Date: Wed, 2 Aug 2006 07:25:12 -0700 (PDT) From: Red Head Subject: P. E. Nisley and His Epicurean Appetites 1 If there's a silver bullet solution to leading a double life, I haven't found it yet. Well, I suppose, maybe I have, but that doesn't make any of the guilt go away. My wife thinks I am an accountant -- who am I to undeceive her? And, sure enough, I am an accountant, but I work hardly a quarter of the time these days. The rest of my time I fill with varying amusements. Let me tell you about myself, stranger. I have a wife, two boys, and a strange superpower that makes me into a monster. No, not the kind a monster you're thinking of, with fangs and ugly skin and whatnot -- a sex-craved monster. A pervert, if you like. With a penchant for fifth graders. Hehe. But we'll get to that part of the story. All in good time. -- I didn't like it at first. Oh, no, not a bit of it. It was marvelous and new and strange -- but it was disgusting and perverted. Now, don't get me wrong, I'd had my lusts in my day; I ain't no prude. But here I was, a 30-year-old man, married, successful, virtuous, decent, proud... And suddenly these thoughts were assaulting me. "Assaulting" isn't really the word. Dominating me. Zoom in. It is the fifth of June, 2003. Jan and I have decided to take a walk in the park, for once. I am in a mood of appreciation. I love the sense of her body walking next to mine, the feel of her trusting hand. I love the intricate artwork of nature, the trees hanging over us. I love the heat of the early summer sun. We stop to have a picnic lunch, and spread out a blanket on the ground. Jan makes turkey sandwiches; we drink lemonade. I let the sun warm my legs as I snack on some potato chips and a banana. The fruit is delicious; I let the peel fall to the ground and sidle up to my beautiful girl. She runs her hand along my arm as I survey the scenery. Man, look at the ass on that one! Duh--wha? What was I just thinking? I see your boxers, boy. I know what you're hiding. Whoa. While I can't explain what I am thinking, or why I am thinking it, I can't deny what I am looking at. A blond boy, about fourteen, walking on the path away from where I am. He has one of those supersagging shorts numbers, which leaves his snug blue undies the only worldly guardian of his derriere. Turn around, boy. I've got a treat for you. It is at about that point where my transformation becomes complete. I am no longer looking at these thoughts from the outside, puzzled by them. They are me. Even though I have never looked lustfully at another male in my entire life, now the feeling suddenly reaches into my veins, plucks out my history, and fills me with fervent desire. I. Am. On. Fire. For. You. Boy. And I know that I cannot wait. Awash with sexual energy, I must follow where it leads. It does not lead me to my wonderful wife, to those arms, those legs, those breasts which have been my home so long. What I lust after is distinctly male, and is distinctly walking away. Shit! At this point, I do something undeniably natural, but somewhat unwise. I grab my crotch, and feel the erection growing there. All for you, big guy. Hehe. My wife -- wait a minute, does she still exist? -- looks at my hand questioningly. I pull off the only save imaginable. -- Sheesh, honey, I really gotta go pee. -- I'll say, bozo. You do realize we're in public? -- Yeah, of course. If we were private, this would be your hand. I manage a mischievous eyebrow to complete the hint -- but, inexplicably, the thought of her hand there makes me feel ill. And I'm off. I set off in precisely the direction the boy had gone. Fortunately enough, this is also the direction of the bathroom -- although I'm too far gone to realize that. I have one thing on my mind. Biker, old lady, cute couple -- damn it, where are you? I reach the top of a hill in a state of panic and I see Him. Oh, yeah. The silky sweet skin of his back peeks out at me from just above his undies. Lord, but look at that half-moon! My jogging shorts make little effort to contain my excitement; but I don't really care who notices. I feel massively empowered. Intellectually, I still know that letting a visible erection lead the way to a teen boy in public isn't exactly looked kindly upon -- by physically, emotionally, spiritually I don't care. You might think that it would take a lot of balls to do something like this. Well, baby boy, I got balls. I got big, bold, juicy balls. And boy, do they have something for you. The boy is walking about twenty yards ahead of me on moment, about five feet the next. Fine shoulders. He turns slightly, now heading away from the path, toward the stream. Sculpted calves. He pulls up his shorts, but any hope of concealment is a futile gesture: the gap of Rohan is not fifty inches from me, and -- ah, yes -- I have riders to explore it. The bathroom is a distant memory. I have no wife. He sits in the grass, beside the babbling stream. Some semblance of decency accosts me, and I walk on past him toward the bridge. But my monster will have none of decency. I make a full 180 degree turn back toward him and -- from a bit of a distance now -- stop to assess the specimen of adolescence before me. His hair is mussy, mottled blond. He has kicked off his sneakers; he delicately dips his toes in the water. He is thoroughly -- what's the word? -- pleasant. A fine contrast with my insatiable intensity. He glances up and sees me. I approach, staring at his face the whole time. -- What you looking at? he asks me. -- You. I sit down beside him. -- What's so special about me? -- You're the hottest thing I ever laid eyes on. -- Holy shit, man. You need help. He starts to back away from me, but I can tell -- precious little thing -- that he is blushing. I decide to make my position even more clear. -- I want you. He stands up to leave. Still sitting, I have a faceful of torso. God, I want that. I wish with all my might that he would change his mind, that he would let me touch him. I hear words above me. -- Excuse me, sir? I look up into his endless hazel eyes. He continues. -- Sir? Could you do me a favor? I stand up. -- Of course, beautiful. Anything. -- It's my shorts, sir. They keep falling lower on my waist, and the world can see my scivvies. Could you see if you could make any adjustments? Holy shit. Did he just say that? Houston, we have liftoff. -- I'd love to help with that, my friend. By the way, what's your name? As I speak I come around behind him, carefully examining his "problem." -- Kevin. But friends call me Kev. You can call me Kev. -- Alright, Kev. I think we ought to go somewhere a bit more private, if you'd like my assistance. -- What? You don't think my ass is suitable for public viewing? -- I think your ass is suitable for many things. And I take my hand and pinch his cute little butt, then swat it and tell him to walk over to the bridge. He walks in front of me, and I'll be damned if he doesn't sway his hips ever so slightly. Something strange is going on. I, who have never been attracted to a boy in my life, have been suddenly overcome with lust, and -- bizarrely -- the boy has accepted my perverse come-ons. Not only that, but for the past minute or so, I feel like I can guess what he will say or do in advance. But maybe it isn't all in my head. Maybe he is ... no, but that's impossible. We duck under the edge of the bridge together, which gives us some semblance of privacy. I stand facing him and begin to examine his waistline; he smiles at me. I touch and prod and grab his underwear, and pull at his shorts, edging them closer to the ground. My dick is rock hard in my jogging shorts. I wonder if the boy has noticed. Just then, he looks down at my waist. -- My, what a big penis you have, he says, grinning obnoxiously. -- The better to deflower you with, I whisper. I want him to flirt. I want him to suck on something. He takes two of his fingers to his mouth and slowly, sensuously licks them. Then he takes two of my fingers and does the same. At this point, I know for sure. I am controlling him. Somehow, whenever I think of what I want him to do, he does it. Wow. I know what I want you to do, succulent Kevin. And, sure enough, he takes off his shirt. He is strong for a teenager, muscles well-defined, skin pale and smooth. Shirt removed, he holds his hands up above his head, and stretches out his body backward. A body like custard. A body like music. A body like fine wine. I take my hands to his hips and pull down his shorts. Within his undies, something is moving; I'd like to make the acquaintance. He takes his hand down to the fringe of his underwear. He pulls the elastic forward. His other hand moves my head forward, affording me a view of the promised land. I have no words to describe what I find there. I thrust my head forward to kiss his belly button. He laughs. -- Grab on here, and here. He says. Hold tight. He positions my hands on the fabric of his underwear. Then he raises his arms, grabs onto the underside of the bridge, and vaults his body upward. Awesome! I am left with a pair of boys underwear in my hands, and a naked boy floating above me, knees tucked up to his chin. What an ama-- Errrrrr, what just happened? I don't feel it anymore. What the hell was I doing? I don't like boys. I'm not a pedophile. What in God's name came over me? Kev lands on the ground and looks at me questioningly. I step back and look away. -- Get some clothes on, boy. I get the sense he is just as confused about what happened as I am. But, I hope, not half as disgusted with himself. He was being manipulated by a monster. I was the one doing it, but I am not that monster. Not anymore, at least. Never again. Kev dons his shirt and pants, and takes off. Feeling less than worthless, I quickly return to the spot of our picnic, only to find it deserted. All I see is the peel of a banana lying on the grass. I return to the house, psyching myself up to invent some explanation for my absence. When I get into our living room, Bobby (our oldest son) runs up to me and hugs me tightly. -- What you got there, Dad? I look at my hands. A pair of blue underwear. Shit.