Date: Tue, 22 Aug 2017 21:54:44 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Lion-King Chapter 11 Lion-King by badboi666 =============================================================================== If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away. If, as is much more likely, you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex with fresh young lads then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right place. Don't leave, however, without doing this: Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to eat. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html =============================================================================== Chapter 11 Yesterday it was 1997, and we were on QE2. I would have to be careful as the days went on, because 1996 was the first year we'd made a habit of being in Tangier in August: until then we used to go in June. That meant that on 31 August, as time goes back, Leo and I are often at home, or if not at home then holidaying somewhere with the fairy's European area. I would be invisible to Leo, and I didn't want to have that experience: there was no fun in watching what he and I got up to. I remembered one or two holidays where being a fly on the wall might have been interesting, and I'll tell you about them in due course. However, the fairy was allowing me to revisit 31 August every second year, not obliging me to revisit events which actually happened. I decided that quite a few of these days would be devoted to doing things which I hadn't actually done, but never, of course, with Leo. 31 August 1995 wasn't an auspicious day. "We" were in Harlow, beginning the process of selling the business, so "I" decided, using the fairy's gift of being elsewhere, to visit Cornwall, and specifically Camborne. I wanted to see whether I could find any trace of Peter. All I knew was that he had been 25 in 1957, and was a one-man long-distance lorry driver. Now he'd be 63. About Zak I knew nothing beyond the fact that he's now be 50. Because I'm magic, I can wake up each morning on 31 August where I want. Usually that's been in bed with Leo and whichever delightful boy is with us. Now however I'm in Europe, and things are different. The benefit is that I get to choose, so this morning I seem to have woken up in a B&B in Camborne. Great stuff, magic! My hostess is a cheerful, garrulous woman of about my age (I'm 66 now). We chat about this and that, why I'm in Cornwall, that kind of thing. I tell her I'm trying to find a friend I knew from 40-odd years ago with whom I'd lost touch. It suddenly dawned on me as I was saying this that I wasn't going to be able to answer her obvious question, so before she could ask it I added a bit to my story. "He came from Penzance." She was now unlikely to ask his name. Instead she asked me why I was in Camborne if my friend came from Penzance. "I think he married a girl from here," I said, but I don't know her surname. All I know is that she had a brother called Peter and he was a lorry driver. She shook her head. "I wouldn't know," she said, sad that her natural nosiness (which would have been invaluable) wasn't going to be satisfied, "we didn't move here until 1971." I asked her who might know of this Peter, as he was the only lead to my long-lost, if recently-invented friend. She thought a bit and said that the local library would be my best bet. "They know everything there." This didn't seem an altogether daft idea, so after breakfast I paid - I wasn't coming back, after all - and headed for the library. It took all of three hours to discover that nothing was known of the current whereabouts of a Peter who had, in 1957, been a 25-year-old lorry driver. I was a bit further forward though. There were small ads dating from a few years after that from a local man, Peter Hughes, offering long-distance delivery services. There was a phone number, but no address. The woman at the library had shown real interest in my quest, and had been happy to translate a 1960 phone number into a 1995 one. I phoned and a woman answered. I had my story ready. I explained that I was doing research into different people who had lived in ten different houses in England. I implied it was for a TV programme. She liked the idea of TV, and readily agreed to my visiting her house to talk about it. She gave me the address and 10 minutes later I was looking at the bungalow Jack had described. It wasn't isolated any more, but it fitted all right. She was a widow of about 60. She and her husband had bought the place when they were married in 1961. She had no idea who they had bought it from, "my husband did all that." I chatted to her about her own life there, making notes and lending verisimilitude to my TV story. After half an hour I began to my excuses, but it dawned on me that she might have information without being aware of it. I asked if she had the house deeds, as they would lead me to previous owners. No, she said, but her solicitor would have them - he was in Camborne. She agreed to phone him, and ask him to see me for a few minutes. I thanked her and left, feeling slightly guilty about the TV programme in which she would never feature. The solicitor was very brisk. "I'm not sure if this is regular," he began, but I interrupted to say that I was really sorry for bothering him, and that I could, of course, search the Land Registry, but time was precious, and all I wanted was the name of the seller in 1961. "Ah." He rummaged. "A Mr Peter Hughes," he said. "Do you know what address he gave?" He rummaged a bit more and gave me an address in Taunton. I wrote it down and thanked him. It was now 4 o'clock. The nudist beach seemed an inviting idea. I didn't suppose I would stand out particularly, but how was I to get there? Be bold, Rex! I found the taxi rank - two cars whose drivers were chatting on a hot August afternoon. I strolled up, and asked whether the nudist beach I used to go to was still there. "Yes," said one of them, "it's there all right, and busy too. Are you headed that way?" I was, and he drove me there. He was keen to make sure that I had some means of getting back, but I assured him that that would not be a problem. He gave me a very old-fashioned look, based no doubt on his belief that I would pick someone up and be whisked away for a night of sin. The truth, that I would indeed be whisked away, but only to 1993, would have been just as deplorable. The beach was delightful. Leo and I have occasionally visited nudist beaches, but in recent years the flesh has been fairly unexciting to look at, and we haven't wished to inflict it on strangers too often. Today was different. I was on my own. The other "I" was sorting things out in Harlow. I walked out of the changing room - now far fancier than 1957's 'concrete changing block' - and walked onto the beach with my hired towel. I sunbathed for a while, swam for a while and as I was coming out of the sea a man of about 50 did a classic double take when he saw my tattoo. I smiled - I like it when people admire the art - and this emboldened him to stop and chat. "I've seen you before," he said, "when I was a boy. I sneaked here and saw that tattoo. I'm sure of it." I smiled. "I doubt it," I said, "I've never been here before, but my twin brother has a tattoo like it and he was here - let me see - in the late 1950s, 1957, 1958 maybe." Let him pick the ball up and run with it if he wants to. I could see the cogs whirring. "Yes," he said, "it was 1957. I was here with my friend's Dad and we played with ... " He broke off, embarrassed. I smiled. "Look at the tattoo," I said, "doesn't it tell you that I'm gay? So you needn't be shy about what you did when you were playing." The guy smiled. "You're right. But the tattoo's different. I remember it with the man holding the boy up and rimming him. I know, because that's what I wanted him to do to me." I smiled again. The thread connecting me to Ace was getting stronger. "Look," I said, "don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to pick you up, but I'd like to buy you a drink and talk about it." He laughed. "We're both the wrong age for each other," he said, "if you're anything like your brother and me." To cut a long story short he drove us to a nice pub where we bought beer and sat in the garden. His name was Harry and he had spent a magical few days with Peter and Zak and Woody, and his school friend Fred and his Dad. Fred and his Dad had gone back home but he had had such a fantastic sex-filled few days that he had hitch-hiked back a few weeks later to see if there was more fun to be had. It was then that he'd been one of a crowd of admiring men and boys when Ace had appeared with Woody - clearly Jack using a different name. He hadn't spoken to them as he wasn't supposed to be there. He had regretted it for a few days, and it was seeing my tattoo that had brought it all back. "Did you ever see Peter or Zak again? Or Ace and Woody?" He hadn't. We supped our pints, reflecting on all the opportunities we let slip through our hands. Since I wasn't going to be in 1995 much longer I decided I had nothing to lose by asking my next question. "Are you still interested in boys, Harry?" "Oh yes, but they're harder to find now. It was easy 25 years ago." "Do you think my tattoo might hook a couple for us?" His eyes lit up. "What, now?" Why not, my friend, we'll be even older and wrinklier tomorrow." Fifteen minutes later we were back on the beach. This time we had a different objective. It was now after 7, and the nudist holidaymakers were likely to be back in their hotels for dinner. That left locals, likely to be on the prowl. Displaying my tattoo should attract any passing interest. We waited to see what would happen. After about 20 minutes two boys came by, about 30 feet away. They looked at us quickly and carried on. "What a shame," said Harry, "they looked cute." "Patience, Harry," I said, "the look they gave us wasn't enough to satisfy their curiosity. They'll be back for another look." Sure enough they stopped about 100 yards away and stood talking. Then they turned back and walked towards us, aiming to pass 30 feet away again. They stole another look. I decided I'd seen enough: these two were interested and likely to be curious to see more. "Hi, boys," I said, "like what you see?" One jumped like a startled rabbit, but the other grinned. "Yeah," he said, "me and my friend like the picture." The rabbit now allowed himself a long hard look at me. I beckoned them over. "Come on, we won't bite. In fact we're very very careful with our teeth." Two wide grins greeted this less than subtle invitation. They sat down beside us and introduced themselves as Terry and Nigel. They were both 14, acknowledged to each other that they were boyfriends, and were entirely happy about being gay and liking sex with men. These revelations occupied us for all of two minutes. Harry and I introduced ourselves, indicating that we were delighted to know them, and keenly looking forward to knowing them better or, as Harry put it, "more deeply". Giggles and stirrings in the areas of interest. Terry - the bold one - said that they wanted to know what we wanted to do. "Easy," I said, "we want to do things that you like having done to you." That put the ball firmly back in their court. Terry and Nigel exchanged looks. Terry was clearly the spokesman. "Nige's a bottom," he said, "I fuck him, so one of you should fuck him. I'm more of a top, but I don't mind being fucked by a man, and Rex's cock looks like a challenge." It was true: Harry's was of average size. "OK," I said, "where do we go for all these exciting activities?" "Follow me," said Terry, and he and Nigel trotted off along the beach with us following a reasonable distance behind. No point in drawing attention, although both boys were now hard, so a casual observer would not have been in much doubt. 300 yards along the beach were some huts, hidden from view. Terry produced a key and unlocked one of them. He and Nigel went in, and we joined them a couple of minutes later. Inside there were mattresses. Judging from the paraphernalia lying about fucking had taken place not long before. Terry said that this was his place, and that he and Nigel came here most days. "We were fucking only half an hour ago." That would be nice for Harry if he was into sloppy seconds, I thought. A 14-year-old arse full of recently-deposited 14-year-old cum was as attractive a place to be as could be imagined. Nigel applied himself to Harry's cock, and soon his tongue had Harry under starter's orders. Terry and I left them to it. Terry copied the tattoo, as I had expected him to do. His lips and tongue - highly skilled already - brought my cock to full erection and, to my surprise, he was able to deep-throat all 9 inches. "Who taught you that, Terry?" I asked. He removed his mouth from my cock long enough to say that the lessons had been given last year by his grandfather. Maybe that was why old buggers like us had been attractive to them. "Your grandfather is a good teacher, Terry, you suck like a professional." That explained the beach hut and the key - clearly we were about to fuck on grandfather's home patch. Meanwhile Terry is getting me closer than I wanted to be - I wanted to fuck the boy properly before coming. It had been a long time - 1999 - since I'd fucked a boy this young. "Come on, Terry, let's be at you," I said, lying him on a mattress. He knew how it was to be: him on his back with his ankles behind my head. "Hold your horse," I said, "I need to get you ready." "Feel me with your fingers, Rex," he said. I did, and to my surprise he was well lubed up. "When did you do that?" I asked. "After I fucked Nigel he lubed me and we went out looking for men. We found you. Easy!" I had been planning a long-drawn-out rimming session, but there is little joy in rimming an arse full of lube (an arse full of cum now, that's quite different: lucky Harry!) so I contented myself with inserting a useful number of fingers. One at first drew an impolite, if encouraging "Oh come on, for God's sake" from Terry, "three please." Three it was and a gratifying groan as they went deep inside him. I looked down and saw a thin trail of precum leak from his cock - a nice cock, uncut, 5, maybe 6 inches, with a trace of hair - "more?" "Nah, I'm not ready for fisting yet, but your cock is what I need - long and hard. Stick it in and fuck me senseless, Rex." A charming boy, clear in his mind about what he wants, and pleasingly direct in seeking it. I stuck it in as bidden. He yelled. I kept it in. His eyes softened and a wide smile appeared. "Fuck, that's big. I never been fucked by anything this big before. It's fantastic, but don't tear me, will you?" I assured him that my cock was possessed of nothing sharp and likely to tear him. "Just relax and let it happen, Terry, this'll be the ride of your life." I was concentrating on giving him a memorable 20 minutes, so only heard the cries of arrival from Nigel as Harry, arriving at much the same time, added copiously to Terry's earlier deposit. I was dimly aware that they had finished and got up from their mattress, and that much whispering was going on. Nigel moved to our mattress and stood facing me, his feet either side of Terry's head. He had his cock in his hand. I looked in his eyes. He mouthed a question and I nodded "OK, but not yet." He mouthed "OK" and stood watching, cock in hand. Harry was watching. I sensed Terry was getting near, so I accelerated. I knew that so long as I kept a rhythm I wouldn't come quickly, but as soon as I accelerated I'd be shooting within a minute or two. Sure enough I felt the urgency mount. "Gonna cum in you Terry, right up your pretty little arse, Cum with me Terry, I want to see your cock shoot spunk ..." At that Terry's cock lurched, Terry cried 'fuuuuuuuuuck!' and his cock poured a gallon or two of cum up onto his belly. "OK!" I said. Nigel unleashed the piss he'd been holding onto my chest and belly, and sprayed it onto Terry, who gasped. His cock spewed out another load. At last I came in a shuddering climax, my spunk filling Terry's tight little arse. Knowing from what Nigel had suggested that these two were into piss I kept my cock deep inside Terry. He looked straight into my eyes and raised his eyebrows questioningly. I nodded. His expression changed from an orgasmic one to a smile of deep contentment as he awaited the final moments. I nodded, "OK." My cock poured more fluid into him, mainly the beer Harry and I had supped earlier. It ran out, soaking me and the mattress. I wondered what grandfather would make of it, but decided that he was likely to be turned on by the aroma and the exploits as related to him in due course. After a few minutes to recuperate we got up. "See you tomorrow?" asked Terry. Harry agreed, but I had, with regret, to say that I would be elsewhere tomorrow. I was genuinely sorry, as I wanted to fuck Nigel. We left the hut, but not before two lingering kisses were enjoyed. Terry and Nigel went off along the beach while Harry and I walked slowly back to the changing room. Harry asked whether I was staying anywhere, and hearing that I had nothing fixed he offered me his spare bed. That could have presented a real problem when I had disappeared to 1993 in the morning, so I declined. In the end I just stayed on the beach until midnight. Sitting, thinking, missing Leo, looking forward to the things I still wanted to do before 1957. I still hadn't made much progress with Peter. =============================================================================== badboi666@btinternet.com is where you should sent comments and suggestions