught me something I once knew and had sadly lost: boys can manage to turn everything into a game. He had enough control to stop and start several times. There was considerable force behind his stream, and as I watched, I thought, my gosh, this boy must have a bladder the size of a milk jug! As he played his unseen fire hose back and forth, I caught glimpses of hearty laughter, with his head thrown back, grinning like a boy who was proud of an extraordinary accomplishment. I felt a wave of sudden jealousy, jealous of his hands that played across his tummy as he coaxed the stream from his little penis, wishing they were my hands. Finally, the stream became a dribble, and only then did he grasp his tool and, after a few shakes, slip his shorts back up. I felt cheated. I so wanted to see his boyhood which I knew had to be as perfect as the rest of him. I knew--hoped--that that would happen sooner or later, and I counseled patience.

My patience was rewarded thirteen days later (according to the log of my observations). The boy appeared as usual. He wore a handsome pastel blue shirt and khaki cargo pants. I'd not seen these particular pants before, and I speculated that he'd recently grown enough to warrant a trip to the store. He explored a bit and then decided it was time to get more comfortable. After removing his shirt, he lay on the rocks for a while, but after only a few minutes he tugged two or three times on his pants. I knew what was happening: The sun's rays baked into the boy's jeans, and the heat was too much. He rose, looked around deliberately, as if searching for something, and then grew still for a moment, apparently considering what he would do next. Then finally--glory of glories--he tentatively (which only added to my arousal, you can be sure) unbuckled his belt, slowly unbuttoned the single top button, then--as if deliberately prolonging my agony--slowly lowered his zipper. Several times, he stopped, straightened up, and looked around, needing--apparently--to be certain he was alone. And so he was--except of course for my wide-eyed gaze. I caught the briefest glimpse of white, and I had to hold my breath to stop the tremors that wracked my body. He pushed his pants down past his hips and let them fall--with a bit of help--around his ankles. Slipping them off his feet, he gathered them up and carefully folded them. I literally gasped at what I beheld: pure perfection. A luscious boy clad only in snug, white, trim underpants. I had studiously attempted to discern what lay hidden beneath his typically baggy shorts, but in all but a few instances had been disappointed. There were moments, when it appeared the boy had become aroused, and I thought I perceived a slight tenting, but it could as easily have been illusory or my overactive (and desperate) imagination.

He seemed to savour his new-found freedom, and he lay with his back on the flat rock, his pants and t-shirt serving as a pillow, and his firm, strong legs stretched straight and true. His feet arched downward, and his toes extended the line. His arms were at his sides. In this attitude, I was able to see clearly the gentle swelling of his boyish charms. As he lay there, in fact, I was certain I could discern--though still-hidden--a "growing" reality. Was it my imagination, or was his obviously smallish member even now adventuring "northward"--stretching toward the waistband of his briefs. It was a wholly engaging scene, and I stared unblinking, reveling in my good fortune.

That was the first day, too, that I sensed the boy was becoming aware of a need emerging from deep within. It was, of course, centered in his boyhood, for, as he lay there, his right hand lifted, and he first poked at that part of his anatomy that gave a delightfully rounded, swelling contour to the bottom of his briefs nestled between his tanned thighs. Then his body seemed to lift slightly, though only to a height that the tightening of his buttocks would have created, and he reached for the waistband of his undies, and lifted it, and glanced downward, as if to see if something were amiss. Then he let the elastic band slip from his fingers. It must have snapped against his tummy and made a noise, for he quickly lifted his head (his elegant, small, thin neck straining and revealing muscle and tendons) and looked around. Then satisfied at his security, he lay back down, and his hand again drifted over the hidden terrain. His fingernails scraped along the cloth-covered ridge formed by the underside of his boyhood, and when the nail of his pointer finger reached the apex, it traced lightly up and down. Perhaps he had even fingered his little slit at the zenith of his glans, for I actually saw a shiver pass through the boy, eliciting a smile from him--and, you can be sure, from me as well.

It barely seemed possible that this "exploration" was in any way deliberate; rather, it seemed to be simply a moment of discovery, a brief time of self-awareness. Any reaction his fingerings might be causing was undoubtedly unexpected. Indeed once or twice, I saw him suck in a sharp breath, lift his head and stare "down there", only to relax again and let his fingers continue their aimless exploration. He seemed totally at ease at the moment, and his eyes were closed. His breathing was slow and regular. His body, while firm, was not displaying rigid musculature. Rather, he seemed in something of a dream-state, and his fingering of his sex seemed little more than "child's play" (ahh, indeed). His hand did linger, however, over his hidden genitals--there was no question of that--and as I watched, he spread his legs, which only served to pull my focus (and his) more to the essence of his boyhood. After a while, he seemed to lose interest in what he was doing, and just seemed to doze, and then he turned, rolling over, and I beheld a most magnificent sight: two glorious boy buns (yes, even when cloth-covered), small and tight, uplifted, proud and firm. He wriggled his front, as if creating a nest in the sand to hold those precious parts of him that he'd seemed only just now to discover. Again, with his hand buried under his front, I could only assume he was continuing his first tentative explorations into the mysteries of self-pleasure. What a gift he'd presented me: witnessing a boy's awakening. It evoked my own awakening, and things I'd forgotten for years, suddenly seemed fresh and new. Ahh, he was a sweet boy, gentle and sensitive--shy. Endearing qualities.

Finally, after laying still and baking for an indeterminate length of time, he rose and briskly brushed off his front and his back. He could have done a better job, and I wondered if his mother, when she did the laundry--if she did--would notice the fine grains of sand and wonder how they'd gotten there. If so, perhaps, I thought darkly, I'd not see my boy again, at least not in this manner.

My fears, it turned out, were groundless, for the very next day he was back. It had become my habit to linger by my front garden until he appeared. I'd listen for the telltale sound of the school bus, and then practically hold my breath until my boy arrived. We'd offer a nod, or a verbal greeting--a simple "hi"--by way of acknowledgement, and then, after he had disappeared into the woods between my yard and the shore, I'd quickly move inside and settle in for the show. Lately, he'd changed his greeting to me, lingering just momentarily, and smiling. It was as if he were sharing a secret moment with me, and then he'd turn and be on his way. It was that way upon his return as well. Sometimes I'd chide myself for I was sure if I gazed at him too intently, I'd make him uncomfortable. In fact, a few times, I'd even thought I'd caught just a hint of a blush on his sweet cheeks. Be more casual, I'd tell myself. Do nothing to make him uncomfortable or put him on guard. Still I watched for opportunities to get to know him more "intimately."

With respect to his self-discovery, it was as if his first tentative experiences had accelerated his learning and his need, for it had taken months before he'd first removed his shirt, then a much shorter time between the removal of his shirt and his shorts. Now the very next day after he'd dropped his jeans for the first time, he quickly returned to that undressed state--except for his pure, white briefs, snug and protecting the sense of modesty. (I knew him well enough now to know that was indeed the case.) I can't tell you how I reveled in those "tightie-whities." For me, briefs speak of innocence while other underwear, boxers, for example, suggests faddish conformity and something less than the purity I ascribed to the boy. He sat down now, wrapped his arms around his legs, pulled his knees toward his regal, up-stretched neck, plunked his chin down on his knees and then seemed to ponder something of great import. It was delightful to see his small package poking out between his legs; it was simply a nice, inviting swelling though I was unable--despite intense scrutiny--to discern specific parts.

He stayed that way for perhaps five minutes. At that point, he lifted his head, and cautiously looked all around. Then he stood, even standing on tip-toes, and deliberately scanned in every direction. At one point he seemed to look directly at me. Finally he turned and stared for long moments out to sea. Then he lowered himself from his tip-toes position, and in one, fluid motion, slipped his thumbs in his underpants and lowered them, bending at the waist, slipping them to his ankles, and stepping out of them. He offered me a delightful side view of the very first "dishabille"--the first of many--he would share with me. The graceful line of his slightly curved back, deliciously rounded bottom, and straight, firm legs will be forever etched in my memory. He then lay down--without a single stitch of clothing. Only his puka necklace interrupted the landscape of his richly tanned skin. I nearly wept at the pure beauty of his compact body.

My heart pounded, for though I hoped with each article of clothing he'd previously removed that this would be the natural and ultimate outcome, I feared it was more my own obsessive fantasy than his possibility. And yet, possibility it was--nay, reality! Need I say, I trembled, and my own tool ached with hardness.

The boy was uncut. The natural covering of his glans was an exclamation point to the perfection of which his body spoke. The small thing that jutted from his pubis was little more than a worm. No! Not a worm, for that hardly does the succulent appendage justice. It was, perhaps more accurately, one of those sweet mini gherkin pickles that are so tasty to suck on until the juice is gone. It was soft and diminished, lying with a gentle bend to it, over the place where his leg joins with his belly. The foreskin fully covered his glans, and even extended perhaps a quarter of an inch beyond the tip of his head. Below, I could see his small scrotal sac, with barely discerned contents. He lay there unmoving, as if the strangeness of being naked in the open air had somehow paralyzed him. It was if he dared not even breathe. Then, slowly, his hand seemed to remember what it had done the day before and haltingly found its way back to his genitals. His fingers didn't head straight for the prize, but instead seemed to slow and coyly hover nearby, as if waiting--hoping--for some sort of invitation. While waiting, the boy's fingertips danced over his groin, that exquisitely smooth place where leg and belly join. Groin: It's hardly the right word for this place in a boy's smooth, soft body. A more apt name would be...perhaps the plain of Ganymede or some other such evocative construction. Nevertheless, his fingers savoured the unblemished softness of his own body, and slowly, his small penis rolled slightly, then--miracle of miracles--began to lengthen. He sucked in a breath and held it, and his fingers continued to play along his pure, smooth skin.

Now his penis had more or less straightened out, though still aimed to the side, but perhaps that was the invitation he needed, and his fingers now moved in, first, grasping, holding, tugging his tiny balls, then brushing up beside his growing penis. The tips of his fingers bumped into that wonderful tool, and he gasped--perhaps surprised at the intensity of his virginal response. Then the organ straightened out, laying upon his belly, as yet still unfledged, as hairless as a baby's bottom (indeed his own bottom for that matter). Eventually, the small penis extended nearly to two-and-a-half inches and pointed northward to his chin. At this point it still lacked the strength to lift itself, but as his fingering became more insistent; his boyhood quickly grew and, almost regally, like a fabled dirigible, lifted slowly off his tummy. At its hardest, it stood proudly at about a fifteen degree angle. Fully erect, it was perhaps three inches long, and about the diameter of a substantial pen. I gulped in air as I watched. It had been a breath-taking display--an overpowering merging of purity, innocence, and raw sex. I silently urged him on, urged him to grasp his penis and commence to stroking it, urged him to undertake those ancient actions known to every man-child who has walked upon this planet (and elsewhere if such life exists), the up and down movement that would bring him release from the longings he perhaps did not yet even recognize.

He did toy with his boyhood, and fondle his jelly-bean orbs, but whether from shyness or inexperience or both, he failed to reach the zenith of boyhood pleasure. Not that he did not find pleasure in his novice fingerings. It was clear he was enjoying it. His face was flushed, and his breathing changed as well. I trembled with anticipation, but then when it appeared he was almost overcome (the moment of inevitability, it is so sweetly called), he suddenly seemed to grow unsure of the sensations that surged from that part of him. Perhaps that part of his body had been so long a mystery that he grew uncertain or perhaps some perverse instructor had warned him off such wickedness; whatever the reason, his hand seemed to lose its purpose. After lying still for several moments, he rose and tugged on his clothes again, and was off.

I was out by the gate again, as he emerged from the woods. Almost as soon as I saw him, he saw me. He approached, and shot a glance at my house, then at me, and smiled, almost coyly. Then I saw a flash of uncertainty flood across his face and he blushed. "Hi," I said ignoring his state.

"Hi," he replied. He seemed to hesitate.

"Nice day for..." I began. For what! I felt my face reddening as his face reddened. "Nice day," I revised.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, and his blush deepened for we both knew why it was a nice day.

Over the days and weeks and months and years that followed I watched the boy grow ever more familiar with his body. I was blessed to see the mystical awakenings of puberty: his body lengthening, his muscles showing unmistakable growth, pale, thin hairs, barely visible, beginning to appear on his arms and legs, darker under his arms, and even around his penis. And that, too, I saw begin to transform, from a mere three inches to three and a half, then to four inches and more. We became a team of observant scientists: I watched him as he intently examined his penis, and slowly worked at retracting his foreskin. I saw him wince, as it seemed to be stuck, but day after day he kept at it, and eventually, that magnificent boy cock head was revealed. I shared his triumph, silently cheering his accomplishment (well, not so silently, in fact) on that first day when he managed to get it all the way back. He studied that part of him that he'd apparently never seen, and I wondered if his parents or his doctor had given instructions regarding the techniques of retraction--something so important for a young, uncut boy.

At the same time, I saw his fingerings become more intentional, more insistent, and then one day, he seemed to form his fingers into a circle as they grasped his lengthening boyhood, and wondrously, he seemed to realize the potential benefit of his retracted foreskin, and using the ultimate in boy logic, began his first legitimate masturbatory exploration. It wasn't clear to me that he orgasmed that day; in fact, I'm almost certain he didn't. I think what had happened was that "the feelings" had come,--those strange, new feelings we males all remember--and that they were unfamiliar and perhaps worrisome at least in their intensity. I think, in a word, he was frightened, certainly uncertain, at the power he suddenly felt building within his body. That day, when he exited from the woods, and walked by, he barely looked at me; there was a "hi", but it was almost swallowed, and he gave the impression that he was bothered by something--as indeed I knew he was. I perhaps should have stopped him; I would have loved to do so. After all, I could have explained so much to the boy. I could have helped him, and in a profound and extraordinary way, I would have been so blessed to be a part of his life at that moment. And yet, I did not--not then, not for some time hence. Why? Indeed. It is a question that I still consider, though certainly not with the intensity of that earlier time. I suppose, in a word, fear. I was afraid of what any such "help" would require me to reveal of our "intimacy"--an intimacy he did not yet know even existed.

The next day, he appeared like clockwork, and seemed intent on getting to his hideaway. Again, he glanced nervously in my direction, offered a "hi", and then self-consciously added, "I'm headed for the rocks" as if somehow that explanation would provide legitimacy while obscuring his true intent.

"Well have a good time. I hope you enjoy yourself," I said, knowing if today were like other days, he certainly would. He blushed a deep and delightful red in response, and I feared that perhaps I had gone too far in my innuendo. But it was clear, once in our special place, he took my advice to heart. There was no beating around the bush today--or perhaps that exactly what there was. He was on a mission. He quickly teased himself to a full erection--he was already pretty hard when he'd stripped--and then, gently retracting his foreskin, he quickly began a desperate session of full-fledged masturbation. He lay back on his favorite stone, and wanked madly. His eyes fluttered closed, and I fancied I could almost hear him groaning, his body alternately tensing and relaxing. He seemed to reach the point where yesterday he stopped--gulping in great breaths of air, rapidly rising chest, tightening muscles, blotchy skin--but today, after a pause where he stared at his throbbing boyhood, he licked his lips and resumed his jacking motions and was soon rewarded with his first--presumably--virginal orgasm. It hit him quickly. His hand practically became a blur, and I could almost feel his penis swelling even more, and then his whole body stiffened, his bottom lifting off the stone, and a massive shiver passed through him. He struggled to lift his head to look down at his penis, and his hand kept working it. His face showed first curiosity, then intent, then fear, and finally what could only be described as awe. Now the spasms came in quick succession, and almost abruptly--wide-eyed--his hand came to a stop. He tried two or three times to resume his masturbatory explorations, but he was discovering the sensitivity bordering on discomfort that follows a youthful orgasmic high.

His body eased back onto the stone, and his hand slipped to his balls, and he just lightly fondled them. His small tool throbbed a few times, and then began to shrink and settle back to the cradle of his pubis, nestling against his soft, blond pubic patch. A massive, shuddering breath shook the boy one last time, and, when he seemed convinced the event had ended, his eyes closed, his head fell back against his carefully folded shirt, and a dreamy smile grew on his face. He seemed totally unfocused. Only his fingers playing over his testicles told me he hadn't lost consciousness. His was, at that point, a dry orgasm, but it was an orgasm, nonetheless, and judging from my boy's response, it had been a massive one. That day when he passed by on his way home, I managed to ask him, "Have a good time?"

He reddened predictably and answered, "Awesome," the single word catching in his throat.

"Good. A great day like today just gives you the greatest feelings, ay?" He turned about the shade of perfectly cooked Atlantic lobster. He nearly chocked, but managed to nod once and then turn away, anxious to put some distance between me and him, lest I ask him yet another apparently innocent question which evoked responses he wasn't prepared to share.

It was nearly five months later, in late September, and one of the last warm days of the early fall, when the boy reached another milestone. He'd grown even more, and his penis was close to four inches hard. As was his custom, he was joyously jerking off at his favorite spot, when all of a sudden, I saw a new reaction from him. He stopped--froze--for just an instant, adjusted his position on the stone, and staring down at his testicles, he fingered them gently. He then took in a long, deep breath. He took his finger and touched his slit. I couldn't really see anything, but I suspected either he'd ejaculated, or he'd begun oozing precum. I was hardly able to stand still. Unconsciously I fingered my own tool through my pants. To be a part of this moment in a boy's life was simply more than I could bear. He again fingered his slit, looked at his fingertip, and then rubbed that fingertip and his thumb together for a moment. He examined it like any good scientist, and then abruptly--as if the idea had struck suddenly--lifted his fingers to his nose. He sniffed with his beautiful little button nose. Oh how I longed to share that fragrance with him. He then pulled his fingers away a bit and stared at them again, and then to my utter amazement, he quickly placed them to his lips, and his sweet tongue stretched slowly out through his lips and tasted whatever it was on his fingers. When no ill resulted, he inserted his finger into his mouth, sucking gently. I was extraordinarily aroused, and suddenly as I watched him nursing on his fingers, I felt my own ejaculation, soiling my pants. I wasn't expecting that; indeed I hadn't thought such a thing possible. But in my ecstasy, I'd lost focus, and I feared unless I could regain my composure, I'd miss whatever was about to transpire--a truly "seminal" moment in the boy's life!

Then, as if his penis itself were demanding his complete and undivided attention (and mine), he grasped it again, and resumed his jacking motion--with an intensity I had not seen from him previously. Again, his body seemed to reach the point of no return, and it abruptly arched upward, anchored at his shoulder and heels, his beautiful butt lifting completely off the rock, and he seemed almost to convulse. And then, wonder of wonders, a small, but visible spurt of pristine boy-semen was ejaculated by his stunning penis--his penis that, incidentally, I'd never seen so hard. Two more spurts--half-hearted at best, though not to him--shook the boy from stem to stern, and he slowed and then quickly ceased his action. He grasped at the strange substance which had just issued from his body. He again collected it on his fingers, and he rubbed them together. Then satisfied with its texture, he smelled it, and then he looked at it again. I wondered if he'd taste it, but he didn't, at least not that day. (Perhaps the smell had warned him off.) As he stared at his semen-coated fingers, a great smile stretched across his face. His eyes--wide and sparkling were unblinking. He'd done it! He'd really done it! He'd made sperm! He was a man! When at last he'd come down off his orgasmic high, he wiped the sperm on the rock--the first of many ounces to be deposited there, and dressed.

"Hi," I said. "Another awesome day!"

"Really awesome," he responded with a blush. "I...well...yeah! For sure!" He grinned--he couldn't help himself--and his eyes sparkled: the epitome of a boy proud of his accomplishments.

I wondered what the boy had been about to say, and what had caused him to reconsider. Had he been about to spill the beans? Was I that close to hearing my sweet love of a boy say he'd just come for the first time in his young life! My heart pounded even as I knew his was. Even as I rejoiced with him, I felt a pang of sadness at not being to share--really share--the moment together.

That had been about ten months ago, and his adventure in self-pleasuring never ceased to amaze me. And now...now we were about to venture forth on a new segment of the journey.

Just how do I know all this, you might ask--and with some justification, I might add. How do I know all his most intimate moments in such exquisite detail? Well when the boy was in school, I'd often frequent those same nooks and crannies. I'd seek out his favorite space, the one where he'd strip, and I'd imagine lying there with him, and touching him, and holding him, and kissing him, and making love to him. Long ago, indeed years before the arrival of this particular boy, I'd discovered that it was remarkably difficult to see my house from down on the rocks. It seemed to blend in with the evergreens that surrounded it. And from down on the rocks, it was impossible to see into the house unless it was at night and the lights were on inside; otherwise, the best you could do is see the reflection of the blue sky off the windows. More than one bird had flown into the windows for that very reason--and at least one young boy was about to learn of the deception as well. It was a risky thing to do, because if he responded logically--appropriately, he'd ruin everything--reporting my violation of decency. The worst case would end my future as a free man, and at the least, I'd become the object of derision and scorn within the community which I called home. On the other hand, I'd gotten to know the boy so well as I watched him in his most intimate moments that was certain he'd respond differently if given a chance, and I was certainly going to be sure he got that chance. It was pure serendipity that I was about to launch my plan today. Had it not been for the girl, I'm not sure exactly when I'd have made my move, but I know it would have been sooner rather than later.

He stared at me, almost on the verge of tears. "I don't know what you mean," he was saying. He frowned, knowing--fearing--the answer already.

"I think you do," I said as casually as I could muster. "Do you have a minute?"

He shrugged.

I beckoned to him to follow me. It was the first time we'd ventured much past "Hi's". I could see he was curious. He shot a glance toward the windows at the front of my house, then back at me. I figured in all his travels past my house, he'd have formed some guesses about who I was. We'd find out soon enough, I thought. "I love birds," I said quietly. "Do you?"

"I guess," he said shrugging and suddenly on guard. He probably thought I was nuts!

"I know you do because I've watched you watching the ospreys," I continued. "And this is a great place to watch birds," I said as I headed for the stairs leading to the second floor. He suddenly looked very uncertain. "My study," I offered by way of explanation. Warily he followed. I lead him into my study--a room with one large window facing the water. It was a smallish room by any standard, though comfortable, and I'd say the boy recognized that immediately. "Birds," I said. "That's why I have this spotting scope." I pointed to the massive Nikon scope on a sturdy tripod in the centre window. He cast an almost desperate look in my direction. "Go ahead," I said. "I've got some favorite spots....Take a look." It was focused, at the moment, on an eagle's nest. He stepped to the scope and looked. He seemed to freeze; then he looked up. "Where is that!"

I pointed out the windows across the cove. "Out on Stone Island."

He squinted and then looked at me. "No way!"

"Way," I responded. "Here." I took his hand in mine and felt him almost jump at our first contact, but he recovered quickly--possibly more quickly than I. "This is the zoom...and this is the focus." He rotated the zoom, and discovered the full power of the Nikon. "Awesome," he said.

"Yeah," I said. I think he'd almost forgotten why I'd invited him in. Now, I wanted to remind him.

"Yeah," I echoed, "I've got a lot of favorite places to watch nature take its course."

I focused the scope down and to the right. Now the boy's most favorite of places came into view. It'd been sullied in a way, by the girl. She'd had a piece of chalk with her, and she'd drawn--in her limited artistic way, a wilted cock on one of the big, vertical granite surfaces that formed a wall around the boy's spot. He'd later tried to erase it, though with limited effect. I focused the scope on her "artwork", and stepped away. The boy, anxious to see the next site, practically jumped to the eyepiece. And when he did, he froze. "Shit..." I heard him whisper--the first foul work I'd heard issue from his lips. Even that seemed purer coming from his lips. Then slowly, he stood up straight and stared out at the cove.

"Oh God, no," he muttered. "No."

I put my hand on his shoulder and turned him around. "It's so close," he muttered, somewhat obliquely. Tears filled his eyes, and his face was drained of color. My heart went out to him. He was so upset.

"Please, Mr. Bates," he said weakly. "Are you going to tell?" It was exactly what a child who'd been caught would ask. And I had a ready answer, but of more interest to me was the fact that he'd somehow managed to find out my name.

"Well...you've got me at a little bit of a disadvantage. You know my name, though after all this time, I don't know yours."

"Christian," he said. "Christian MacMillan--Chris."

"Well, Chris, I'm Eli...it's been quite a day, ay?" I smiled, and stuck out my hand. He tentatively took my hand in his, and I think I popped an instant woody. His hand was warm and smooth and firm. I looked at him for a moment, and he at me, and the tears spilled down his cheeks.

"There, there, Christian," I said, and reached out, cupped his cheeks in my hands and wiped away his tears with my thumbs. He sighed and seemed to relax a bit. I smiled my best reassuring smile, pulled him to me. He resisted somewhat in his dazed state, but as I wrapped my arms around him, he seemed to change back to a little boy who on occasion needed and always received a hug. "There's nothing to worry about. Your secret's safe with me. It's going to be alright. And, no, I'm not going to tell a soul," I breathed. I expect nothing in return for my caress, but, miraculously, I felt two boyish hands reach up, snake under my arms, and wrap about my torso. Again, he sighed a monstrous sigh as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from his shoulders--and perhaps it had. "Bet you'd like something to drink, ay?" I asked, after we'd stood like that for some long moments.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Yes, please," he added.

We retreated to the first floor, he followed me into the kitchen, and we sat at two stools facing each other, knees almost touching. "So," I said, "Like I was saying, I think you were nice down there."

"I don't understand."

"Well...let me see, Christian...I always try to be honest in my relationships--and I hope that's what we've got beginning here--I mean after saying 'hi' a thousand times, it seems like we're ready for something a little more, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess."

I gave him a big smile. "Good...so...where was I? Oh, yeah...here's how I see it. When you went by me today, you were on a mission. I mean, it was a great day, warm, and the beach was calling, and you wanted to get down there and get those clothes off, soak up some rays, and jack off like a madman--you know--do what you do to pleasure yourself." I watched the red flow into his cheeks, then right up to his temples. Bingo! "Oh, yeah, Christian, I've been watching you do that since you were...ahhh...how old are you?"

"Thirteen...thirteen and a half." The words caught in his throat.

"Well...I guess since you were ten, I'd say. I've seen you grow and discover how wonderful it is to explore your body. I even was watching the day you ejaculated for the first time. Remember that? I wanted to congratulate you when you walked back up past my house that day...but of course, I couldn't, could I?" I watched him begin to tear up again. "No, Christian, please, don't be upset. It's a beautiful thing to have watched you change and grow like that. I feel so privileged. That day--when you shot for the first time--you were so happy. It's a great thing when a boy comes for the first time, but there you were, all alone."

"I remember that day. I even remember walking by you. I almost slipped and told you I'd shot." He blushed saying that to a grownup. "I don't mind being alone," he added quietly.

"Christian, I want you to know, I've cherished the times I was able to watch you. I'm just sorry we're not in the Caribbean where it's warm all the time. The winter's such a drag when you've got all those clothes on." I smiled, and I thought I detected just a hint of a grin from him.

"I know." His whispered words caught in his throat. Then I continued, "Anyway, today you've got your shirt off, and you're all set to drop your pants, and that nosey girl shows up. Now, I can't read lips very well, but I think the conversation when something like this: 'What're you doin' here, Chris MacMillan!'

'Nothin'.

'You're doin' something. You were going to strip, weren't you? Weren't you!'

You of course denied it, but the evidence was pretty overwhelming, I mean, you've got your shirt off, your shoes and socks, and your hands on your shorts when she catches you. Luckily, she didn't see your 'stash'." The boy shot a look at me as if he'd given up. He knew I knew about the magazines; in fact he now knew I knew every single thing he'd ever done in his secret place. I also knew he was feeling violated. Hell, he had been violated, and I was sorry about that--I still have regrets--but it was the only way--the only way I could see to get him to open up to the possibilities that would soon to be offered to him. Still it was painful to see that look on his beautiful face. I wished there was some other way, but I knew this boy--at least from two hundred yards or so--and I was sure that he would come to accept my years of attention.

"Then," I continue, "I'm betting she says, 'Go ahead, then. Do it. Let me see it.'

And you probably said no--or words to that effect, but she's not giving up. No sir, not for a second, she's not. So then when you're not jumping to respond, she reaches out, and actually drops your shorts. Now the only thing between your...let's say...ahem...your "privacy"...and her hungry hands is your briefs. And she can see you were apparently...shall we say...excited...about something. So she kind'a giggles, and reaches up and shows no mercy. Your pants are down in a flash." I glanced over at the thirteen-year-old. He seemed almost in a daze. He knew and I knew I was nailing it. "There it is in all its four-and-a-half-inches of rigid glory, pointing right up to the tip of your nose, just like it always does." I smiled and raised my eyebrows a few times. He shook his head a few times and gave me a look, like "You're really weird," but offered a half-grin nonetheless. "Now, Christian," I continued, "I don't think you noticed this, but ol' Loren -that's her name, right," and he nods--"she was pretty impressed. I think she liked what she saw. I bet...well I bet a lot of things...but the first bet is, I bet this is the first time a girl's ever seen you...hell, I bet it's the first time anyone's ever seen you--up close and personal, so to speak. Am I right? Except for me, of course. You know that now, ay?"

He nodded, but seemed unable to speak.

"And then--Goddamnit--she can't leave well enough alone, can she! And she has to reach out and touch it, and she starts doing what you've done so many times there in our special place..." I looked up at him, and he was staring at his feet. "Christian," I said, and he looked up at me. "There's nothing to be ashamed about here. Nothing."

"Yeah, there is," the boy said.

"How so?"

"You know what happened. You were watching." He glared at me, His cheeks were still red.

"Oh...you mean that little...'set-back'. Christian, my sweet boy, let me tell you something about sex." He shot a look at me. "Oh yeah, that's what little I-just-grew-out-of-my-training-bra Loren was looking for--sex, maybe not Chris-fuck-my-cunt sex...but a little good handwork among friends--oh yeah, that's still sex, ay." He grinned, but only for an instant when he'd processed what I'd said. "Yes, Christian, she was going to masturbate you, and then who knows what, maybe if you really begged, she'd let you get a peek at her boobs, or...oh my...maybe even her little cunt." He stared at me like I was the weirdest thing he'd ever come up against, and perhaps I was. "But you weren't about to beg her for anything--unless it was to leave you alone...because Loren doesn't know what you and I know...does she...so she goes merrily on her way, jackin' your rod for all she's worth...and between you and me, Christian...a girl just doesn't know--not like a guy does--you know: what makes you feel good. So little Miss Loren needs a few lessons...if you ask me." Here he almost laughed. If things hadn't been so serious for him, he perhaps would have. Maybe in the future, he would laugh about this. "And that's where the problem is. Because cute little Loren doesn't do it for you, does she? And instead of bringing you off, you get soft...which I might say...just drives her nuts...'cause she figures any guy in her hands would be bustin' a nut." I reach out and lift that sweet boy's chin so he's looking into my eyes. "But...oh...Christian...you're not just any guy, are you? You're a really special guy. I know that, and I think you do, too."

I could see the fear coming back into his eyes. "Christian," I say as soothingly as I can muster. "Christian, please don't worry about this. Your secret is safe with me. Really. I promise."

I can see doubt in his eyes. "Now then...let's just forget about Loren. You're a bright kid, Christian. Let me ask you something: Didn't you ever wonder where those magazines came from?" Now he shoots me a look that's like, "okay, I give up. Just shoot me."

"What mag...?"

"Now, Christian...don't dis me...or yourself for that matter." I adopt a hard and cynical tone. "We both know. When was it...two months ago? You came down to one of your hideaways and...whoa...what's this? A package stashed all neatly in a Rubbermaid watertight container. You open it up and what? There are magazines inside--porn, not to put too fine a point on it. There're a few with women and men doing it. Clearly this is for some hetero guy, or maybe a woman. You know what I mean when I say hetero, right?" He looks uncertain. "Hetero...heterosexual...straight...guys who like women...women who like men. You flip through those magazines, but they end up where?" Now I wait, and finally he figures out I'm waiting for him to answer.

"In the bottom of the container," he says defeatedly.

"Exactly. And the porn that my buddy, Christian MacMillan, gets off on is...what, Christian?" When I say his name, I change my tone again, getting real soft, and understanding. "It's okay, Christian. I've told you, your secret is safe with me. And it is...forever."

"It's gay porn."

"Ahhh...it is...finally...Christian...that's the dirty little secret that you think nobody will ever understand. And you know what? You just might be right. Your mom and dad? No way! Not yet anyway. Your friends? I'd bet you don't have too many friends, because it's just too risky to get too close to other guys, right?" He just looked at me, and I knew he knew I was exactly right. "No one will ever understand...except one person, Christian. And I think you know who--now that we've been formally introduced." I gazed into his eyes and saw the hint of a sparkle. "Don't you?"

"You, Mr. Bates?"

"Exactly, Christian...by the way, have I told you how I love your name. It's a wonderful name. And yes, I understand all about what's going on inside young Mr. Christian MacMillan."

"No, you don't...you can't...nobody can."

I slipped off the stool, and stepped to him, pressing myself between his legs. I placed my hands on his shoulders. "I do, Christian. I'll ask you one more time: didn't you ever wonder where the porn came from?"

Slowly the boy picked up his head and looked into my eyes. Then it was like a light bulb got turned on. "You?"

"Right again, Mr. MacMillan. It's my stuff...well...all the gay stuff, anyway--I had to go out and buy the straight stuff. Almost made me sick--that stuff's so weird." I grinned at him, and after a moment, he sort of snorted a soft laugh, and then he smiled, really for the first time he'd been with me. "Like I said, Christian, your secret is safe--very, very safe. And..." I stared into his eyes. "I hope my secret is safe with you."

"It is," he said softly. "It is."

"Good," I said brightly, striving for another change in tone. "Well, whadu'ya say to a toast, to new understandings, new friendships, new possibilities." I lifted my Coke can, and he did, too, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and we clinked cans.

"It's going to be horrible, you know, Mr. Bates. She's going to tell everyone."

"What? You think she's gonna tell everyone that she's not good enough to get you off? I don't think that's what you've got to worry about."

"What then."

"Well...she's stumbled on your 'personal space', and I think nothing's going to be safe for a while. She'll be haunting that place day and night--whenever she thinks you'll be there."

The poor boy was mute. "So what do I do?"

"Well, I've got a couple of suggestions, and the first one, is, why don't you go back and pick up your 'stash'? Now, if she found that...that would not be good."

His eyes almost bugged out of his head, and he was out the door like a shot. Five minutes later he was back--porn in hand.

"Good, and--by the way, young man--you kept these in excellent condition!"

He grinned and added, "There's a..." He blushed. "...a stain on one page."

"Oh, there is, is there?" I reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. "And just how did that get there, ay?" He grinned again. Suddenly, it seemed, a great weight had been lifted from him.

"Okay, Christian, so that's one problem solved, but there're a few others."

He suddenly grew more concerned.

"Well..." I said, "...you can't frequent your favorite masturbatorium for a while..." He grinned and blushed. "So...that's a problem. But maybe I can come up with a solution for that, too. I think you like to do it outside. I understand that. So do I." He shot me a look like he couldn't believe I'd said that. "...so...come with me."

I led him out to the back yard. His eyes bugged out of his head. I'd virtually duplicated one of those nooks and crannies right in my back yard, complete with huge granite boulders. Oh, and did I mention the eight foot privacy fence that surrounded my property back there? You see, I was telling the boy the truth: Christian MacMillan isn't the only one who likes to jack off in the warmth of a nice sunny day. "So...anytime you're feeling the need...just knock on the door. I'm almost always here...and if I'm not, the key's under the fake rock in the garden."

"Thanks, Mr. Bates, but..."

"Ah...ah...you were going to say, no thanks...but just wait. I remember what it was like to be a thirteen-year-old gay guy--hell, if the truth be known any thirteen-year-old guy--whose nuts are aching. He's just got'ta do it! Don't count anything out when you're as horny as a horn toad."

"But..."

"Ah."

He grinned.

"And...I'll leave these with the rest of my collection."

He swallowed hard. "You've got more?"

"I do...I'd have given you a DVD if I could have figured a way for you to watch it down there."

"DVD!" The boy actually trembled, thinking about the possibilities.

"And finally..." I paused, waiting to set the hook. "No...maybe I won't...you'll figure it out on your own."

"What, Mr. Bates."

"I was just thinking about watching you and the girl...and your 'performance problem'. When she first started to try to get you off, I saw a look in your face. I know that look, because I've seen it in the mirror. So...think about what was going through your mind right at that moment when you knew she was going to put her hand on your penis. I know you wanted a hand on it right then, just not hers. Well...there's a solution for that, too. That's all I'm going to say--now. Except...this place is calling your name...so feel free...and this time...I won't even peek. I promise. Think about it." The boy blushed a deep red.

"Thanks, Mr. Bates, but...I don't think so...not now."

"Okay, Christian...that's cool. It's your call." I led him back to the side door. "And..." He turned to me. "I want to be very serious for a minute. If you ever--ever--need anything, or want to talk about anything, or the world suddenly seems like it's about to fall apart...if you've got anything on your mind at all...I'm always here...in fact..." I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled all my contact information down and handed it to him. "Here, put it in a safe place."

He slipped it into his wallet, and then stepped outside.

"And Christian, I hope you still plan to walk by once in a while, because I'm still going to need my 'Christian MacMillan' fix periodically. I think you are one incredible young man..." I suddenly reached out and leaned my mouth to his ear. I lowered my voice. "...and I get a hard-on every time I see you."

He blushed and looked shocked for a moment, but then he grinned, and before I knew it he was walking down the driveway. I watched him go. I wondered if I'd ruined everything...or...if... Only time would tell.

Part 2.

At 3:00 there was a knock on my door. My heart skipped a few beats; I was afraid to hope, fearing when I open the door it would be the postman, a neighbour, a kid selling raffle tickets, anyone but the one for whom I'd been waiting three days.

I was not disappointed. Young Christian MacMillan was standing there at the door practically dancing from foot to foot, he was so anxious to enter my home and move into a new world.

"Oh. Christian. Hi." I said. "What's up?" I deliberately gave a look down at his crotch and smiled lewdly. He blushed a deep red.

The boy was vibrating with energy desperately needing release. It almost looked like he's doing the little "pee dance" that little boys do when they really have to go--the dance I'd seen my very own Christian do not too many years ago. "Can I come in, Mr. Bates?"

"Sure." I stepped aside, and he entered and I looked out to be sure the coast was clear. No Loren; no followers. "Want a drink or something--milk and cookies?"

He grinned. "Um...no thanks." He looked into my eyes, waiting.

"So...everything alright at...school?" He knew exactly what I was asking.

"Oh. Yeah. Loren's pretty much ignoring me."

"Well that's good."

"Yeah." Another silence descended upon us. His dance had settled down to more just a vibration that extended throughout his body. He was wired! I was determined not to make things easy for him. If things were going to develop--and I certainly expected they were--he'd have to become an active and willing participant.

"So...how they hangin'?"

Christian blushed and grinned, and took a breath. "Mr. Bates, do you really have DVD's?"

Now I smiled. "I do."

"Um...can I...um..."

"Look at them?"

He nodded wildly.

"Now?" He must have thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

"Sure. Come on." Again we trudged up the stairs, but this time, I ushered him into my bedroom. It was dark, the shades had been pulled, but his eyes first fell on the huge king-sized bed. Then turning, he saw the big high def TV panel on the wall opposite the bed. Below that was a bureau. I pointed in that direction. "There ya' go."

He gave me a look like, are you for real, and then practically dove into the bureau drawers. The first drawer he pulled open was my underwear drawer. Most of it was pretty basic, but I also had some more exotic stuff--thongs in lewd prints. "Wrong drawer," I said. He turned and blushed. The next drawer had some "equipment." "Oh," I said, "...that's my 'toy' drawer. I stepped up beside him. He paused here, and turned to get my approved. "Go ahead," I said. He reached in and pulled out a dildo and ran his hand over its ten inches. I could feel him tremble, and I actually heard him swallow. He looked at it, turning it over in his hand--imagining possibilities. After a moment, he put it back, and then spied a tube and picked it up. "So that's it," he muttered, and flipped the top and squeezed a bit out on his finger. He rubbed his fingers together, and stole a glance at me. "It really is slippery!"

"Yes it is," I replied. "How do you know about KY?"

He gazed into my eyes, and I saw him reddening. "Nifty," he said.

"Nifty!" I said with mock horror. "You not old enough to be browsing Nifty."

"It was an accident...sort of."

"Didn't you read the warning about minors."

"I...um...think I skipped that part." I don't think he knew whether to grin or cry, but he definitely grew even redder. I smiled, to be sure he knew I was playing with him, and asked, "So what's your favorite?" I expected him to name a particular story or perhaps a category, but he surprised me.

"Storyguy22," he answered, naming a fine writer of man-boy love stories, "And oh...Simon 13Greengrass. Yeah, I like him. A lot."

Whoa, Christian. Do you realize what you just said, my sweet? You're not just a young gay boy; you're a young gay boy who finds the idea of man-boy relationships appealing--as it happens--just as the guy standing next to you.

"Sometimes I check out 'Young friends' or 'High school' but mostly...those guys." He blushed again, suddenly shy, not wanting to say out loud that he liked the "Adult-Youth" section best.

"Well...excellent taste, I'd say." I smiled at him, and gave him a little pat on his bottom, letting my hand rest there. He jumped a little when I did that, but then smiled and I think perhaps even leaned back ever-so-slightly, telling me it was okay. If in fact it was intentional, it was a bold move on his part, and one that signaled commitment on his part.

"And Ganymede: I like him, too. I 'm sorry he never finished 'Ring Around the Rose'."

"So am I, Christopher, so am I. Perhaps he is waiting for his muse." Christian looked confused. "His muse. His inspiration," I added.

"Oh."

I wanted to tell him I'd just found mine, but he was off to explore other things. He set the tube of KY down, and found next, a Fleet box. Again I got a questioning look. Hmm, I wondered, perhaps I'd made a mistake putting that in there.

"It's an enema kit. You know about enemas, ay? Ever had one?" The boy was so transparent. I knew he didn't have a clue. I took the box from his hands and opened it. "It's filled with a kind of soapy fluid. You grease up the tip here--with a little KY or Vaseline, and insert it deep inside. I made a model anus with my thumb and finger and inserted the nozzle. I looked at him carefully, watching as the light dawned as to just exactly where it was inserted. He looked up and held my gaze. "Then," I said, "you just let the fluid flow in, and wait. It cleans out your insides." He pulled a face. "It's not bad," I continued, "Actually some people sort of get off on it. I read one Nifty story by Jeffy, I think, about a guy who gives his young friend an enema and helps him have an orgasm at the same time."

Christian turned a deep red at the thought. What a delightful quality to find in a boy. It bespoke a sort of innocence, despite all the "self-awareness" he'd acquired down there on the rocks. I could see the idea intrigued him. I put the paraphernalia back in the box, as he picked up one last toy. "What's this? It's not a...um...dil...doe, right?" Oh my sweet Christian, you are an eager learner!

"No, Christian, definitely related, though. It's called a butt plug. The name sort of says it all, ay?" I grinned and he grinned.

"But what do you DO with it?"

"You just stick it up your bottom."

Again, I could see little tremors pass through him. "You keep it there? Why?"

"I guess some people like to feel something up their ass," I said crudely because I loved seeing him blush. "They like the full feeling. Sometimes they keep it there for an hour or so. Some people keep it in all day."

"All day! Wouldn't it fall out?"

"Never has...oops!" He shot me a look, suddenly realizing that he now knew something very personal about me and my "proclivities." "Here," I said, "...see this ridge? Well, your anus--you know what that is, right?"

"I guess."

"Your asshole, the outside part of it. Anyway, it's sort of like a rim, too, and once it's inserted, the butt plug ridge kind of fits in past the anus, and it keeps it in place."

He gazed at it a while longer, then put it back--reluctantly, if I do say so myself. Life, my friends, is about possibilities, and young Christian had just discovered a drawer full.

"So the DVD's?"

"Right here."

I pulled open the next drawer to reveal a collection of several dozen cases. His eyes immediately started scanning the titles. I got the impression he was looking for something in particular. "Any..." He paused, unsure whether he wanted to reveal too much of himself.

"Any what?"

"Any...ones...like...um...Simon 13greengrass?"

I smiled. "You mean like man-boy stuff."

He nodded nervously.

"You know, of course, that stuff is definitely illegal. I get caught with that, and I'd end up in prison." That seemed to shake him some, the reality of his prurient interests finally settling in on him.

"Yeah," he breathed, sounding very disappointed.

"However..." I added, "maybe this would be to your tastes." I pulled out a case labeled "Oliver".

He snorted out a cynical laugh. "That's some old musical," he said with almost an argumentative tone of--like how stupid could I be.

"Well... don't you want to broaden your horizons? Humour me, okay?"

I put the DVD in the player, and got two back-cushions so we could lie on the bed and lean back and enjoy. I grabbed the remote, lowered the lights a bit, settled back on the bed, and patted the spot next to me. Christian was debating what to do. On the one hand, he knew he'd be committing himself to a course of action if he were to stretch out next to me. On the other hand, how sexual could watching "Oliver" be? (Author's note: For the record, I think it can be incredibly sexy! [Insert appropriate smiley face here])

Finally he shrugged, and scooted onto the bed. "Great," I said and patted his thigh, leaving my hand there, to savour his warm, firm body. He stiffened a bit under my touch. "Okay, shall we?"

The video began, but immediately, it was clear this was not a musical and it was definitely not "Oliver".

The plot--admittedly pretty thin, had a teacher tutoring a student--probably about twelve--at the teacher's home. After a minute or so of the man touching the boy through his clothing in all sorts of ways (you'd have to be blind not to see where this was headed), the man said something like, "Jimmy, you seem to have a lot of pent-up energy that's getting in the way of your studying." "I can't help it," the boy answered. "Well, maybe I can help," the man said. "Do you want me to try?" "Okay." Instantly, the man was taking the boy's shorts and pants down. Christian looked quickly over at me. I, of course, was watching him all the time, snatching just a peek now and then at the movie. I'd seen it enough times; I didn't really need to watch it. He shifted a bit on the bed, tugging at his own shorts at the hem, hoping, I think, to lessen the obvious bulge that had appeared. It didn't help. I grinned this silly, shit-eating grin. "Oliver," I said.

"Yeah, right." he grinned back. "What are they going to do?"

"Well...you have to be patient. All will be revealed--and I do mean revealed--see?"

Even as I spoke, the boy's three-inch hard-on popped free, and Christian gasped. Now the man on the screen felt the boy up, though not very effectively, if you ask me, and then he leaned in and--side view, now--he sucked the boy's cock into his mouth. "Oh, God," Christian moaned.

"You like that, huh?" I said with a grin. It was a stupid question.

Christian just nodded and licked his lips.

"You ever done that?"

"No," he breathed.

"Actually, I mean has anyone ever done that to you."

"No." He really only just moved his lips, no sound came out. His eyes never left the action on the screen. "Do you know what it's called?" I wanted to know how much he knew, and this would be a good test.

"Cocksuck..." The whispered word caught in his throat, and he swallowed as if it were a solid thing blocking his airway. He seemed overwhelmed by the effect it was having on his body. As he watched, eyes unblinking, the man fondled the boy's small testicles, and then sucked them in along with the boy's dick. The boy moaned and stiffened as the man worked his magic. Then the child screamed out his orgasm, and the camera shifted so the boy's tiny penis filled the screen, and his body spasmed with each dry heave of his prepubescent orgasm.

"Wow," I heard Christian breathe. I looked over and his face was flushed, his heart pounding and his hidden boyhood achingly hard.

"Wait, until you see what's next."

Now the boy--with hardly a moment for recovery--undid the man's trousers and dropped them and his Y-fronts. The man sighed as his big, 8-inch cock drooled pre-cum and stood straight out from his body.

"So, what's gonna' happen now, ay?"

Christian looked at me. "He's going to give him a blow job!" he whispered.

"Well...let's see..." Christian was beside himself with pure sexual energy. He had been trying desperately to avoid touching himself, but it was impossible. I paused the video. "Christian," I said, "you know...it's okay if you want to..."

He blushed. He knew exactly what I was saying. "I....I...don't...."

"Christian...remember, it's me," I said, putting my hand on his belly, and rubbing it slowly. He shook under my touch, but made no move to pull away. "I've seen everything before." I had, and he knew it, though I didn't bother to tell him having him right next to me where I could feel him...where I could smell him, where I could taste him would make a huge difference. "And to tell you the truth, my clothes are kind of restricting my comfort, too, right about now." I took a breath, and took off my shirt, and my shoes and socks. I undid my trousers, and could feel his eyes riveted to my front. I smiled. "You gonna make me be the only naked guy in the room?" I reached out and tugged up his shirt. It was one of his button-down dress shirts--a raspberry sherbet shade and it looked delightful on him.  He didn't resist. I unbuttoned it, and he helped me get it completed off him.  Now I got a closer look at that puka shell necklace he always wore.  It was quite plain, really, but it was perfect around his sweet neck. It complimented his naked torso perfectly. My Tiki boy! 

I was almost out of my mind with lust for this boy. He was so beautiful, so pure. "Kick off your shoes." He did. "Lift," I commanded, and his picked his bottom up off the bed and I pulled his pants down. His four-and-a-half-inch cock popped free. For the first time I could gaze on his uncut hard-on "up close and personal." His soft, light pubic hair was a small patch of probably a few dozen or so pieces of the fairest yellow-blond hair on the earth. It was all I could do to keep from diving into him and nuzzling my nose in his thin bush. It wasn't kinky-curly yet, just kind of short, straight, and downy-soft.

I took a breath, and got his underpants off him all the way. He was blushing, but his discomfort--if that's what it was--did not keep him from leering at my briefs, and the swollen mound between my legs. He actually trembled as his eyes remained locked onto my package. I lifted and yanked them down and off. My seven-inch erection came to full attention. He swallowed and his eyes locked onto it. The difference in our sizes was obvious: one clearly adult, one post-pubescent. He was maybe into the third Tanner stage, but I sensed he was keenly aware of the difference in our sizes--as was I. As he stared, he almost licked his lips. For the time being, the video was forgotten. His interest made me even more desperate to fulfill my longing and have my way with him. I twisted, so I was facing him. He looked up at me with a sort of vulnerability.

"There," I said, "that's better, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Christian, can I tell you something?"

He nodded, appearing uncertain about what was to come.

I reached for the remote and paused the DVD. "In my mind, I have an image of beautiful boys--of the beautiful boy." I paused, and after a moment of studying him, I smiled. "Oh, I can see that's confusing to you. A boy--who is beautiful? You're thinking beauty only applies to women or girls. But, Christian, beauty is...beauty is about purity...about perfection. It's about something that brings such pleasure to the one who is viewing it--experiencing it. And with human beings, beauty extends beyond the physical--the external. It has to do with what's inside a person--the goodness. Does that make sense?

The boy thought about this. It was for him no doubt an odd conversation, but as he pondered my words, I could see it did make sense to him--sort of. "Yeah," Christian said, "I guess."

My fervent hope was that in time it would make perfect sense to him. I smiled, and reached out and did what for years I had been unable to do. I touched him--stroked him--explored him. I touched his body as one would savour the unequalled smoothness of a sheet of gold leaf. Oh, how imperfect a comparison, for the gold leaf is but a substance. What I now caressed was warm and alive and deliciously responsive to my stroking. Any but the lightest touch would defile the perfection I sought to savour. So I held my breath, and moved my hands across his body, relishing the delicacy of his soft, warm skin as if it were the body of Ganymede himself. And with those touches I was suddenly overcome, as one might be by viewing a sublime work of art. Blinking away tears of pure joy, I breathed his name: "Christian." He looked uncertain, almost afraid. I would not retreat now, however. He had to understand. "Christian, you are the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. You are beauty. You are perfect in every way."

"N-n-o-o-o," he whispered. He swallowed hard at my gaze, which he felt just as he felt my fingertips.

"You are, Christian. You must understand. That's why I have spent so much of my life these past three years studying you. Christian, for me, you are the beauty of boyhood. I'm sorry if this frightens you, but it is the truth. That's why I revel in your every visit to the rocks. And then that first day you took off your clothes, I almost died. You are the perfect creation." He actually trembled at my words. I suppose they sounded so strange, doubly so because he was the object of my idolatry. And for my part, I too was afraid. Was I placing too heavy a burden on his small shoulders? No matter how I explained it, could he ever understand what he symbolized for me? "My sweet boy, I cannot believe that you are allowing me the privilege of being with you. I feel so blessed. Thank you."

The boy blushed at my gushing and my relentless gaze--a gaze of lustful adoration. If his whispered protestation ("Nooo") offered one message, his young, rigid, throbbing penis offered another. His body understood what his mind had not yet absorbed, and it--his body--responded proudly. "Is it alright if I touch you...in a different way?" I asked in a halting whisper. He seemed almost reluctant to answer, as if agreeing would acknowledge the truth of what I'd been saying. He returned my loving gaze with one filled with questions, but it was also a hungering look. Finally, he nodded, hesitantly, like a boy who wants to try something, but isn't really sure he can actually do it. I reached out, determined to make his doubt fade away.

"Wait!" the boy cried out.

I stopped and waited.

"I..." He looked so uncertain. I wanted to hug him, to let him know everything was okay, that he was safe. He swallowed. "I can't tell you," he said finally. The poor boy seemed suddenly filled with torment, and I shook with a fear that I had done something terribly wrong.

I stroked his soft cheek, then let my fingers comb through his hair. "Oh, Christian, you can tell me anything. Nothing you tell me could change how I feel about you. It's okay, Christian, if you don't want to say what's on your mind, but I hope someday you will trust me enough--trust yourself enough to share your very most secret thoughts with me...as I have done with you."

With the backs of my fingers, I stroked his cheek; with a fingertip, I explored the place behind his ear; with my hand, I cupped the smooth, firm neck. I waited.

"What you said...you know...about when Loren tried..." He reddened. "...well, you know..." He paused, and I smiled. Between that and my reverential exploration of his body, I hoped I could reassure him. Then miraculously I saw his uncertainty give way to resolve. He was preparing to take a huge risk. He swallowed and began again: "Anyway, I was thinking about something else. Just like you said." He looked away.

"It's okay, Christian. Take your time," I said after several seconds had passed.

He turned a crimson red, but he turned back and looked straight into my eyes. "Here's what I was thinking, Mr. Bates. I was thinking, I wish it was you. I wanted it to be you, Mr. Bates; I wanted it to be your hand doing that. I wanted it to be you touching me."

I was stunned--frozen--petrified. This I could never have imagined, and yet I knew my boy did not have the guile to fabricate such a thing. No, this was genuine, and from the heart. "Oh, Christian," I breathed. "My sweet boy, it can be. Now it can be, right now." I let my fingers dance over his body, over his smooth chest. I fondled his little nipples, and was rewarded in feeling them grow firm and hearing a soft gasp escape from his mouth. He lay very still. His tummy rippled with taut muscle, and his penis seemed to throb even harder.

"Yeesss," he breathed. Clearly he was basking in the attention I was giving his body, and he was giving me permission to go further.

"Christian, if I ever do something you are unsure of, or you don't want to do, tell me and I'll stop...that's the way it should be with two people who want to share themselves with one another. I want to do everything you want to do, and I hope I can introduce you to some things you may not know anything about. But whatever it is, we will take things one step at a time...and on your terms. This beautiful thing--this 'body electric'"--I stroked his tummy, savouring his rippling hardness--"is yours, and you have the sole right to determine what happens to it."

I leaned down and kissed him on the nipple, nibbling it and making him squirm. As I continued to kiss his sweet, compact body, I let my fingers dance down past his boyhood charms and found his legs. They were--like the rest of him--firm and smooth, the softest surface imaginable. They were made even more so by just a hint of downy-soft hair, barely visible. He practically squealed as my fingers passed by his genitals. I gazed on the angelic face, and I saw all the emotions of a boy teetering on the edge of discovery--the need, the hunger, the energy, raw and primal, uncertainty and even perhaps fear of the unknown, but overriding all of it, a gnawing, relentless feeling that demands explosive satisfaction.

I lifted away. "I guess the video can wait, ay?" I squeezed his firm thigh, savouring it. His senses were on overload, but still, he managed a grin in response to my query. It was wonderful to see that--to see his smile. It was one of the first things that endeared me to him. I'd catch glimpses of it when he'd pass by me, but it was when he was alone, exploring the cove and he'd make a discovery, that I'd really see it. It was a wonderful, free, unchecked expression of the sublime happiness of boyhood. It was a smile that changed his whole face. It exposed his beautiful, white, perfect teeth (why should his teeth be any different to the rest of him.)

I caressed his thigh again, and his grin stretched, and I could see the pent-up energy surge inside him again. He deliberately opened his legs then; somehow that simple act focused more attention on his delightful genitalia. My heart pounded relentlessly, as did, I am sure, his heart. That much I knew: that simple movement--the opening of his legs--signaled the beginning of our joining. Our two hearts would beat as one.

I continued to kiss my way down his torso now, pausing to revel in his remarkably neutral belly button--neither an in-y nor an out-y. Muscles on either side of his belly created shallow valleys and broad flat plains and wide, firm plateaus just above his hips. They tapered downward, hinting at a "V" which directed me to that essential "boyness" at the base of his belly.

He moaned now, much like the boy on the video, and I wondered for a moment if he were imitating him thinking it might be a turn on for me, but then I realized Christian did not have the heart for such duplicity. He was simply responding as his body was urging him to respond. As I continued to nuzzle him, my hands kept busy as well, wandering over the deliciously smooth skin of his legs. His body tightened, and his moans increased. His testicles, nicely sized for a thirteen-year-old, were drawn up tight to his body in a heavily-wrinkled scrotum, and his four-and-a-half-inch boyhood was as rigid as any hard-on I'd ever seen. It pulsed out a quick tempo, striving, against the limits of his body, to grow even larger. His foreskin had, of its own accord, pulled back slightly, and his luscious, pink head was perhaps half-exposed. I knew he was getting closer to the moment of his orgasm. I wasn't ready to have that happen, however, and so I slowed my ministrations.

"Why are you stopping?" he managed. There was an almost desperate sound to the question. He sounded indignant that I would consider such a thing.

"You were ready, weren't you?" He looked unsure. "Ready to have an orgasm?"

He nodded in a boyishly uncertain way, his cheeks turning a delightful pink, then red.

"I don't want you to come yet...I want to enjoy you a while longer. Is that alright?"

He acquiesced, though I think he remained unconvinced--again a thoroughly "boy" response. With sex, boys are on a mission, and no delays are acceptable.

"Do me a favor?" He waited. "Stand up. Please." He flashed a momentary look of pique, but he complied as I knew he would. He slid off the bed, and I'm sure it seemed to him, he was moving further from that orgasmic place he wanted to be. He stood before me in all his boyish glory. I scrambled over the edge of the bed, and sat with my legs wide open. My legs corralled him, and I drew him in until my thighs rested lightly against his hips. I sighed at his never-ending beauty. His substantial boy-sized penis almost seemed attached to his tummy which was even now showing signs of an older boy's firm abdominal washboard. But it was his throbbing penis that insistently demanded my attention. Oh, how I wanted to taste that luscious morsel; I knew it so well, but only from afar. I shook with pure lust when I noticed the pristine ooze of precum, and again, I had to resist the temptation to lower my mouth to his spear and suck it into my hungry maw.

I reflected now on the hundreds of times I'd seem him strip naked and pleasure himself. Of all those times, he'd favored his front, affording me only momentary glimpses of his back and firm bottom. Now, I'd be avenged for all the times denied. "Please turn around, Christian." He looked almost nervous, as if the request would lead him down yet another unfamiliar path--as indeed it might--but again, after the slightest blush, he did as I requested. I froze, froze as one might when Michelangelo removed the drape covering his David. I felt dizzy--lightheaded. Breathe, my head screamed silently, and my lungs slowly responded. What beauty. Already the shape of later youth had broadened his shoulders and was trimming his body down to a narrower waist. Muscles gave definition to his sides, while a series of tiny "foothills, straight and true, formed a ridge and led down from the nape of his neck to that soft, shallow plain, which lay clear the view of those two twin mountains of pure, 100 percent boy bottom. They rose majestically--rounded, firm, pinched by muscle on each outbound side, the effect of which was to prod them each to greater heights above the flat plain north of them. Those two sweet wonders of boyhood proudly proclaimed their domination of the landscape. And between them, a deep, sharp, hidden valley--a valley, which would demand the full attention of any true explorer. I gazed upon him in this attitude for longer than I was aware, and when finally, he twisted around, even that simple act oozed a sensuousness that caused my heart to falter. He didn't understand my "detour" to his backside, and I realized he was again growing uncertain.

"I'm...I'm..." I knew I had to speak, but what words to say? "You, sweet Christian, are a flower most delicate, a single rose offered only for a special lover's eyes." He looked at me as if confounded. I'm certain he'd never thought of himself in this way. No, he was simply a boy--a boy with all the attendant hungers and needs, and desires. Still, he blushed, understanding that in this moment, he held an awesome power over an adult--this adult. He didn't fully understand it, not yet anyway, but he felt it nonetheless.

I pulled him to me, leaned down, and, closing my eyes, placed a slow, soft kiss on his right cheek. Ahhhh....to know a thing intellectually (such as the fact that a boy's skin is smooth and soft) is one thing, but to have the senses confirm it with hungry lips brushing over previously unreachable flesh, tasting the sweetness, savouring the texture--a softness without comparison--feeling the firmness of muscle covered by satiny, bronzed skin....ohhh....what words can do justice? Certainly not my meager attempts. It's rather like a tourist attempting a snapshot of surging surf along a marvelous coastline. The fluid dynamics of the event may be captured in a frozen moment, but missing is the soul of the place: The photo fails to convey the sound, the low pounding that is so strong you feel it deep inside as much as hear it, the cool spray upon your face, the salt taste as you run your tongue over your lips, the fresh fragrance of the roiling sea. Alas, Christian, description fails. I am way past mere intellectual knowledge of your body. Its presence--your essence--is felt deep inside.

I turn my head now, and nuzzle him with my nose, and sense him in a whole new way. I tremble, and--if I am not mistaken--so does he. I feel him, I taste him, I breath in his scent. I am like a blind man suddenly given permission to explore. O, sweet heaven! Christian surges over me, like that restless ocean pounding the shore. I shift slightly, adjusting my angle, and my angular nose first finds, then nestles into the sharp divide between the two hemispheres of his exquisite backside. I am trembling, and I am grateful I need not use my fingers for this exploration, for my nose traces along the furrow...He winces certainly not from any hurt, but perhaps from the strangeness of this. But surely, he understands. He has after all perused my porn. He's seen the various modes of male love. Still, his response is that of a novice, an initiate...a virgin. My heart pounds, and with my nose centered above the secret place not seen even by me, I breathe in, for the first time, his essence. Far from unsavory, he is clean, fresh smelling, earthy like the finest European truffles--a sublime delicacy. And so he is.

And then...my heart stops--it must, for nothing could have prepared me for this: This boy, this Christian moves, not to retreat, but rather to press himself further onto the intruding probe.

I reach up and with a hand on each of his firm orbs, I move my thumbs into the crevasse of his love, and gently--as if exposing a fragile treasure hidden for eons, I part him, and then open him, and then reveal him. Like that newfound treasure, my eyes behold him for the first time--my eyes, seeing what no one has seen before, save perhaps those who tended to his need in his infancy. I hear his breathing change. It has now a more desperate quality.

O wise Ganymede, you know this place so well. I gaze down again and behold the unfledged boy bud, yes, a bud. A flower yet to blossom--a promise of a beauty revealed at the time of its opening at a moment ordained by nature. I breathe in again, and then, having no care for any uncertainty the boy may be feeling, I lick my lips and lean in and form my lips to meet his secret lips. He gasps at the first touch and perhaps flinches. No, not flinches; the object of my sudden passion more precisely winks, spasms, pulls in on itself, and then returns to its previous state. He...I...we have survived this first contact. And then as if the most natural thing in the world, I part my lips (first mine), extend my tongue, and test his bud's resolve.

"Wha..." He swallows his question and tries again. "What are you doing?" Gone is any hint of an adolescent voice--that delightful reedy mid-range twang with the vocal cords high up in his throat. Now his voice is pure boy soprano, perfect in tone, its strained purity binding me in its spell.

I break away and summon my wits to explain what must be confounding--even for a boy who's studied page after page of gay pornography. He's twisted around again, and I gaze up at him. "I'm exploring, Christian--my first foray into virgin territory. I want to know everything, every place that is a part of you."

He is silent for a long moment. "Are you going to do it to me?"

"Do what?" I ask innocently.

"Put your...um...Are you going to..." He turned a deep red. He knew what he wanted to say, but he lacked the words, save the one which echoes over and over in all boys' heads: fuck. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, lowered in a desperate attempt at control, though the tremolo betrayed his true angst and lust. "Are you going to fuck me?"

I lay my cheek upon his and then quickly kissed along his sweet bottom. Rising, my lips explored the hillocks of his spine, then to his shoulder, and turning him to face me full on, I gazed first at his moist, red lips, then his eyes, and he readied himself, letting his eyelids drift shut, and I leaned in and found his lips with mine. It was the lightest of kisses--that first one. Then, after the briefest break, and a young boy's shuddering breath, lips touch again, this time longer and more insistent--tasting the need in each one of us. Then we broke again.

"Christian, my love, I have dreamt of making love to you--of filling you. I tremble at the thought, but you asked a question; it was not an invitation. So, to your question, I answer: No, my sweet boy, this is not the time." I looked into the thirteen-year-old's eyes and found...what? Could it be disappointment? But there was something else, too, perhaps a bit of relief. But clearly, the boy had considered such a thing and was not repelled by it. "There will be a time, my love, when we will make love in that way, when you will in fact demand it. You will receive me, allow me--yes, even beg me to enter you, to take you...and you will work as you have never worked before to open yourself to me. I will be your willing--and loving--partner, and we will join--I entering you, filling you, and finally, meeting a need you never knew you had. And for your part, you require this of me; you will surrender yourself to me; you will take me in--all of me. It will change you, Christian; you will be in that moment a new creature; it will awaken in you a hunger that only a man will be able to satisfy."

"Mr. Bates," he said, and he colored then--deliciously boyishly. "...you...um...do it...if I want it, won't you?" There was a tremor in his voice, and he desperately needed to know I would not abandon him. "Please?" he added in a halting whisper. Oh my sweet boy, you will want it, believe me.

I slipped off the bed and fell to my knees, bowing before my boy-god. I leaned my head against his belly, and tilted my head up and kissed him. "Oh, Christian, my love, I would be honoured to join with you: to leave my essence deep within your body. Oh, by the sweet Gods of Olympus, I will be that man." I hugged him tightly, and then kissed my way back up to his lips, pressing him back, reclining him, our bodies pressed together, his rigid boyhood mashed against my belly, my leaking manhood nestled against his thigh. We embraced, and in our embrace, we kissed, we kissed hard, and I let my tongue press out through my lips, and intrude beyond his. I ran the tip of my tongue across his perfect teeth.

He knew about kissing, though I suspect only from watching others. Hesitatingly, he opened his mouth, and he allowed me to enter him. He trembled as did I. Somehow that moment in which he allowed me to enter him represented my possession of him in other ways, and he, in that split second, surrendered himself to me. He seemed to understand that as I understood it. We kissed with relentless passion, and as we did so, I felt his whole body tensing and relaxing in wave after wave of surging sexuality. Finally, he could not contain himself (almost literally) and he began a puppy-ish, inept humping of my leg. He was grunting with each novice's thrust, and a vein in his neck pumped madly. He was rapidly approaching his climax--again. And again, I wanted to bring him just to the edge and then prolong his exquisite agony.

I held him still, and he opened his eyes, and looked into mine. He seemed so desperate for release. I picked him up like a baby, and centered him, naked, on my bed. Then, moving to him, I knelt over his glorious body and gazed down upon him as he lay there: a boy full of expectation. His tummy and chest, accented by hard, little nail-point nipples, heaved in great gulps of air. I leaned down and, placing my hands on his legs, slowly drew them apart. I raised them, bending them at the knee, moving them out as butterfly would spread its wings as it rested in the sun. This accentuated his genitals and again revealed his sweet, pure bud.

Now I leaned down, and with my hand, for the first time, touched his firm, proud four-and-a-half-inch spear. He sucked in a massive breath, and after holding it a moment, groaned as he let it back out. I almost came when I felt that satiny-smooth penis not more than three quarters of an inch across, if that. It, like the rest of him, was perfect, perfectly proportioned for rest of his body. I eased back his foreskin. It was tighter than I expected, and he winced slightly. It was surprising, for a boy who'd pleasured himself as much as he had, I would have expected a looser prepuce. What eventually emerged was a handsome, pink glans--exquisitely soft, but firm, nicely flared, which formed a pronounced rim. I raised my eyes upward and locked onto his, then lowered my head, bringing my mouth to just above his cockhead. I licked my lips, opened my mouth, and dropped down onto his rigid, pulsing cock. He drew in a breath in anticipation, fully expecting a response of earthquake proportions. At first, I just kissed his head, one kiss becoming many--light pecks becoming longer, wetter caresses with my lips and tongue. Each kiss seemed to cause him to catch his breath; his penis throbbed, sending a shockwave throughout his taut body. Then when he seemed to grow accustomed to that teasing sensation on his glans, I sucked him into my mouth, letting his rim slip past my lips. His body actually contorted--bucked--as I sucked him in. A sound tore from him like a groaning death rattle. He pressed his feet into the bed and lifted himself upward, trying to press himself deeper into my mouth. I moved with him, to keep just his glans in my hot, wet cavern. I swirled my tongue over his head, and he squealed aloud. I did it again, and then, using just the tip of my tongue, I ran it over his slit, and tasted his sweet precum. There wasn't a lot of it, but there was some--enough. He was a delight--so responsive: for each small action on my part, there was an opposite reaction on his, but he was rewriting the laws of physics. There was nothing equal about my actions and his reactions. Mine were subtle, quiet; his were monstrous, loud. The lightest flick of my tongue, for example, yielded a violent shudder that caused a spasm throughout Christian's whole body. It pulled a long, tortuous moan from his throat. Another? A soft caressing of those two mystical orbs contained within a small, pristine sac caused a wrenching, muscular tightening of his tummy, so that I can see every muscle defined and taut, creating valleys and rises which flowed sensuously into one another. Each quiet action on my part was followed by yet another animal grunt issuing from his expectant mouth.

I was ready then; he'd been ready almost since we began. I lowered myself onto him, drawing the rigid organ that defines "boyness," that focuses boyish sensuality, that is the center of boy sex. He stiffened--again. When, I wondered, does he ever relax those muscles, for it seemed every time I touched him, he stiffened more, and yet it would have been impossible for him to ratchet himself ever tighter without rupturing some vital part of his being. I sighed, and he groaned as I felt his head bumping into my throat. It had been a long time since I'd deep-throated anyone--it's not something I would have normally done, but Christian required more--I wanted to give him more--and I swallowed him--gulped him down. I remembered--my throat muscles remembered, that is--and they constricted around the intruder, and he lost any remaining semblance of control as I swirled and sucked and squeezed.

I let him settle some, and then slowly pulled back, working his throbbing boy tool with every bit of teasing I could muster. I lifted off for a moment and stroked him once with my hand, using his foreskin to keep him on the edge. I repositioned his legs, folding them back, bringing his knees to his shoulders, then I pressed them gently outward, the effect of which was to spread those firm, exquisite cheeks and expose his dimpled bud. I glanced down and gazed upon that secret place south of his tight scrotum, past his perineum, that the tiny fuse of flesh that connects his two centers of sexual explosives. My gaze settled that sweet little pucker, indeed, a bud. As I stroked him, again and again and again that secret spot winked in on itself, like a time-lapse of a flower closing for the night, and then almost immediately, the video reversed, and it opened, not fully of course--that would require my assistance. I reached down to my manhood and squeezed at its root, and brought forth a flow of precum, which I gathered on my finger. More was needed, so I milked it once again. With my precum oozing slowly off my fingertip, I lowered it to its mark. When I touched down on the tiny bud, it again pulled in as a sea anemone might do to try to protect itself.

Christian, you sweet boy, I see it in your eyes, in the expectant way you hold your lips, mouth slightly agape, your head slightly cocked: You wonder what more can happen, what more can excite in ways never imagined, what more can assault your senses so that you are aware of nothing, save what is happening to your body--the endless sensations centered in your boyhood, and that unfamiliar itch (no, not itch; rather simply a pressure, a presence in that place below--that place which I am even now waiting to explore). Patiently, steadily, I held my fingertip lightly against that spot, waiting for his body to ready itself, as it eventually--inevitably--must do. His tightness eased; his anus eased or at least became less resistant. I felt it with my fingertip, and holding my breath to steady myself, I pressed into the boy. Predictably, he tightened again, instantly, though my pressure was sufficient to overcome his resistance, as I knew it must. I entered him so the outer ring of muscle, when it clamped down, gripped my whole fingertip. Christian gasped, clearly feeling an alien presence, and his penis pulsed once, bumping against the roof of my mouth. I sucked down hard on him then, and he groaned again, and his anus relaxed.

It is a miraculous thing: this powerful release of boyhood sex. It is a palatable energy that seeks to break forth past the boundaries that are meant to keep it hidden; nothing will deny it when its moment comes. Everything is connected; all the forces and all his senses conspire to yield ultimately to that desperately sought release. It will come only after the boy has alternated between giving in to and fighting the feelings that surge over him. Resisting...relenting...resisting...relenting...coming in waves that leaves the body spent and the restored.

One of the things that made me love Christian was seeing his virginal responses as he discovered within himself these alien urgings, these waves of energy surging over him for the first time. It was a whole mélange of feeling; it was the unknown that he simply had to pursue like a knight on a quest. He had no choice; it was an insistent pulling that made him understand something beyond his knowing was there, waiting to be revealed.

These were the building sensations that require a boy--this boy--to relinquish control of his body and his mind and his emotion, and even the most fundamental morality--what is right, what is wrong. He must surrender--totally, completely, not to some external force, but to his own need. He may--at first blush--try to convince himself it is to his lover that he surrenders, but deep down, he knows the surrender will be to that power that courses through his being. He knows this, and yet still he resists, but in resisting, the energy grows more powerful, flowing throughout his beautiful, lithe body from its source. That is the mystery of sex: the energy will always overpower. And the source? The source is those appendages that society deems so shameful that it requires them to be hidden. Or perhaps it is the opposite: Society recognizes the power those places hold, and covers them in an vain attempt to deny that power. I cannot know which is truly the case; I only know the energy is unrelenting; it demanded that my boy surrender--and at some level he knew it, too.

The energy attacked his defenses, stripping him of all reservation even as I have stripped him of his garments. He was now totally innocent before me, but he now knew he had to surrender that selfsame innocence to the energy that surged through him.

In such moments, a boy must find within himself a willingness to capitulate to something more powerful. In this moment a boy willingly offers himself, though he would never admit it, for surrender implies failure or something less than being a man. Yet that is precisely what is required of boys to achieve the release they so desperately seek. Resist until you can resist no longer, then relinquish control completely. Nothing less satisfies; it must be utter surrender--only that will wrench from a boy that unimaginable, shuddering release. In that moment, the atoms of his soul will split and yield a power that threatens to destroy his vulnerable body.

Until that moment, he feels the energy surging throughout his body, and yet he never is unmindful of its center at the base of his belly. The energy builds, and the boy responds, appearing at times like a drowning soul, barely able to keep head above water, exhausted at his efforts, shaking with pock-marked flesh, gulping in great quantities of air, heart pounding, and then like the flood waters of a tsunami, the surging flow reverses and with gathering power rages backward to its origin--back to his rigid boyhood, like crashing waves pounding into a narrow crevasse, building, building, until the pent-up energy of countless waves overwhelms even their source and ejaculates a massive surge of energy, coming in great spurts and spilling back into the ocean.

Then that explosion of energy will leave him immediately and completely spent...drained...emptied...of everything...of strength, of thought, of consciousness. In this state of blissful nothingness, there is a mystical fulfillment that a boy only experiences in such moments; indeed, it is only in that moment when he is fully human, shedding all the conventions forced on him by society to be this or that. In that moment, a boy discovers his essence--his purity, and he finds himself totally exposed, with no fear his momentary vulnerability will be seen for human frailty.

Indeed Christian was even now experiencing such forces, for now he was past caring and he gave himself completely. He was totally submissive to my will--at least that is how it seemed, but again, it was the energy surging within him and poised to transform him that demanded his surrender. I was simply the trigger; more precisely it was that gentle but insistent fingertip lodged in the tight embrace of his anus that would eventually cause his capitulation to the power surging from the center of his boyhood. Christian's body had relaxed where I had entered him--I felt it on my buried fingertip--and I eased my finger deeper. He groaned, and I sucked down on him, swirling my tongue over his sweet boy-cock.

I felt such pleasure. I'm not talking about a quick, lustful "getting off". No, what I felt was profound joy--a sense of sharing something beyond words with an innocent: a sense of giving him something fresh and new, something just discovered, but as yet not fully revealed. Eventually he will come to understand it is something ancient and primal.

Indeed this one act connects him with me, connects him with all male-kind--even to the earliest males of Leakey's discoveries. We are part of a primordial continuum, and I am humbled to be revealing this to the boy, as he, in his time, will make known to another child, this one some fifteen years hence. (That boy will be just eleven, but a precocious eleven. His orgasms will be dry for the first two years of their shared love together, but the child's orgasms will be extraordinary in their power, and the boy--my boy, my Christian--then a man, will understand in a way he cannot now, something about the nature of my devotion to him.)

And so it is that I brought him to the absolute present moment--when time and space were focused on a smallish male organ. Coated with my precum, my finger moved through the resisting tissue, savouring his moist, smooth warmth. It pressed in on my finger, tightened and held me secure, as if finally, the thing that was meant to fill this space was where it should have been. But I knew--and at some level Christian knew as well--that the space had yet to find that for which it ha been formed in the DNA of man-boy love. I could feel him pressing, trying to get more of me into him. His hole was moist and warm. There was little, if any, discomfort. Perhaps he will--no, indeed he will--when his body is asked to accommodate what truly belongs in this place.

While I continued to work his penis, drawing it in and out of my hungry mouth, savouring the softness of his flesh, with my other hand I began to move in and out of him; my finger pressed against his warm, soft rectal walls. I moved slowly at first, then, as I sensed him responding, faster. He was groaning almost constantly now. On the rocky beach, which seemed so distant, he was not ever, I think, as overwhelmed as he appeared to be at that moment. He was actually writhing in some sort of sublime agony--super sensitized and moving ever closer to that moment of inevitability when the building energy of sex demands that the one seeking pleasure become its victim and relinquish all control. He was not yet ready to do that. I saw little beads of sweat on his body as he worked to resist the inevitable, and still he worked at it, knowing his resistance actually drew him closer to the precipice. My finger was now moving in rhythm with my mouth.

"Oh God..." he moaned, "...Oh God...help...Oh God...do it! Please! Do it!"

"Mmmmmm," I hummed, and I knew he could feel yet one more, albeit subtle, sensation on his sex. My finger darted in and out of him; he was loose, as loose as he's been since we started. I felt his penis swell, and his urethra expand, and I knew he was ready. He actually whimpered now, overcome by sensation, overcome by the energy that coursed through him, surging now like waves crashing against unseen ledges. His body was wracked by strong contractions, though not the contractions of ejaculation; rather, it was as if his body was preparing--rehearsing--reminding itself of what was about to transpire. I sucked down hard one last time, and prepared to pull back when the moment came, and I pressed my finger back into him and curled it slightly--just enough to press upon that secret orb deep inside him. His body suddenly stiffened impossibly, it seemed, a cry of desperation tore from his throat, and a massive spasm caused him to thrust his hips high in the air, lifting me with him. The powers within had finally wrested control from his consciousness. His body surrendered to the powers that it could not contain. They were not to be denied, and now in this instant of his submission, the release he had sought came with the swiftness of a flashing sword, severing the bonds of control and releasing the energy in a massive orgasm.

A blast of his thickening boy-fluid pulsed into my hungry maw. At the same time, his anus clamped down on my finger, attempting to strangle it--or perhaps hold it in place, and spasm after spasm forced his fluid from his testicles and prostate, and bathed my mouth with his pleasure. His spasms wanted to pump my finger from his insides, and now I allowed that to happen. He was whimpering again, as if the draining of his essence had turned him once more into an infant who needed to be comforted. And that was exactly what I did, crawling up beside him. He sought me out, and held me tightly, crawling onto my body, until he and I fitted together: his yin to my yang, and we were one. In a last act of consciousness, he took my hand, and pulled it to his genitals and pushed it onto them. I cupped his softening boyhood and two luscious gonads as if a shield protecting precious treasure. With my other hand, I held his head, savouring his soft golden hair, and tucked his head under my chin, and there he fell into a deep and desperately needed sleep. Only then did I roll his juices around in my mouth, savouring it, feeling its creamy smoothness. Some of its warmth remained. It had lost some of the sweetness of virginal semen, but not all, and it had not yet become the salty, tart spend of a man. He had ejaculated several times, more than I'd ever seen him do on his own, and his release was copious, and I swallowed twice to down his load. I now held a part of him within me. His semen would become part of me, its proteins forming the substances which would nourish my body. I leaned down and kissed him on top of his head, and let him rest.

Part 3.

I began to worry that he'd be missed by his parents, and so I awakened him. "Christian...my sweet Christian," I said softly. "Chris...my love..." The boy stirred like a puppy from a sound sleep. He stretched, arched his back, put his paws together and shivered as he tensed every muscle.

Finally he spoke in gentle, whispered tones. "Mr. Bates."

"Eli," I said.

It seemed every transaction between us began with one of his delightful blushes, and he did so now. "Eli," he repeated. He straightened himself out, stretching his body to its full four feet-ten inches. I patted him on his bottom, and he craned his neck up and looked at me and grinned. "Mmmm," he intoned sleepily. I stroked his left cheek, and he melted into me.

"Do you need to be getting home?"

"What time is it?"

"3:30."

"I don't have to be home until 5:00," he said with a sly grin. How does a boy change so much after just one shared orgasm? Where before he was shy and uncertain, now he is master, and his coy smile suggests he's ready for anything. It doesn't last, of course, this new-found confidence; with each new challenge in a relationship, each new experience, the old uncertainty returns, but, it seems, with each new orgasm, the confidence builds even more. What a delightful transformation! What a delightful way of empowering it!

I smiled at him.

"I really did a lot, didn't I?" he grinned.

I smiled. "You did. You nearly filled my mouth to overflowing."

He beamed, though even with his new confidence, his cheeks still pinked up a bit. "I never did it like that before. I never felt like that!" He made a smirking kind of face suggesting he liked those feelings a great deal, but then his demeanor changed, and he became almost somber.

After a pause in which I thought he might even cry, he looked back up at me. "Thank you...Eli." His smile this time was gentle and heartfelt, no smirking or sly looks--simply a boy genuinely grateful for something he understands to be an extraordinary gift.

I ran my hand up and down his flank, and he sighed, and snuggled up against me. Another long pause followed. "Why does it feel so nice?" he finally sighed.

"Sex?"

He raised his blushing face and smiled, his eyes sparkling, reacting to the realization that that was exactly what he'd just experienced with me. But his smile faded a bit, and he said, "No. This. Just...like...you touching me like this, me laying on you. Your hand...on...you know...my butt. I've...never felt so...so...awesome...but it's not like...like before--like you said: sex." He reddened some more. "I mean...my...thing's not even hard."

"It has a name, you know. I don't like to think of it as just a 'thing'."

"I know, he said. "Penis." He seemed slightly embarrassed at that word issuing from his mouth.

"It's okay, Christian," I said. "Neither is mine."

He gave me a look. "Dah." He grinned a boyish, almost silly grin.

I smiled back at him, recognizing perhaps something he didn't: We were desperately, hopelessly in love. "My sweet Christian..." I breathed. "...that's the way it is when two people really, really..." I paused. Was it too soon to use that word? Would it scare him? Perhaps "like" was safer, but then my boy cut through my hesitation.

"Love each other?" He looked at me, the old uncertainty flowing back into him. He wore a desperate look. He needed to hear my answer. Suddenly, it was the most important thing in the world.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I wasn't sure I could speak, but I could see--through blurred vision--that my silence was causing Christian more distress. "Yes, sweetheart. Love. Exactly." He lay his head back down on my chest, suddenly reassured. I squeezed him, holding him closer to me, trying, it seemed, to meld our two bodies together. "Yes, Christian, is that how you feel, as well?"

He didn't speak at first. Instead, I simply felt his silky hair moving back and forth against my chest as he nodded. And then--a simple, breathy, whispered: "Yes!"

A tear spilled from my eye and found its way onto his head. "Oh, sweet Christian," I breathed. "My love." My hand found its way back to his luscious bottom, and I caressed it as lovingly as I knew how--gently, sweetly.

He sighed, and then I felt him growing hard. "Christian," I said. "Sit here." I patted my chest, and immediately he scooted around and I felt two, warm, smooth, firm melons nestling on my heaving chest. His penis was just beginning to strengthen, and his moving around seemed to temporarily stem to flood of blood into his boyhood. "I want to watch you get hard again." I looked up at him and he beamed, proud as any boy would be at the praises of his erection by one who cherished him. "Okay," he murmured. He leaned down and put his hands on my shoulders, and that sparked my own resurrection (or perhaps res-erection). His flaccid tool was about two inches long and about the size of my index finger. In this state, it seemed almost cuddly, if that makes any sense at all. It made me smile. "Your penis is very cute like this." He gave me a look like I was the weirdest guy he'd ever met. "It is!" I protested. "Maybe 'cause I haven't seen it this way very often." I looked at him and grinned, and he blushed (of course) and grinned back at me.

"I can't help it," he said. "It's hard a lot. It started happening a couple of years ago--like all the time...I guess when I started growing."

"How did you find out about masturbation?"

"From everyone."

"Everyone!"

"Yeah, well...health class, kids in school..." He blushed. "...my dad...and even my mom."

I chuckled, "your mom!"

"Yeah," he breathed. "She said like...it's normal...but not to let it get out of hand." He gave me a look. "Oh my God, I thought I was gonna die. I mean, she really said that...'Don't let it get out of hand.' You get it! 'Don't let it get out of hand!"

"I get it, Christian, I get it!" I laughed.

He blushed deeply. "But...I sort of figured it out on my own--you know--like how to do it...down in my fo..." He caught himself.

"Your what?"

He suddenly looked shy. "When I was little, I pretended it was my fort." He now looked very much like a little boy. "It's still how I think about it, I guess...except...you're really the only person I've ever told."

I hugged him. "You're such an incredible boy."

He sighed his contentment.

"I loved watching you discover how to give yourself pleasure."

He smiled, but I could see there was something else as well, something not so contented.

"Sometimes, things aren't simply black or white," I continued. "I have to tell you something." I stroked his sweet, smooth, hairless bottom. My fingers found the crease formed by his leg joining with that sublime hillock of muscle and fluttered lightly back and forth like a drifting leaf caught in the gentle eddies of a warm, lazy breeze. "I loved watching you, and in one sense, I will never regret it. But in another sense, I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I was spying on you. I'd see you walk by, and I wasn't being honest." I could see this was confusing to him. "I should have told you how much I loved you, how I wanted to be with you and teach you things and share our bodies with each other."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because, Christian, I was afraid. I was afraid you'd reject me. That you'd think I was some old perv."

"You're not that old," he said with a grin. It was an "adventurous" joke, and I found myself grinning, too. I thought about tickling him mercilessly. I hadn't done that with him yet, and I wanted so much to hear his peals of laughter. But that would wait. "Oooo...That, my friend, will not go unpunished. Is that what you think I am!" I grinned broadly, wanting to be sure he knew I was fooling, just as he was. But now I wanted to complete my confession. "Christian, I don't know if you can understand. I couldn't tell you...so...I watched. I felt so blessed, and in a way, I felt like I was really getting to know you. I think I was, actually, but I wish there'd been another way. I felt so bad about spying on you. I'm sorry."

Now, he shifted, rotating his bottom on my chest. He slid off me and turned side to me, with his legs dangling over the side of the bed. I had expected him to be cool about my confession, but I was suddenly worried that maybe it was more of an issue than I thought it would be. I put my hand out and stroked his back and shoulders. He sighed, but didn't pull away--for which I was relieved.

"Eli," he said softly. "Now..." He drew in a deep breath. "I have to tell you something." Suddenly my heart beat stronger with alarm. I felt a gnawing fear begin to grow in my belly. He twisted around to face me, and I saw a jumble of emotions: shame, uncertainty, fear. "I knew you were watching me. I wasn't positive...but I thought you were. One day when I was on my way back, I looked over at your house, and I could see your telescope aimed right where I'd been. I remember thinking, what if he's watching me! It made my thing...my penis...get hard. And so I sort of spied on you. I knew you came out of your house just before I'd go by, and as soon as I disappeared, you'd run inside. But you'd always be back outside when I came by. I wanted in the worst way to ask you...you know...if you'd seen me doin' it...but..." He reached out and put his hand on my hip. "...I was afraid, too. I figured you'd think I was a weirdo, and maybe even call my parents. I guess I'd rather just pretend you were watching. I even started to do stuff that I thought might get you...like...excited, so you'd have to...you know...say something to me...but you never did."

"Christian," I breathed, and I pulled him to me, and he came willingly, anxiously.

I kissed him on his cute button nose, and then, looking into his soft, ocean eyes, I kissed his expectant lips. His eyelids drifted shut as we kissed, and his body seemed to lose all its tension as our tongues sought out each other. I breathed in shaky breaths, and his shallow breaths echoed mine. Again, with his legs straddling my hip, I felt him hardening, and I'm sure he felt my stiffening manhood pressing into his thigh. I tried to break away, but his hungry mouth kept following, and finally, I managed to separate enough to speak. "You're getting hard," I said, and moved him so I could see him. It is miraculous: watching a boy's erection grow firmer and firmer until it rises up, throbbing with energy. Where an adult's points outward, a boy's erection, when sufficiently "motivated", lifts to a nearly vertical position. Though the reality may be rooted in physiology, I prefer to think this is testimony to the child's arousal. It suggests an intensity of emotion and sexual excitement rarely emulated by a grownup.

"No fair!" he practically squealed. "I wan'na see yours, too." With that, he scooted down, bringing his face to within inches of my lengthening, thickening cock. For the moment, his focus seemed to be on my testicles which were easily twice as big as his. I moaned slightly as he hefted them, feeling their weight. He seemed intrigued, gazing upon them as if comparing mine to his. His feather-light fingering of my balls only hastened my erection. Now, as my cock reached its zenith, his eyes refocused onto it, and unconsciously, he licked his lips. "You're...what's that word--circum..."

"Circumcised."

"Yeah," he said, focusing on my head, and when he couldn't think of any additional response: "Cool."

He now released my balls and grasped my hard-on. The mere touch of his soft, small hand, caused it to flex wildly, and it seemed to surprise him.

"He likes it! He likes it!" I said, eliciting another boyish grin from my boy.

He stroked me a few times causing groans each time. "It's harder without the extra skin," he said, sounding almost as if he were thinking out loud.

"Yeah, but I've managed alright--for some twenty three years."

The boy's eyes sparkled as he gazed on my tool. "It's sure big," he said. Do you think I'll be that big?"

"Who knows? Probably your best gauge is your dad. Is he big?"

He turned about three shades of red. "My dad!" I don't know! I've never seen his. Well, maybe once. He was just getting out of the shower, and I had to go real bad, but...he wasn't like...you know...hard. And I looked away fast." He swallowed. "Did you see your father like that?"

"Hard?" I asked.

Christian nodded. I could see the thought of a son seeing his father hard excited him.

"Yes, but I guess my family wasn't like most. My folks were very open. I was in their bed a lot growing up. I was allowed to see both my mom and dad naked. We all slept in the nude, and I know I sometimes walked in on them when they were making love, but they made it seem so natural, nobody was upset and yelling about getting out. Then when I was about eleven, my mom and dad had a talk with me. I was in bed with them, and the conversation basically went something like, 'I know you know about making love...you know that Mom and Dad make love right here in our bed. And when the time's right, we know you'll want to make love to someone you love, as well. But until that time, there's a way to give yourself pleasure.' Then my mom said, 'that's right, Eli, it's different for boys and girls, but each can give themselves pleasure in a way similar to the way two people give each other pleasure. Would you like to know how to do that, Eli?' I of course nodded yes! And so they proceeded to show me. My dad showed me his penis, and how he could make it get hard, and then he started to jerk off--with my mom providing commentary. My penis was hard by then, and they encouraged me to do what my dad was doing. It was unbelievable--the feelings! Then my dad actually finished me off. And I knew that I was glad my dad doing it instead of my mom. And I think that's the first time I knew I liked men better than women.

Christian's voice was just a whisper when he responded. "Just like I've discovered here...with you."

I smiled. "Oh, my love...," I said. I reached down and let my fingers play with the ends of his hair just behind his ear. "Mmmmmm....so sweet." I sighed, and we lay there unmoving.

"Eli?"

"Yeah?"

"It was cool how your mom and dad showed you stuff, but...um...I'm not sure I'd want my mom and dad doing that."

I nodded. "I understand." I continued stroking behind his ear.

Now he focused on my oozing cock and looked up. "I...want to..." He swallowed and was suddenly a shy little boy again. "...you know...to do it..."

"Do what, my love?"

"What you did to me. Like suck...you..."

My penis jumped at the thought. "Oh, Christian, that would be very nice."

"But, I don't know how."

"Just remember what I did, and try to do the same. Just do what you feel comfortable doing. And don't try to do too much--don't try to take too much into your mouth."

"Why?"

"Because your throat won't like it, and you could gag. It's no big deal, really. It's just sort of a little interruption. Basically, I guess...just go at your own speed."

"What does it taste like?"

"My penis?"

The boy nodded.

"It's clean, so it shouldn't have too much of a taste--maybe a little salty."

"What about your stuff?"

"My semen?"

"Yeah...like sperm?"

"Same thing. Sperm, semen, cum, jiz, juice, spend." He giggled at that, and his eyes sparkled. "Actually semen contains sperm from your testicles and other fluid from your prostate."

"My what?"

I smiled. "It's another organ. Inside you. It's what I pressed on just when you had your orgasm."

Christian's eyes grew wide and sparkled. "Wow...that was like...unbelievable!"

"Yeah...it's kind of sensitive."

"That's why you had your finger inside me?"

My boy was suddenly hungry for every bit of knowledge he could get.

"Partly...but just moving inside you can really be a turn on. Did you like it?"

"Awesome...but isn't it dirty?"

"You might think so, but not usually. Sometimes, but that's what tissues are for. It's worth it if it feels so awesome, don't you think?"

"Yeah. I'd like to do it again...if you want to."

"Then we will...maybe even with two fingers, ay."

His eyes got wide and he blushed. Then I could see something flood over him. "Eli, doesn't it hurt?"

"My fingers?"

"No, I mean...if you put...you know...your penis inside me."

"Christian, honey, when you're ready, it's not terrible. It hurts at first, I won't lie, but if we're careful, and you're relaxed and prepared, you'll get through the pain and the pleasure will overpower everything else."

He seemed to think about that for a while.

"Ever since I saw your magazines, I've dreamed about you putting your penis in me. It seems so strange, but it's like I have to do it."

"Then we will...but we're going to be sure you're ready...like they say, you have to crawl before you walk. We'll make sure you're ready. I want to make love to you...but...let's not rush. I don't want to hurt you...and there's lots I want to show you."

Christian smiled at that. It was clear he wanted to learn everything -beginning with the throbbing man-tool right in front of him. The boy again licked his lips, and leaned slowly in. I trembled at the thoughts of having a virgin mouth take me in. As he came closer, he was trembling as much as I was, and when he was less than an inch, I could see him sniff, to see if there was any odor. Apparently, I passed the test, because then he closed his eyes, and extended his tongue. It was pointy and a luscious red, and his action reminded me of a boy wanting to touch his tongue to a cold pipe in the winter--except I was anything but cold. Haltingly, he continued on, and soon I felt him on my glans. It was the lightest of soft, warm, wet touches, and a massive jolt of electricity surged through my cock and into my body. My penis throbbed, and it seemed almost to have frightened him for he momentarily lifted away--but only momentarily. Soon he had lowered himself again, exploring with his velvety organ of taste. I groaned, but he sighed a long, soft "ooohhhhh...."

Still using just the tip of his tongue, he moved around the glans. He drew his tongue around and up and down and across, and then broke away. "Am I doing it right?"

This was a big step for him. I think truthfully he wasn't convinced he could do this, and yet, he was committed to try.

"You're awesome, Christian. It's making me feel like I'm gonna' bust a nut anytime. You're so good. The only thing I'd suggest is to try using more of your tongue. Sometimes just the tip is awesome, especially if you're going to tease the slit--the opening--at the very tip, but sometimes using more of your tongue can drive your lover wild."

"Lover..." the boy murmured, and predictably blushed at the implications of the word. He looked down at my penis, then back into my eyes. "Your...um...top part is really soft--smooth."

I smiled. "It's called the cock head or just head. The medical name is glans. And--by the way--your tongue is really soft, too."

He beamed. "Glans," he repeated, and then, again closing his eyes, leaned in and touched the tip of his tongue to my head. Then as if melting into it, his warm, wet tongue extended outward and flooded over much more of my head. It seemed to curl naturally around perhaps half of my glans, and I heard him sigh, as he began to move more confidently over it. His actions were driving me wild, and I worked to keep to shooting right then and there.

He seemed driven by some deep need inside him, something which his body wasn't sure of. He trembled as he worked, but he quickly grew more adventurous, the effect of which was to draw me ever closer to his warm, wet mouth. Thus far, he'd only been using his tongue, but now I felt his lips join in the exploration with his tongue. When they first came in contact with me, he lightly kissed my head, lifted away, and stared, unblinking at the big, fat head that was just inches from his mouth. He studied it as if trying to decide if he could actually do what he so desperately wanted to do. I saw his expression change, as I had seen it change so often on the rocks. He'd come to a decision, and boldly--for such a novice--he leaned in and kissed it again, longer this time. He paused now, and I felt him change positions, scooting up to get a better angle.

My heart pounded in anticipation of what he was now contemplating. Growing even bolder, he leaned back down and placed a slurpy, hot kiss right on the tip of my cock. He even had a slight suckling action, much like a new-born infant, as he begins to learn to nurse. He held his lips there, making the subtle sucking action. "Mmmm....yessss..." I encouraged. Then his tongue poked through his lips and touch down right on my piss slit. A groan tore from my throat. He was insistent, wriggling the sweet tip of his tongue until I felt it part my slit, and try to burrow into it. A pulse of electricity shot through me, and my cock flexed hard, causing Christian to almost lose me. But he held on, and actually, to stay in contact, he--whether by accident or design, pressed onto me more, sliding his lips further around my head and opening his mouth. "Oh, Chris!" I groaned again, and again feared I would come any instant. I wanted to pull away, however, if I did that, Christian might see it as some sort of disapproval, and so I risked the consequences. I bore down, tightening every muscle I could in an effort to delay the inevitable.

He took more of me, then pulled back, paused, and lowered himself onto me again. His mouth drooled saliva and I could feel it draining down my cock and pooling in my hair. He made soft slurping sounds as he worked me. I think he was simply trying to convince himself that he could take my tool into his mouth, but the effect was mind-blowing. He was--apparently--a natural-born cocksucker. "Ooohhh....Christian," I moaned, "...that is sooo awesome..."

He pulled off me, and looked up, but his hand began stroking my saliva-drenched tool. As he gazed up at me his handwork seemed almost absentminded, but its effect was to keep me right on the edge. "Am I...doing it...you know...okay?"

"Oh God, Christian...yes...you're incredible."

He flashed an embarrassed smile for just an instant and then--wheels turning in that beautiful head--grew serious. "Eli, what should I do when you shoot?"

It was an effort for me to talk. "You can either pull off just before I ejaculate..."--he blushed at that clinical word--"...and finish me by hand--like you're doing now..."--I managed a tortured grin--"or...you can try sucking me off and taking it in your mouth. Have you ever tasted sperm before?"

"Once...my own stuff--just a little." Ahh, yes, I remember the moment; it was hardly a taste. It was a delightful warm fall day, and--as usual--he was stretched out, naked on the rocks. Small puddles of boy-come had just splattered on his belly and chest--and his hand had just slowed and was now squeezing his softening tool. He had craned his neck, stretching every tendon in that delightful part of his anatomy, and he gazed down at his spend. He carefully dipped the tip of his index finger in it. When he lifted it away, a long string stretched from the semen to his finger tip. Then the string broke and a thin drool remained in his finger. He studied it a moment, drew it over his face, smelled it, then carefully extended his tongue and tasted it. I could see him shaking as he dipped the finger further into his mouth. Oh my sweet boy! As I watched, I almost shot myself.

"Well, it's probably not a lot different," I said. "Mine may be saltier and there'll be more of it, I can tell you that much. You can try it. If you don't like it, you can spit it out."

He seemed to think about that for a while, and then shrugged and looked back down at my throbbing cock. Suddenly he reached down and squeezed, then stroked his own achingly hard tool. He shuddered when he did that. Then he dropped back onto my penis like he needed it to survive. After a few more minutes of real mouth fucking, I knew of was ready to explode at any instant.

"Christian," I stammered. "You're too good...I'm going to come very soon. You want me to come in your mouth?"

His answer was to go down on me further than he'd even gone before. He sucked down hard. I'm sure he felt my penis swell and as my body prepared for a massive ejaculation, muscles everywhere tightened, and I lifted up off the bed. I held tightly onto his head.

My buttocks clenched, and I drove my tool deeper into the boy's throat. "Aaaahhhh," I groaned, and then an earthshaking spasm struck, and I shook violently as my semen rocketed into the boy's throat. He reacted like he'd been shot. No amount of talk can prepare a boy for his first blast of hot, thick, man come. He pulled back quickly, pulling another blast, but this one hitting him in his mouth. His tongue swirled around my tip, and I shot again...and again...and again...and.... In all, I must have shot ten times. Each time--at least for the first six or so--Christian would make his own little grunt, as if the hot lead blasts of my juices surprised him. I looked down at my sweet, lovely boy. He was valiantly trying to swallow it, but I'd filled him quickly, and it was a lot to take in for a novice. After the first few bolts, I grew worried--even in my dazed orgasmic state--and tried to push him off me, but he moaned, and held tight, letting me know he wanted this. He looked up at me, and I could see his eyes were watering. I had the impression he hadn't yet swallowed, and yet, this was his moment. He had possessed me, and he wanted nothing to limit that. He'd done this to his man--his lover--and he wanted to literally savour the moment. Then deliberately he swallowed once, twice, three times. He looked back up at me with eyes wet with tears, and a small smile stretched his lips--still a vibrant red from the sucking.

He had drained me, and slowly, I settled back to earth. He kept his mouth sealed tightly around my cock, but as it began to soften, slowly--reluctantly--he let it slip from his mouth. Then he scrambled up my body, snuggling with me. I believe he was as exhausted as I was.

After several minutes passed, he seemed to come around; he rolled over, and grabbed the DVD remote. He lay on my body feeling as light as a feather. As we watched the conclusion of the video, he sighed, rubbing his hands up and down my sides. The man on the screen was preparing the boy's anus for sex. Christian was riveted to the unfolding scene.

"I want to do that," Christian murmured, sounding almost like he was awaking from a dream.

"And we will, my love," I said. "Very soon." I reached down, and stroked his bottom briefly. Then my hands found his boyhood and his nipples. As he watched the man begin to take the boy, my boy was already throbbing with hardness, and when the man finally slid deeply into the boy, I almost had to hold Christian to keep him from wriggling off me. His breathing, his stiffening body--everything--told me he was ready to ejaculate yet again. This time I simply reached down and began jacking him, and as the video boy's groans built, so did Christian's. Finally, the man slammed his cock deep into the boy and moaned loudly. (Who does that really? Well...except for Christian and me!) Then, after a seizure-like contraction that made the man shudder, and shook the boy as well, he pulled out and the picture changed to a close up of the boy's pert bottom and back, and blast after blast of the man's semen sprayed over that tight, beautiful butt and the space just above it. At the same time Christian stiffened under my actions, and now he groaned, and bucked and spurted his own fountain of boy-come. His beautiful bottom had clenched tightly, and as his ejaculation passed, I felt it relax and melt into my belly. Now I heard snuffling, and I realized he was crying. I held onto his tightly, comforting him, soothing him. "There, there, Christian, it's okay. You'll be alright." I knew that was true, and so did he. He was simply overwhelmed with the sensations of the day. He needed time to process all he'd experienced.

"Eli?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I love you," he said.

"I know, my love," I breathed. "I love you, too--from the very first time you climbed down onto those rocks."

Far out to sea there had been a storm--far beyond our seeing--and now, below my home, the cold Atlantic waters pounded the granite boulders that formed Christian's "fort." In the distance, we could hear the waves surging up against them. My boy, my love, stretched his beautiful neck up and his lips met mine. He closed his eyes. I gazed down upon his perfection. Together we held each other and listened to the pounding surf--the echoes of our shared passion.