Date: Tue, 07 Nov 2017 22:36:28 -0500
From: Sam Johnson <samjohnson665@protonmail.com>
Subject: Boy Story

Boy Story
by Sam Johnson


If I was to rank the many boys it has my great privilege to know, Cody
would easily make the top three and maybe even challenge for top
spot. Thirteen years old, short dark hair that had a softness to match his
dark liquid eyes, and a budding boy-form that sculptors in more enlightened
times would've blunted their steely chisels on.

The first two days on the beach were slow going. Cody had a shyness that
was both sharply attractive and a danger to any real progress. And his mum
hovered watchfully, peering over her shades -- who was this 28 year-old-man
constantly chatting to her boy? Was he a danger? So I had to put in some
quality time there.

Talking to Cody, but loud enough for her to hear, I explained my situation.
I had borrowed a friend's beachside apartment for a six week stint of
writing. Time to get serious about making a mark on literature as I'd
always dreamed. Cody's mum was first interested, asking some questions,
both literary and personal, and was finally, cautiously, satisfied. She
began leaving us alone, turning her attention more towards Cody's elder
sister on her other side.

The boy, unsurprisingly, had little interest in matters of writing and I
was glad to drop it. Getting him to move past polite monosyllables was a
challenge, though. It was only late on the second day, when I bumped into
him on the way back from a swim, that we hit a few good patches, the boy
chattering more freely about surf conditions, schoolyard politics.

Whether he knew, in the beginning, that my interest had a sexual component,
is hard to say. Innocent boys like Cody, I think, can know it without being
fully conscious of it, if that's not being too subtle. Certainly he had a
self-consciousness about showing his upper body, it's first tender glow of
development -- that is, on the few short occasions his mum allowed him to
expose it to the perilous sun. He had a carefulness in how he held himself,
whether sitting, lying, slouching, or walking to the kiosk. Whatever his
conscious thoughts, at an instinctual level he knew he was now hot-bed of
hormonal signals. That sort of stirred awareness doesn't miss much when it
comes to others looking at them.

But after two days, after falling for him utterly, I still believed it was
odds-on we'd take things no further. He seemed to be sticking fairly
stubbornly to his boyish reserve, friendly but always a bit distant.

So it was a very pleasant surprise when, on the third day, things finally
shifted gears. I'd arrived at the beach a little after ten, deciding I
wouldn't go and sit directly beside the boy today -- didn't want to be too
obvious -- change things up a bit. I would settle down with a good book a
few spaces over, see if there was any sign of the boy looking out for his
fledgling new friend, then, casually notice him and say Hi, well, what do
you know...etc.

But Cody and co. were nowhere to be seen, dammit. I sat on the beach for
another hour an a half, starting to curse my craven infatuation. Here I was
wasting hours -- days -- of precious writing time, all on the off chance I
might get to say "So, how about them stingrays," to a boy who might, if I
was lucky, give and nod and a smile.

I was on the point of giving up and going home (certainly I wouldn't have
stayed more than five hours more at the most), when suddenly his feet were
kicking up sand beside me. "You ever used one of these?"

Cody was here on his own -- I could tell before I looked up, just from his
tone of voice -- in his standard T-shirt and board shorts, and holding a
tatty little foam boogie board.

I got to my feet, taking it from him. "This is one sad little piece of
shit, Cody," I said.

"Yeah, it's crappy, I know, but it's the only --"

"I'm only joking -- great idea, buddy." I threw The Sun Also Rises back on
my towel. Literature was for fairies, anyway. "Let's go."

He dropped his towel and canvas bag beside mine and was set.

I paused a moment. "Don't you want to take your T-shirt off first?"

"Um, well, Mum says I should wear it -- especially between ten and two."

His mum was a nice woman, but she really needed to back off a bit. I
scanned the beach, well-populated but not over-crowded. "I need to confirm
that with your mum," I said.

"She's not here."

"Oh. Well, that makes me the responsible adult around here -- you have to
do what I say."

"Ha! I come here heaps on my own and do whatever I like."

I didn't believe that for a second -- I'd have seen him the split-second he
set foot on this two mile stretch of clean, packed sand."

"Are you wearing sunscreen?"

"Yeah."

"Then lose the T-shirt -- only girls and ugly people should wear anything
more than a pair of speedos on the beach."

"So where's your T-shirt?" he shot back with a challenging grin --
definitely his first moment of relaxing into things a bit.

I feigned as if to clip him over the ear and he ducked away exaggeratedly,
but then quickly hauled his T-shirt up over his head. As he dropped it on
his towel, I said, "Much better -- seriously, bud, you really shouldn't
miss any opportunities to show off a body like that."

He gave a slightly startled laugh, a hand hovering self-consciously about
his midriff. He mumbled something about skin cancer then grabbed the boogie
board from me and took off for the water.

I'm a writer, so I should amend my use of the word "spectacular". It
doesn't quite cut it. I'd been cautious in speaking truth to power. The boy
was painfully sweet and sublime: neat, slim with a good healthy hint of his
first pubescent development. He'd also managed some stolen kisses from
Apollo along the way, a subtle golden glow to his smooth skin. Trying hard
not to feel too much like Aschenbach from Death in Venice, I quickly
followed him to the water.

It really was a hopeless little boogie board, made for little kids. But the
splashing around we did with it, about waist-deep, trying to catch these
rough little dregs of waves, was a riotous, sexy hoot. I got physical with
the boy and he responded enthusiastically, trying to help launch each other
on the incoming waves, dragging each other up from another dumping, and
generally wrestling about for no good reason at all.

It's often the case with boys that age -- in a purely verbal, social
situation, they struggle, but get them into a bit of good honest horseplay
and they become angels of exuberance, free-wheeling in their
self-expression.

It also helped clarify things between us, again without the need for
tedious, clunky words: I fancied him, big time, and he genuinely liked the
attention. Nothing more, nothing less. Just fun, really. Of course, no
sooner had I reached this wonderful plateau, amid the frothing waves and
lusty shouts, than I was in an agony of wondering if we would go further.

At one stage, as I grabbed Cody's hips to shove him onto the next wave, he
turned his smiling face to me and said, "I don't need to take my bathers
off as well."

I gave him a quizzical look, but he just laughed and quickly splashed his
way into the swamping wave. His "bathers" were the standard grotesquely
over-sized board-shorts, bright orange and aqua blue, and they did indeed
need to come off...but I hadn't remotely tried any funny business like
that. This boy demanded a fairly innocent style of wooing -- anything too
confronting would see him skittering away, never to be seen again. But I
also sensed, not too far below, a definite willingness to play. Divining
what boys do and don't want is an art form I study seriously -- although
the practice is full of so many pitfalls and ambiguities, a man could go
mad or, worse, start writing poetry.

We must have been out there for almost two hours, before we staggered our
way back to our towels. As we dried off, Cody says, flicking a glance at
me, "I better put my T-shirt back on."

Ah, sunlit moment! -- he was baiting me, teasing me, telling me I could no
longer gaze upon his beautiful, budding form.

So I bit into his game with relish. "No, sorry, that won't be happening."

"Ha! Why not?"

I gestured round the beach. "How many people would you say are here?"

He shrugged, looking around. "Fifty?"

"Closer to a hundred. And when we were splashing around out there, every
single one of 'em was checking you out -- except maybe the two lesbians
over there."

"Bullshit!" He loved it. "Maybe they were checking you out."

"Cody," I said seriously. "We're at a public beach, not an insane
asylum. Give these people a break -- let a little beauty into their dreary
work-a-day lives."

He was reaching down to his canvas bag -- and stood back up with a plastic
bottle of sunscreen lotion.

"Is it okay if I put some sunscreen on?"

I considered it, and decided I could live with the idea.

As he started to apply the white cream to his chest, neck, shoulders, he
said, "Where are the lesbians?"

I'd made that up, but I quickly picked out a couple of sexy, bikini-clad
girls. "Those two over there."

"Bullshit!" He took quick looks at them. "Really?"

"Oh yeah, more lesbo than all the fish in the ocean."

"How can you tell?"

I'd clearly hit a little pay dirt here. "Here, give it to me," I said,
reaching for the bottle of suntan lotion. "Lie down on your towel -- I'll
do your back."

He happily complied, but wouldn't be diverted from his subject. "How can
you tell they're lesbians, Ben?"

I straddled the boy, a knee either side of his slim hips, and squirted a
thick line of cream down the slender track of his spine. Calmly accepting
the electric shocks as I ran my hands across his taut frame, I said, "They
were here last week, before school holidays, when there was no one around
-- and they went topless -- and you could tell they were lesbians by the
way they were rubbing lotion on each other's breasts --"

"Bullshit!" the boy exploded, looking open-mouthed over at them, then
wrenching his head around to look at me, see if I was having him on. "That
never happened!"

"As God is my witness," I said. I mean, I may have been confusing those two
nice girls on the beach with a video I saw on the internet, but it was true
enough in a general sense.

And suddenly a whole new field was opened before us. The boy wanted to talk
about girls and sex and every mystery in between.

I'd finished applying the sunscreen, but I stayed above him, gently
massaging his firm tenderness, the sensitive flutter of his ribcage, his
neck and shoulders, so boyish and vital and vulnerable, and the lad easing
carefully but a little blissfully into it. Until, with a bit more silly
lesbo banter, his small hips began making subtle moves, pressing down on
his trapped arousal.

"Three weeks ago -- a girl wanked me off!" he suddenly blurted.

"You dog!" It was my turn to be somewhat agog. "How did that happen?" I
casually asked.

"The teacher nearly caught us -- I got jizz on my shirt!"

"Okay, I need full details, Cody -- I didn't know I was hanging out with a
wild man." I pressed my thumbs either side of his spine, up between his
gently jutting shoulder blades, getting a small shudder from him, a tighter
grind of his hips into his towel and firm-packed sand.

The story spilled out of him in the over-excited way of boys. "It was at
morning recess -- behind the Arts Building. Me and Daniel -- these two
girls came up to us, Annabel and Fiona, and they said do we wanna see their
tits -- ha, Fiona has real big ones -- and we went behind the Arts Building
-- it's out of bounds -- and they said they were having a competition with
these other girls -- who could wank off the most number of boys."

I ran my hands down his ticklish sides to his hips, pressed as he pressed,
felt his boy-tension. "Was that true -- were they really having a
competition?"

"Yeah...shit," he muttered.

"You're cool, buddy," I said. "No one can see." We did have a bit of space
around us, but I must admit I was getting a little worried at how quickly
this was ramping up.

"Everyone was talking about it," he continued. "They got caught the last
day before the holidays -- and the cops were there and everything -- it was
in the newspaper."

"Did you get in trouble?"

He shook his head. "Only some of the older boys, in Year 10 -- they're in
big trouble."

"So the hand-job -- it was good?"

He laughed. "Yeah..." he said a bit uncertainly. "It was weird...I mean, it
was cool, but...everyone says they're sluts, those girls, so, anyway..."

It was hard to gauge his true feelings here, mainly because he obviously
wasn't sure himself.

I gave his hips another playful shove at sand. "So did you get to see
Fiona's tits?"

"No!" the boy shouted, loud enough to make a couple nearby look over. "And
that was the main thing! They just...we just, you know, I just stuck it out
through my fly and Fiona wanked it."

"What? She didn't even kiss it, have a bit of a suck on it?"

The boy gave a little yip, laughing and shaking his head and burying it in
his arms brought up as a pillow, stretching his lithe form into an
feathered tracing of achingly sublime perfection.

I continued on: "Maybe this girl has mental problems -- seems pretty
strange -- she must have at least played with your ass a bit?" I pressed
the heels of my hands into the firm mounds of his little butt.

"No! Jesus, Ben..." He laughed some more, giving the sand a concerted
grind, then lifted his head to look over at the two "lesbians". "Did they
really rub stuff on each other's tits?"

The boy just wanted what thirteen-year-old straight boys generally want --
some nice titties to look at, to help stoke his still-whimsical fires. I've
got some doubts about today's hypersexualised culture, where straights and
gays are supposed to follow their separate, preordained sexual paths from
cradle to grave. Give these straight boys a break -- let 'em cavort in the
brief window of homo-sex-play that nature provides between the twin towers
of Mother and Wife. I know aging, happily married men, pillars of the
community, who still retain fond, important memories of such times. Art,
Science and Philosophy are similarly beholden to these youthful capers,
these evanescent hints of the divine.

I gave his gorgeous ass a firm pat and moved off onto my own towel,
resisting the urge to mimic the boy's beach-grinding routine. I said,
"Yeah, they were naughty girls, those two -- a bit of rubbing, some biting
too, I think -- oh yeah, and they also started wrestling at one point,
trying to rip each other's panties off."

The boy let out a startlingly loud yelp of, "They did not!" Then he
suddenly planted his hands, raised his torso up, looking down at
himself. Board shorts are bloody great blank canvases of things, but there
was no mistaking the jut of his excited boyhood. He adjusted himself,
flicking a glance at me, another significant moment of display.

I didn't seriously consider reaching for him, not here in the blazing
public sunshine, but it did nearly kill me not to.

Lying back down, burying his head again in his arms, showing a smooth
armpit, wafting a hint of his surf-scrubbed scent, he said with a little
laugh, "When I shot my jizz, she got real pissed off."

"Ah, we're back to Fiona's handjob?"

"Mm."

"Why on earth was she pissed off -- I thought that was the idea, with the
competition?"

"She said it was too quick, I should have warned her." He ducked his head a
bit further, so his voice was muffled. "It went all on the sleeve of her
jumper."

I cracked up at that. Those who come to play with a boy had better come
prepared. "That's beautiful, Cody -- now I'm really impressed."

"Why?" he laughed. "She wiped it all on my shirt -- and I didn't have a
jumper to wear."

I suddenly got serious. "Jesus, that could have been dangerous."

"Huh? Why?"

"Cody, a boy's semen is a very powerful intoxicant -- you're lucky half the
school didn't tie you down and fuck you."

"Ha! You talk a load of shit, Ben -- like the lesbo's -- they never showed
their tits, did they?"

I got up on one elbow and looked at him. "Speaking of things getting
dangerous -- I think we probably should head over to my apartment and --"

"Cody!"

The boy's head spun -- his mum was standing near the grassy entrance to the
beach, dressed in town clothes. She pointed theatrically to her watch and
called, "Come on, we're late -- we have to get going!" I gave her a wave
which she returned with a not unfriendly smile.

Cody's mum went up in my estimation. She could just as easily have snuck up
from behind, to see what she could see. No wonder the boy was developing
such a fine character. He jumped to his feet, grabbing up his things,
making some final adjustments to his still-prominent boyhood. "I forgot --
I better get going -- we gotta visit Grandma."

Dear God, these matriarchs never quit, do they, with their sixth senses and
white picket fences.

I also scrambled for my bag, quickly wrote my address on a slip of
paper. "Take this," I said.

He grabbed it. "What is it?"

"My address." I turned and pointed at a six storey block of
apartments. "I'm on the second floor, number 12."

"Ah...I'm not...I don't really think..."

"It's just so you know where I live."

"Mm."

I really shouldn't have barrelled down this path, but I wasn't going to
stop now. "Cody, it's pretty obvious, I think you're amazing and I like
hanging out with you. You ever want to drop in, for a chat, play a video
game, whatever, you're more than welcome. Or we can just hang out here
whenever we meet -- whatever you reckon, okay."

"Mm." He couldn't stop a silly grin. "Thanks, Ben...I'll probably --"

Mum again: "Cody! Seriously! We have to go right NOW!"

And he was off, running across the sand, trying to get his T-shirt on as he
went.

When he was half-way to his mum, I yelled, "Just remember not to wear that
shirt!"

He turned to give me a quizzical look.

"The dangerous one!"

Half a beat, and he twigged. Having already moved so far back into Mummy's
world, it caused him quite a blush. He made an awkward wave, and was gone.

I lay back down and buried my head. Thanks, Ben...I'll probably...

I'll probably...

I'll probably...

Probably what, Goddamn it?

No probably about it. This kid was going to kill me.

* * *

The next morning I decided not to go to the beach. I wasn't playing games
-- I really did need to get some writing done, and I felt giving the boy
some space after yesterday wouldn't hurt. We'd blasted past my highest
hopes, so a pause wouldn't hurt. I wasn't in this for some quick belt-notch
in a boy-wank competition.

And, surprisingly, I got some writing done. So much so, when there was a
knock at the door just after 11.30, it took me a full three-quarters of a
second before my heart bounded at who it could be.

"Cody, hi," I said, with a pleasantly surprised smile.

He was in the usual board shorts and salmon-pink T-shirt, and had regained
a fair measure of his shyness. "Hi, Ben. I just -- I forgot my boogie board
-- have you got it?"

"Sure, come in, buddy, I'll get it."

He followed me through to the living area -- a neat, bright, airy room, in
the way of standard beachside apartments.

"You want a coke? A coffee?"

He shook his head. "I just -- Mum wanted me to get the board..."

"What, it's a family heirloom?"

He laughed, but back in his polite way.

I went and got it from beside the couch, handed it to him. "You don't want
to hang out for a bit, have a chat?"

"Nah, I have to get back. How come you're not at the beach?"

"I'm supposed to be on a working holiday," I said, pointing at the laptop
on the glass-top dining table.

"You're writing?" he asked.

"That's the great hope."

"What, like, a book?"

"I write novels that explore the human condition in profound and original
ways that don't get published."

"I have to write a story before school starts," he said, obviously
nonplussed by the idea.

"Well if you want a hand, just yell out."

"Nah -- I'll do it when we go home -- I hate English."

"But Cody," I protested facetiously, "writing is a great way to explore
your emotions, to unpack the deepest secrets of your heart, get in touch
with your true feelings..."

"You sound like Mrs. Leibowitz -- I hate that stuff! She makes us read
poetry out loud in class."

"Which poets?"

The boy shrugged. "Dunno -- boring ones."

I made a now standard faux-swipe at the boy's head, getting just a feathery
touch of his neat dark hair. "You're just afraid to let the love in, Cody."

"Yeah, right," he scoffed. And we talked on for a bit, the boy quickly
getting back to yesterday's level of ease. Until he suddenly said, "Shit, I
better go."

At the door, he said, "Are you going to the beach tomorrow?"

"Maybe later in the day -- I'm actually on a bit of a roll with the
writing."

"Cos Mum and Claire are going shopping tomorrow and Mum doesn't like me
going there on my own."

I could easily have asked why, then, he'd come down to the beach on his own
yesterday, but I didn't -- the fact he was angling to get us together was a
rare gem not to be tampered with. Besides, using his mum as a convenient
safety net was entirely his prerogative. I said, "Ah, I get it -- she
doesn't trust you around those lesbos..."

"Who weren't even lesbos! I know that was all bullshit."

"Hey, c'mon, I'm a writer -- imagining sweet sexy scenarios is my stock in
trade."

A bit of fun, lewd banter followed, the boy jumping on it like a pup on a
slipper.

Right there at the door, right as he was leaving, his boy-fire was just
starting to ignite. Cruelty has always been Cupid's most reliable quiver.

But I had nothing to complain about. We did agree Cody would come to my
place at around ten tomorrow, and we'd head to the beach from there.

* * *

Three minutes to ten, he arrived. Even his punctuality was
adorable. Manners, modesty, honesty -- all these qualities take on an
erotic charge when appearing in a beautiful boy. Surprisingly, though, he
was dressed in blue jeans and a quite breath-taking black singlet top -- a
little beginner's muscle-tee. He didn't have muscles as such, but the firm
hints of his future shoulders and chest were exquisitely set off.

"I can't go to the beach," he announced glumly.

"Mum's orders?"

He nodded as he came through to the living area.

"So she doesn't trust me to look out for you?"

He didn't answer for a bit. "I didn't tell her we were meeting up."

"Oh. She doesn't like the idea of us being friends?"

"No, it's not that -- she likes you -- she said."

"So why didn't you tell her?"

He just shrugged. Obviously he'd decided it wasn't to be fully her
business.

"Well, anyway," I said, "we can hang out here, or go down the street -- you
want to see a movie?"

He was looking round the room, at the cane lounge suite and matching coffee
table, the television in the corner by the floor-to-ceiling glass door and
windows that led onto the private balcony. "Did you say you had some video
games?"

"I've got an X-box somewhere -- actually, that's not a bad idea. You do
that -- it's in the spare bedroom up the front -- and I'll get a bit more
writing done."

So he did. Got the console set up, clambering about expertly with the leads
and power cord, then sorting through the disks to choose some garish
fantasy world that I could never pick from another.

If I got a full sentence written, I doubt it was much good. Cody's
constant, Hey Ben's, took full and complete precedence, as he informed me
of the finer points of his skill and strategy, along with any random
thoughts that came and went like swooping swallows, all the while twisting
and slouching on the couch in that uniquely boyish combination of lethargy
and antsy energy. At one stage he kicked off his sneakers and I really had
to tell myself not to be such a fool, taking such a serious time-out to
admire his white socks.

Until I rose from the table, saying, "Time to eat. You want a toasted
sandwich?"

"Ah, yeah, thanks."

As I got the stuff out, Cody tossed the game-controller aside and came
over. After a languid stretch and yawn, he smiled that little smile of
his... "Do you really write sex stories?"

"Not professionally. But if I'm ever struggling with a novel, I write a few
porn stories to get the creative juices flowing."

"Porn stories!" the boy hooted. "Like what? Like those two lesbos?"

Man, when this boy got a sexy thought, he didn't let it go.

"Nah. More like, there's this hot young stud in a black muscle-shirt, and
he's goes down the beach one day, and he finds this real sexy babe, and her
tits are so big, her little bikini top just won't stay on properly..."

"...yeah, and then what happens?"

I fleshed out some teasing details, bouncing breasts -- oops, sorry Ma'am,
I slipped...

He was on the opposite side of the island bench, leaning forward on the
heels of his hands and, quite unconsciously, he'd started bumping his
boyhood on the edge.

"So come on -- help me out here," I said. "It's your story."

He smiled, obviously thinking about it. Then he said, "Ben, are you gay?"

"I'm attracted to women and boys -- a very old-fashioned sort of
bisexuality."

"I'm straight," he said.

"I did get that impression," I said. "So, straight boy, what happens on the
beach, with the babe?"

He laughed, loving it, cheeks colouring. "I'd just rape her, probably," he
said, trying so sweetly to be outrageous.

"Whoa! Straight to the hard-core -- I love it!" I got two ham, cheese and
tomato sandwiches into the machine and pressed it shut.

Cody, still leaning forward, occasionally going bump-bump on the bench,
said, "What's another porn story?"

"About a babe on the beach?"

"Or the other one you said -- about with a boy."

"Well, first I'd unzip his jeans and pull them down..."

"Ha! And his undies and T-shirt -- so he's totally stripped off."

"Not so fast! Whose story is this?"

He waited, eyes lit up, impatient.

"No," I continued. "First I'd probably feel his hot hard cock in his undies
-- play with it and rub it a bit so he got real excited and nearly cum in
his pants --"

"That's sick!" he hooted, and pushed back off the bench and returned to
couch, then turned and came straight back over. His jeans were a snug fit
and there was a gentle bump indicating his hardness.

"Do you look at much porn on the internet?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "The computer at home's in the living room. And the
teachers at school reckon they can tell."

"Tell what?"

"If you click on porn -- Mum or someone can tell you've done it. I looked
at some at Daniel's place once."

"Successfully?"

"How do you mean?"

"Did you jerk off to it?"

"No!" He seemed genuinely shocked at the idea. "Daniel was there! I
wouldn't wank in front of him."

I winked at him. "You would in my story."

"Gross, Ben!"

The sandwiches were ready, I got them on a plate and, along with a couple
of cokes, we sat down at the table.

Understandably, Cody asked if we might look at some porn on my computer,
but I lied and told him I didn't have an internet connection. There's
nothing easier than joining a thirteen-year-old boy in some sex-play in
front of some porn, but I was hoping we could do better than that. Besides,
the stuff on the internet is too coarse, too bludgeoning of a boy's first
tender heat.

The breaking of bread worked to re-civilise us for the moment -- the boy
suddenly realising he was starving, wolfing down a second one no worries --
and talk tended to more mundane matters. I found out Cody was going to be
here for another eight days, which was as good as could be expected, but
painfully brief. We lived in different towns and while I'd happily make
regular three-hour drives to see him, it wasn't going to have the
close-friend quality that comes from regular day-to-day contact.

After clearing the table -- Cody having helped with another unprompted
display of his adorable good manners -- I sat back at my laptop. "Now, back
to the story."

"Ha! Which one?" He was sitting opposite me, elbows on the table, roaming
his hands around on the glass table-top. I liked the look in his eye -- as
though he might jump across the table to try and hump the amorphous sexy
vibe that kept appearing out of thin air.

"I'm actually thinking of your English project -- the story you have to
write."

"What, write a porn story for it?" he laughed.

"Yes."

"Shit, Ben -- write a story about how I ripped a girl's clothes off on the
beach -- I'd get expelled!"

"Or Mrs. Leibowitz might ask you out on a date."

"Gross!"

"No, here's what I mean. You write a story -- the dirtiest story you can
think of -- based on the dirtiest sex-fantasies you have -- then you turn
that into a nice, neat, clean story that'll get you full marks at
school. That's the way I use my porn stories to help me when I'm stuck."

He thought this ridiculous, hilarious -- and not a little bit hot, judging
by the hand now making occasional adjustments under the table.

"Come on, at the very least it'll be a good laugh. Now, what's the dirtiest
fantasy about girls that you have?"

"I don't have any fantasies," he said, still teetering just shy of jumping
in.

"Don't lie. The moment I asked you about the babe on the beach you said
you'd rape her, you dirty bastard."

"Ha! Well, yeah, I wouldn't really."

"I realise that, Cody -- that's why it's called a fantasy."

"Do you have sick fantasies?"

"Shit yeah. Although probably not as sick as when I was your age -- Jesus I
had this one about tying girls up and --"

"I do that one!" he yelped. "A girl gets tied up against one of the posts
at the school gate."

"Bingo! Excellent." I started typing. "Okay, details: any particular girl?"

Despite a deepening blush, he didn't hesitate. "Jasmine, mostly."

"Sexy name. Good. What does she look like?"

"Ah, well, she's short and she's got blonde hair, down to about here" --
indicating just below his shoulder -- "and she's sorta real pretty."

I was typing away and the boy was virtually climbing onto the table to peer
over at the screen, half-expecting, I think, to see some lurid sex act
taking place on my keyboard. He didn't have a lot to give me. Just tied
this girl up, ripped off all her clothes, and felt her up. Job done. But it
was something to watch how excited the boy got, telling me these
things. "And another one," he blurted. "Mr. Selwyn makes all the girls take
their clothes off in class and..." And on and on, basically repeating his
one favourite motif. A girl forced to undress and unable to stop the boy
feeling her up. I was a little surprised at the innocence of his fantasies,
but I guess having no access to porn or actual experience, he wasn't able
to take it any further yet.

But it sure worked to arouse him. As he chortled on, randy as a spring
buck, he came round beside me, saying "Lemme see," and reading my work --
which I made easily accessible with a nice big bold font size. And I
fleshed out his stories a little, added in some detail, hard nipples,
little bites of her soft breasts, cries of pleasure-pain, which the boy
read out loud, laughing, gulping, jostling against my shoulder, making some
lewd suggestions, squeezing his boyhood through his denim jeans. Until he
found a little move he liked, bumping his boy-package into the side of my
arm -- I shot a look at him -- he wasn't really conscious of what he was
doing, his attention fixed on the screen, on relishing the story
details. My own arousal was threating to top the boy's but his playful
cavorting was so hot I stayed put and typed.

When I began describing how the boy spread the girls legs apart and began
to feel her, slide his finger into her soft tight wet little slit, and got
his own hard cock out to stick in her, his laughter tapered off a bit and I
heard him say under his breath, "Fuck, Ben...Jesus." With a frown of sharp
discomfort he pushed at his trapped cock. Then, still in an unaware sexy
dream state, he undid the button of his jeans, tugged the zipper down a
bit, let his savagely stiff little boy-cock stick out in his undies -- the
royal blue boxer-briefs had a bit of play in them and allowed a nice rude
tent to spring out between the spread fly of his jeans. The little dot of
wetness where his squashed knob strained against the undies threatened to
bring us both undone.

We pressed on, the boy now jabbing his stiff cock at my arm, which I tried
to angle to best help him, the boy shifting his stance a little to find a
rub that felt best. I noticed he wasn't reading the screen now, wasn't
talking or laughing, suddenly just concentrating on rubbing his cock on me,
one hand on my shoulder now -- God, he was like some exuberant puppy
humping his master's leg, and heaven help anyone who tried to stop him!

Until he said in a bit of a croaky voice, "Do that other one, Ben."

"What other one?" I said.

"That one, you know, that story you said, what you do with a boy..."

Oh I was cruel bastard, because I said, "Ah, you mean the one where we go
out for a pizza?"

It brought a flash of frustrated smile in the midst his frowsy sex
heat. "Fuck, Ben...you said it before, you know, when you take his pants
off..."

"But in that one I do really filthy things to his cock."

"Uh, yeah, that one," he said, with a sweet hint of pleading. But when he
added, so softly, "Please..." all games were done with.

"Take your shirt off," I said, turning the chair from screen to boy.

He quickly hauled it up over his head -- always a special moment with a
boy, the sexual display of his sublime young form, arms raised to show
smooth armpits slick with sex-tangy perspiration. But this lad was in a
hurry and the moment flashed by as his black T-shirt was flung aside.

I hooked a finger in a belt-loop of his jeans and tugged him forward to me,
white socks shuffling across the white tiles. Then I firmly yanked his
jeans down, wobbling the boy a bit so he threw out an arm to stay
balanced. Then hooked his undies, pulling the band out and then down,
rushing the soft cotton down his smooth legs to puddle with his pants
around his ankles.

His boy-cock sprang out and up, quivering like a little life-divining rod,
and, quicker than a compass needle, pointed straight up to heaven. We both
looked at his exposed heat as he made a few involuntary sex-clenches,
bucking his stiffy up like a cartoon advertisement of his need to
ejaculate.

And he would ejaculate, certainly. His balls had some weight and the
ticklish beginnings of his pubic hair told the world he was here.

I leant forward to take him in my mouth -- put my hands on his little butt
and encouraged him to plunge himself fully into my wet deep kiss of him. He
was in an instant state of flinching consternation, of "Oh fuck," at the
tongue and lips across the too-sensitive swollen tip of him --
"Shit..nngh..." -- shuffling his trapped feet in his pants and dipping and
curving his back, then giving me a full straining boy-fuck, his cock making
a nice urgent thrust to the back of my throat, letting me lip his damp
boy-curls, take in the hot sex-scent of him, nuzzle the softest skin of a
boy's smooth pubis. His hands grabbed around uncertainly, on my shoulders,
at my hair, pressing his finger-tips to the base of his buried cock, to get
some measure of it, the fierce fuck-throbbing of his tender boyhood.

And he was spectacularly fast -- no more teasing -- full-throttled --
straining, up on his toes -- tender little grunts -- surging fiercely into
his ejaculation, a pulsing milky boy-stream, the free-flowing spill of
generous youth, torn from his tender core -- me swallowing him down, taking
all the pain of his need, absorbing the deepest, hottest secrets of a boy's
own story, just staring to be told.

----- THE END ------

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