This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts between a man and a minor boy. The story is not true; the sexual acts described herein derive solely from imagination. It is not intended to promote illegal acts with/to/by minors, nor does it condone child abuse of any sort. If you object to the subject matter, stop reading. If your reading of this material violates laws in your place of residence or where you are currently located, stop reading. Thank you.

This story is protected by the copyright conventions of the United States.

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

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

Love, Set, Match

Part 2 of 2
Will S
(Summer, 2007)


The second day of the tournament, Erik won, and Anders was there cheering him on. The boy didn't get to talk him until he'd finished with a long press conference. Then there were some important people to meet. “Not as important as you,” Erik whispered in his ear. The boy grinned at that, but Erik didn't, and Anders got the impression that he was quite serious.

When Anders had told the people at the school about what happened on the first day (on the courts, that is), and meeting Erik, and that he wanted him to be his guest at every additional match (that was all he told them, of course), they decided the tennis player needed to be met and approved, but more likely, the boy reasoned, it was simply that they wanted to meet one of the most famous athletes in the world. The truth was, Erik was used to that, and he knew how to impress the school's administrators. Anders could tell by the way they watched him, and how grinned at his cute little remarks, and the way they nodded thoughtfully at the things Erik said that were serious. The Headmaster seemed especially pleased that Erik was so interested in the school and the things that went on there.  The Head was only too happy to show Mr. Pedersen the entire campus, from the science laboratories to the aging athletic facilities.  Throughout it all, Anders could see that Erik made them feel like they were sort of his friends.

“So what do you think,” Erik had asked him after the meeting. They were in Erik's limousine heading for Wimbledon. “Do you think I passed their test?”

Anders giggled. “With flying colors!” Erik turned to him, and tickled him under his arm. The giggle grew into a laugh, and then the boy's eyes found the man's, and the laughter settled into a contented smile.

“I'm so glad,” Erik said quietly. “So, so glad.” He leaned in and gave the boy a quick kiss on his lips. Anders flashed a quick look at the driver's mirror, but the man had his eyes on the road.

Erik had made arrangements for him to be picked up and dropped off at the school each day.  He made a point of telling the headmaster that he'd like it—if they had no objections, of course—if the boy could spend some time with him after he finished working (playing tennis, that is). He had mussed up the boy's hair, and smiled at the school officials, telling them “Anders is my good luck charm, after all.” They all laughed politely at that, and probably felt a twinge of envy at the boy's sudden good fortune. All this he told them with his patented smile, and of course, they had no objections, so that meant that he and the boy had time to be together.

In just one day, Anders' life had changed in such an unbelievable way. It was as if there was a secret part of his life—his body—that had always been there, but was hidden, locked away, and it took Erik Pedersen to reveal it.

As they rode along in the limo, Anders thought about the previous night. The boy couldn't get to sleep. He kept thinking about what they'd done, about how Erik had made him feel—about how awesome it had been. He ached to be with him again, to feel him feeling him. The boy's hand had been toying with his nipples the way Erik had done. Anders had been surprised at how sensitive they were, surprised that he'd never noticed that before. Then, as he continued to think about their time together, his hand naturally found its way down across his belly to his dick, and he'd stroked it the way Erik had done. It was already hard from thinking about Erik, but now as he pictured him naked and doing stuff with him, he felt the feeling building inside him. It was incredible. Now the boy had another thought, and pressed his other hand under him, and let his finger play over his hole—again, the way Erik had done in the shower. He rested his finger there, wanting to push it inside, but he was afraid. All the time, his hand worked his small boy tool. Anders needed Erik so much. And then he knew that thing was happening—that orgasm thing—and then it did, and he groaned before he caught himself.

The other boys in the dorm chuckled. “Who's the wanker?” someone giggled.

“Sounds like Engstom,” another replied.

“Engstrom! With that little thing! No way! You'd need tweezers,” someone muttered. Everyone laughed.

“It wasn't me,” Anders lied, but they all knew the truth, and he didn't care. If they knew what Erik Pedersen and he had done that afternoon, they'd be so jealous. But he wondered about that. He had heard kids talking about two boys in an older form, who'd been caught “doing it“. He hadn't known then what doing it meant (though he had a pretty good idea now), but they were the recipients of some mean comments. No, what happened between him and Erik was their secret.

As he lay there, Anders thought about all the little names Erik had called him (honey and sweetie, and love), and how he'd said he was beautiful. “I love the fact that you're still prepubescent,” Erik had said. You can be sure even alone in his bed, that made the boy blush for some reason. And then, as he was recovering from his second orgasm in the day, Anders thought about how Erik seemed to feel about him. He was just a boy, but Erik loved him; Anders could see it in the man's eyes, in the way he looked at him.

He thought, too, about how Erik had made his heart pound, just being near him, and the boy realized something that made him blush again, and made him excited and afraid all at once. Anders realized he loved Erik, loved him the way a girl loves a boy. He loved a man that way, wanted him that way, and he thought that he should have been ashamed about that—even if he admitted it only to himself. But the truth was just the opposite; it made him want to shout it on the top of his lungs! “I'm in love with Erik Pedersen!”

And deep down, the boy knew something else. Erik Pedersen was in love with him, too, and that was what was on the boy's mind on that second day when they finally arrived at Erik's hotel. He'd decided it would be quieter at the hotel. His hotel room was actually several rooms. As soon as Erik shut the door, he hugged the boy. It was as if he hadn't seen him in three years. The tennis star wrapped his arms around the boy's waist and held him tightly.

For the boy's part, it was wonderful to feel Erik's arms holding him again—wonderful and strangely reassuring—and then Anders released him to try to pull off his shirt.

“Oh, my...my sweet boy, hungry for some attention, are we?”

“Yessss,” Anders hissed.

“You sure you never had sex before yesterday?” Erik stroked his arms up and down, and the fourteen-year-old stood there and let the luscious feelings come—feelings he suddenly needed so badly. “Never,” Anders said, grinning.

“And I suppose you want to do it again?” Erik tried to sound bored and put out. The boy knew he was fooling.

“If I have to,” Anders said in an equally bored tone.

“Well,” Erik said, releasing the boy and stepping to the bed and picking up the TV remote. “We don't have to... We could watch...a gardening show.”

“No!” the lad squealed, jumping onto Erik and wrapping his legs around his waist. “No TV! I want you to do sex stuff with me! Please!”

The tennis star looked into the boy's eyes, and all pretension disappeared. “If that's what you want, then I'd love to love you.” His voice was tender and soft. He reached out and pulled Anders' shirt off. The man's eyes seemed hungry to travel up and down his exposed flesh. Next, he reached for the boy's shorts, and lowered the zip, and he pushed them to his feet. Anders kicked off his shoes and he pulled off the shorts and his socks. Erik pulled back the bedspread and lowered him down onto the bed. Now he lay on the gleaming white sheets with just his equally white briefs on.

“My God, Anders,” Erik said breathlessly, “you're incredible.” The boy felt so strange lying there with Erik's eyes seeing right through him. The truth was young Anders Engstrom never thought he was anything special. Whereas some boys thought they were God's gift to every girl they saw, Anders certainly never did; what's more, he didn't care, although—if he were being honest—he'd have to admit there were a few boys he'd seen whom he wished had noticed him—because he had certainly noticed them! And now here he was, Erik Pedersen, practically drooling over him. Him! He could barely imagine it! Anders felt as if he was helpless, vulnerable, as if the man could do anything he wanted, and he couldn't—wouldn't—stop him—not that he'd want to. Just having Erik look at him that way made the boy's penis get harder.

“Well, look what I see!” Erik grinned. “Seems like your dick needs some room to stretch.” He reached down and began to pull the boy's pants down. The boy lifted his bottom off the bed to help him, and his hidden cock thrust up, making an even bigger mound. Erik leaned down and nuzzled the boy's bits and pieces—rubbing his cheeks and nose and mouth all over the front of his briefs. Anders couldn't believe it when Erik put his mouth there. He made growling noises. It made him shiver and he felt the changes happening in his body. It made him smile, and want him to keep going, and Erik did, and, as he did, he pulled his pants right down.

The boy's penis popped up, straight and proud, pointing right at his chin. It felt so awesome for Anders. His heart pounded, and suddenly he had another very nasty thought: what if Erik kissed his thing! Can you imagine! When Anders thought about that, his penis jumped and actually bumped the man's cheek. Erik straightened up now and gazed down at him again. “Ooohhhhh...” he breathed, as if unable to form any words. Quickly, the man stripped off his own clothes, and again, Anders examined every centimeter of Erik's body. His biceps, his pecs, his hard little nipples, his washboard stomach, his thick nest of blond hair, his big, thick cock that jutted out from the bottom of his belly and dripped the pre-cum stuff Erik had told him about, and then his strong, hard thighs. Somehow just looking at him made his penis ache.

The tennis star loved being the object of such attention. It made him even harder; it made his heart race. “Do you like what you see?” Erik asked, smiling.

“Yes!” the boy said without hesitating.

“Phweee...” the man said, making it sound like it was a big relief. “I'm certainly glad about that!” They giggled then at how silly that was. Then Erik grew more serious, and letting his eyes burn into the boy's, added, “And I can't imagine a more perfect work of art—not even Michelangelo could have created such perfection. He reached down and tweaked both of the boy's nipples, making him gasp. “Is there anywhere on your smooth, firm body that's not sexy to touch?”

“I don't know,” Anders said shyly, “but I don't think so.”

“Well...let's find out.” Erik began to kiss him everywhere. “You let me know if it's sexy, okay!” He kissed him on top of the head.

The boy grinned. “Mmmm...”

He nibbled on his ear, on his forehead, on each of his eyebrows, on his nose, then on his mouth. He wriggled his tongue into his mouth, and then broke away. “Sexy?”

“Mmmmmmm,” Anders hummed with a grin.

Erik drew his tongue over Anders' chin and down his neck, he let his lips brush over his nipples, and they got hard like another part of his body. The boy trembled as he did this. Erik lifted his arms, and planted little licking kisses in each of his armpits. He flattened his tongue and drew it along his arms, tasting him, licking him like an ice cream cone. He kissed each of his fingers and the palms of his hands.

At each “stop,” Erik asked Anders if it was sexy, and each time, the boy replied with a soft, “mmmmm“. Now Eric found his way back to the boy's chest, and he made sure his nipples were still alert; then he licked downward across his smooth, firm tummy, down his sides which just hinted at the tapered “V” of adolescence. The man's tongue found the boy's belly button, and he drilled his pointed tongue into his navel, and the boy squirmed and gasped. “Oh,” Erik muttered, “the boy liked that, I guess.” He looked at him and Anders grinned.

There was only one place to go, and Anders tightened his tummy muscles in anticipation. But Erik disappointed the boy; apparently it was just too nasty to think what Erik did when the boy had his briefs on, he'd do now. The boy wanted him to, but though Anders had heard kids talking about cocksucking, he knew Erik would ever put his lips on his penis. But the man had put his lips on his balls; he'd even taken them into his mouth!  Would his penis be that different?  And so the boy was disappointed when Erik did not do what he so longed for; instead, the man kissed the place where his leg joins his belly, and for Anders, even that was strangely exciting. But Erik didn't give him time to think about it; instead, he kissed and licked his way down one leg, then did the other. He even nibbled on his toes! Erik was moaning as much as the boy was. Erik glanced up and smiled at him. “I think you'll like this, Anders. Tell me if you do.”

Then he began working his way back up his legs, first one, then the other. His warm tongue awakened his senses, and as Erik got closer to his rock-hard penis, the boy's thoughts again turned to the impossible.

“Please, please,” Anders thought. And then the boy heard the same begging words actually coming out of his mouth. He lifted his hips, pressing the thing that needed to be touched toward Erik's mouth. And then...oh my gosh...oh...oh...Erik did exactly what he'd been hoping for—praying for. First, it was just a quick lick: the man drew the tip of his tongue all the way around the rim of the boy's cockhead. Anders gulped in a great gasp of air and froze. In one move, the man lowered himself down over the small cock, and sucked hard. “Oooo,” Anders squealed, and lay there vibrating like a tuning fork. At the same time, almost violent shudders wracked his small body.

Erik's mouth was wet and hot, and his tongue was in constant motion, swirling round and around. Then he began a different kind of movement—adding yet one more thing to what was already driving Anders wild: He began an up and down action, sucking hard, then easing off. It was beyond the boy's wildest imaginings. Nothing could have prepared his young body for the sensations that now assaulted it. His head thrashed back and forth, and his entire body glistened with the heat of sexual arousal. Now, with just a few more strokes of Erik's incredible mouth, the boy felt his body preparing itself...and then it happened.

It was a massive orgasm—unlike the two he'd previously experienced. His mouth opened, but no sound came from it. Every ounce of energy his body possessed was focused like a laser beam on his penis. The boy's hips thrust violently upward, and his body tried desperately to ejaculate that substance that it was not yet able to shoot.  His orgasm was harder and longer than he thought possible. It was incredible. If any thought at all formed in his seizing brain, it was that he was somehow going to die in this moment, for it felt as if everything were being wrenched from his very life—his very soul. “Mmmmm....” he heard Erik say as he bucked into his hungry mouth. Erik sucked down harder, and the boy's entire body shook uncontrollably. Then again, and again, and again. And then nothing.

When Anders came to, something was different. He couldn't quite make out what, though. And then as consciousness flowed back into his brain, he realized he was on his stomach, and he felt a warm softness on his bottom. It felt nice, and he remained still, though as the softness moved back and forth across his butt cheeks, he couldn't help but flex those muscles once. He felt a long sigh escape from his lips, and at the same time, he heard a similar sound from Erik.

Now he felt Erik lift away, and it made for a strange sort of disappointment, but it was only fleeting, for within seconds, Erik had leaned back in and the boy felt one, then another and another kiss on his bottom. How strange it felt...how exciting...how wonderfully satisfying.

Now the tennis star lifted away again and spoke. “Anders, I know you're awake...just lie still, my love.” The boy felt him pry his cheeks apart, and he stiffened. “Relax, honey,” he whispered. Anders tried, and he responded, “There...there. It's going to be fine.”

Erik separated his cheeks, and Anders knew Erik was gazing at his hole...that secret place. It seemed so strange, but not nearly as strange as what happened next: he felt his warm breath upon his tight pucker, and then heard Erik breathing in the scent of that place. The man sighed, and Anders thought he could sense him tremble. Then, almost instantly, he felt Erik's wet lips settle softly on his tight pucker—and not just once. This was not some accident or fleeting moment of curiosity on the man's part, for he kissed the boy there again and again, and despite its strangeness, Anders began to respond, his boy spike lengthening and growing harder. And then...unbelievably, he felt a warm, wet probe pressing into him, and, as impossible as it seemed, he knew what Erik had to be doing. A massive shudder passed through him as Erik pressed his soft tongue into him, and Anders drew in a sharp breath.

The boy couldn't believe he was doing this; the taboo of what his lover was doing only added to the energy that surged through him in that moment. Erik pulled out for a moment, and while the man gently rubbed the boy's bottom, he whispered, “Try to relax down there, Anders. I know it takes some practice, but you can do it.” Somehow pressing into him like that was like plugging in an electrical wire. Anders was alive in a way he'd never been before. His cock was rock-hard. He was fairly vibrating with sexual energy.

The boy had the feeling that there was some other sensation that was close, but what it was remained hidden to him. It was almost there...if only Erik could enter him a bit more—a bit deeper. Anders pressed his bottom upward, hoping to reach that unknown peak of sexual fulfillment...but it remained elusive. He groaned, and Erik must have sensed his frustration.

The next thing Anders knew, Erik was moving his fingertips over his lips. The boy opened his mouth, and he sucked his fingers into him. Again, Erik withdrew his tongue from that secret part of his young lover. “That's a boy, get 'em good and wet,” and when he had, he removed them. “Spread your cheeks,” Erik instructed, and he did. He felt a wet finger pressing down on his bud. “Try to open up to me, Anders,” he whispered. He made the tiniest of circling motions—more just a pressure, and then he felt a finger pressing into him. It was different from his tongue, but it seemed to break past some barrier, and then any discomfort disappeared and he slid deep into him.

“Mmmmm,” Erik hummed, “You're so hot and smooth in there,” he breathed. He pressed his finger around and around, as if he were searching for something. Unable to stand it any longer, Anders released one of his cheeks, and brought his hand to his cock, determine to bring the release he so desperately needed.

“Wait,” the man commanded. He shifted his position and brought his mouth to the boy's penis. Oddly, disappointment flooded into Anders and he was momentarily confused by that, but then he realized it was because he felt Erik's finger pulling out.

“No,” the boy breathed, “leave it in. Please!” Anders sounded desperate, and you can be sure the sound of his pleading surprised him.

“Patience, my love,” the tennis star whispered. “You do like the attention I'm giving your ass, don't you?” he said with a soft chuckle.

“Yes,” Anders replied, still not losing any of the urgency in his voice.

“Okay, then,” Erik breathed. “I'm going to try two, Anders. May I?”

“Yes!” the boy gasped. “Please!” The boy heard Erik chuckle softly again, and then he felt two fingers where only one had been before. “Ahhh...” he whimpered. The pleasant pressure of the first finger was suddenly replaced by a less pleasant sensation: sharp pins and needles.

“Remember to relax,” the man urged. “It won't be as bad.” Anders took a deep breath and complied to best of his imperfect abilities. Slowly Erik pressed deeper, and slowly, after a moment, that sharpness had eased, replaced by the inviting fullness that the boy had felt moments earlier with a single digit. “Mmmmm,” Anders breathed, letting his lover know the pleasure he was bringing to him. That was another thing the boy had learned from Erik: a lover needs to know he is pleasuring you. At first—with two fingers—it hadn't been pleasant; it had pained, but even as that dissipated, the boy seemed to sense somehow the pain only added to his arousal.

Now he felt the man's tongue dance over his cockhead and suck him into his hungry maw. Oh my God, he thought. Pure bliss! Erik began a slow pumping action with his fingers...first pressing deep into the boy, then pulling back so his fingertips just lay inside that super-sensitive entrance to his insides. Again he moaned, but this time in utter ecstasy as his hips began a rhythmic—if not desperate—humping action. Erik sucked down harder on the hard cock, and after a few strokes adjusted his movements so his fingers and the boy's penis moved in harmony.

Then Erik did something that changed everything. Anders felt Erik ever-so-slightly curl his fingertips, and then as the man pulled his fingers back, they pressed onto some place deep inside him. The boy's moans changed more into a squeal the way little boy might squeal when thrilled beyond expectation. Anders heard (or more accurately felt in his mouth-covered penis) Erik chuckle as the boy jabbed his rigid tool deep into his mouth. Then whatever Erik had done, he did again. Unbelievable!

Anders was again ready to explode; he was barely conscious of any thought, save the most primal: do it! Make it happen! The man was his god, and the boy, a supplicant seeking the release he so desperately needed.

And then it came—those impossible feelings. He came. Oh Ye Gods of Olympus! Sweet explosion! Sweet exhaustion! Sweet release. When he had recovered—for the second time that day—Erik moved so he could lean against the headboard of the bed. The he guided Anders so he was seated in his lap. The boy—completely spent, completely relaxed—lay back against him. As the man let his hand drift over Anders soft, pure skin, everywhere he could reach, they talked, and sighed at the gentle pleasure they were both now feeling. It was not sexual, this touching; instead, it was what the boy would later understand to be sensual—a gentle, purely pleasurable contact: skin on skin. They talked about all manner of things: his studies, the school, even that dark time in his life when his parents died. But it was okay. He wanted Erik to know; he wanted him to know everything. They had been like this for perhaps an hour when Anders, unconsciously at first, shifted his position, moving downward slightly on Erik's body. At that point, the man's semi-erect cock bumped into his backside. The boy was barely aware of it initially, but then he felt Erik's big penis begin to stretch upward. As it lengthened, it seemed to extend along his crack, and the result was the boy's penis, too, started to harden.

Now Anders intentionally shifted, slightly moving his bottom: Erik's growing cockhead seemed to fit so naturally between his two cheeks. The boy sucked in a breath. Now a barely imaginable thought filled his mind. He shifted himself again, and reached down and gently spread his cheeks a bit to “facilitate” the change in the man's expanding penis. It seemed to the boy that the length of Erik's big cock fit like a wiener between his buns. Now it was his turn to groan in satisfaction.

During those moments, their conversation had ceased, the boy's concentration clearly being somewhere else. Erik was, of course, not unmindful of what was happening, and as his fingers continued to explore the boy's smoothness, he waited patiently.

Finally the boy spoke. “Erik,” he asked uncertainly.

“Yes, my love,” the man's hot, whispered words warmed the boy's ear. Erik knew as surely as breath itself what Anders had on his mind. This would be a crucial moment in their life together. He would not presume or hurry the boy's musings.

“Um...where you put your fingers?” Anders continued, “...um...you can put something else there, too, can't you?” He twisted around just enough so he could look upon Erik's face. By the man's expression, if Anders didn't know himself, he could sense something had changed. The boy grew more serious and seemed momentarily lost in thought. He hadn't had time to think lot about the question; the thought had come to him, and he knew the answer—even without asking. But somehow, he needed Erik to know what he was thinking.

The man's big, now-hard penis nestled in his crack; it was electrifying. Something was growing in him—something beyond words: a hunger, a need. It was relentless, and the young lover had to hear confirmation from the man who had awakened him, who was even now awakening him. He felt Erik's cock flex against him.

“Yes, my love,” the man breathed, “you can.” Now Anders tightened down on the muscles in his butt cheeks, and Erik knew that the boy understood exactly what he was saying. “Is that something you'd like?”

The question momentarily seemed to throw the boy. He wasn't sure how to answer. Would I like it? he wondered. “It's so big,” Anders murmured. He thought about Erik's two fingers, and the pin-pricks they'd caused. “It would hurt,” he stated flatly.

Erik's hands moved across his body. “My sweet,” he breathed. “You're right, it would...at first.” He paused and seemed to consider what he would say next. “It's not something we have to do. Some boys don't like it.”

“I need it!” Anders blurted out with an intensity of emotion that startled him and Erik. He felt his face growing hot. “I...I...can't explain it. I'm not sure why, but I need it inside me.” Now Erik leaned down, and they kissed. “Ohhhh, ohhh....” the young boy moaned. Then Erik broke their kiss, and the boy looked into his eyes expectantly.

“Then we shall, Anders, my love. Then we shall.” Erik's hand drifted down to Anders' bottom, and again, his feather-touch warmed him, awakened him.

It was then that his mobile rang. Erik grumbled, and reached for the phone. It was an important call; indeed, any call on that phone was important, for Erik's staff knew never to call the number unless it was urgent. It was a short conversation, but basically, it was his manager informing him that his match had been scheduled for first thing in the morning; further, his manager informed him that he'd granted an interview with NBC, for later that evening—which occasioned more grumbling. It was to be live, on American television, and for Erik and his young lover, the timing couldn't have been worse. Whatever mood had been created, was now broken.

“I...I should be getting back to the dorm anyway,” Anders said. It was his schoolboy attempt to make Erik feel better. It was a thoughtful gesture on the boy's part, for he knew Erik was feeling the same sudden emptiness he was feeling. Both knew that was why Anders had said it, and both knew, in this moment when they boy's “need” would go unmet, that his thoughtful gesture really wasn't working.


The next day at Wimbledon was the occasion for yet another change. Between sets, Erik had turned to the boy, as he'd done a few times during his play, and he gave him a “thumbs up“. Neither of then could have known, but those small actions had not gone unnoticed. One of the TV cameras had caught his nod to the boy and Anders' response, and soon—they learned later—the story of the boy's disastrous first day on the court and Erik's subsequent interest in this “orphan boy” was being broadcast to millions of people around the world.

At first Erik's publicist tried to squelch the story—for he knew his client very well and wanted to divert any potentially damaging stories about any of his “proclivities” in his off-the-court life, but when the network wouldn't relent, the publicist confirmed that Anders was indeed the ball boy that had been tossed out of the game at Fragonard's insistence. “Erik just felt it was terribly unfair,” the publicist explained. “He thought Jacques was simply using the boy to throw Erik's rhythm off, and well...now, Erik says the boy is his good luck charm.” The publicist laughed in just the right way to say isn't that just about the sweetest thing you ever heard, and so did the interviewer, and so did millions of people around the world who were hearing the warm-hearted story about a major celebrity doing a wonderful thing for a poor orphan boy.

On the court, meanwhile, Erik was in the zone, it seemed, and he won the match "handily", as the commentators seemed fond of saying. Afterward in the locker room, Anders saw Erik and his publicist having a discussion—almost heated at times. Finally they both looked over at him. After more conversation, Erik approached him. Anders knew it was going to be bad news because of the expression on Erik's face, but he couldn't have gotten it more wrong—at least from his perspective.

“NBC Sports from America wants to interview you and me,” Erik began. “My publicist seems to think we need to do this.”

“Really!” Anders cried. “Awesome! When?”

“Later on this afternoon,” Erik replied. “But I think we need to talk first.”

“About what?”

“About what we can say...and can't say, my love.  If we say the wrong thing about our relationship, it's going to be bad for both of us.”

Anders nodded, understanding exactly what Erik was saying. It was the first time they had talked about the “legality” of what they were doing, but it was really unnecessary: for the boy, that had been understood from the first moment Erik had taken off his clothes.

Erik's business manager called Anders' school to let them know what was going on and get their permission, which was quickly secured (indeed, as requested, it was faxed to Erik's changing room within minutes). And when they were ready an hour later, the interview went off as if Anders had been in front of the cameras all his life. The youngish-looking boy won the hearts of everyone: certainly the audience, the interviewer, and even the jaded technicians, who most of the time seemed to have heard it all.

In fact, when the boy expressed interest in the cameras and all the technology he saw positioned around the courts, one technician offered to give him and Erik's publicist a tour. Anders found it fascinating. At one point, the man led him under the stands, and Anders quickly became disoriented—until they stepped into a small room. He realized instantly where he was. There was a camera there, though no operator. The technician explained it was operated by remote control from the huge trailer truck which was the control room for the entire broadcast operation. Standing next to the huge remote-control camera, he realized how isolated it was; because of the angle of the stands, nobody in the stadium even knew it was there. Possibly the players themselves might notice an abrupt movement, but the boy doubted even the officials would be able to see the camera or anyone nearby. As he and the technician moved on, it suddenly occurred to Anders that this spot might be a perfect place to stand and cheer his favorite player on to victory.

By the next day, the BBC had picked up the story, and soon Erik's publicist was fielding all kinds of requests for interviews. In addition, when Erik brought Anders back to the school, the headmaster was waiting. “Mr. Pedersen,” he began, “we've been getting calls literally from all over the world: people asking about adopting this young man." The headmaster beamed, truly pleased at this turn of events. He was obviously expecting Anders to be pleased at the news as well. But both the boy and the tennis star were unexpectedly—and oddly—silent. The truth was, neither of them had anticipated that, and more to the point, neither had thought much about any time beyond the next few days. For a long time after his parents had died, Anders had no interest in having anyone take him.

Recently, though, he'd begun thinking about how long he might have to be at that school. But the past few days put all of that out of his mind. Time had seemed to stop, and his thoughts were located only in the here and now. And why shouldn't he be thinking that way, for rarely in any boy's life, was there such a dramatic change as what Anders had experienced in barely 72 hours.

There was, of course, all the public stuff: he was, himself, now something of a celebrity. Indeed, he'd even been asked for his autograph by “adoring fans”—many of them young girls, even some older ones as well. It was embarrassing—if not a bit exciting—though he could not help but suppress a smile whenever a boy (a cute boy at that) sought his signature. But the biggest changes—the ones that would change his life forever—were the private ones: the boy was now a sexual being in full blossom. He was in love, and he was learning to love in spiritual way as well as in the physical way—a way that embodies in human beings true commitment to another. It was profound.

At times the feelings and sensations he was experiencing seemed so alien and “naughty“, but at other times, it clearly fulfilled some deep, unmet longing—a longing that seemed to have been lurking deep inside him and was just now, thanks to Erik, finding its expression and coming into his consciousness. He knew there was much more for him to experience...and, if what he'd already experienced was any indication, what was to come would transport him to a truly different existence.

It was, in short, a time of great turmoil for him—wonderful, exciting, energizing turmoil—though admittedly, there were also moments when he was filled with uncertainty; those moments, however, melted away to nothingness whenever he was around Erik. With Erik, he was trusting and sure—no uncertainty in then. In fact, when he was with Erik, he was absolutely certain that what he was doing with Erik was so right, so good, so perfect. Never—at least since his parents had died—had his life seemed so complete and fulfilled.

So now, standing before the somewhat perplexed headmaster, what might otherwise have been extraordinarily exciting news, served only to darken an otherwise glorious day. Neither Erik not Anders could, in that moment, imagine life without the other. Finally, Erik managed a half-hearted comment acknowledging the headmaster's “good news.” Soon after that, he took his leave, but not before reminding the boy of the match coming up the next day.

Whilst his driver navigated back to his hotel, Erik normally would have been focused solely on the upcoming match. Tennis demands that kind of single-mindedness, but tennis was the farthest thing on the young athlete's mind. In one magical moment, he'd found the love of his life, but now it seemed as if that was about to be ripped from him just as abruptly. Unless...

Where moments ago, he was stymied and unfocused, now, after a flash of pure inspiration, he visualized the outcome he desired. He spent the next five minutes getting clarity about how he would proceed. Erik Pedersen was not one to accept loss—whether on or off the tennis court. There were calls to be made. He was already lining them up in his head. Once he'd made the necessary calls, he felt focused and centered, and then—and only then—did he turn his attention to the match tomorrow. As fate would have it, he was to face the French player, Fragonard again. There was a lot on the line, and he vowed to himself to be ready.


The afternoon saw Anders sitting in his now-familiar seat. It seemed nearly as many eyes were trained on him as on Erik. Anders was excited and not a little apprehensive; after all, Jacques Fragonard was the one who'd had him ejected, and he was the one—the only one who had thus far beaten Erik. The boy studied the Swedish player, his eyes, surveying every inch of his familiar body. Mixed in with his excitement and his apprehension was a momentary frustration. For nearly thirty-six hours he had not been able to touch Erik the way he wanted, and even more frustrating, Erik had not been able to pleasure him—awaken him, and he felt as if surely he must explode. One added emotion churned around with all the others: since the headmaster had told him of the sudden interest people had taken in adopting him, he'd felt a rising panic. In the short time he'd been with Erik, he'd felt satisfied with his life for the first time in a very long time. No matter who the people were he might end up with, there'd be no way they'd be able to afford the relationship Erik did, and now Anders would miss that more than he could imagine.

For over a day and a half he'd gone without the pleasure that only Erik Pedersen could bring him, and now watching him on the court, he felt as if he could barely hold it together. His foot, which bounced up and down like a jack hammer, was proof of that. Ever since he'd learned of anal sex, the idea had lodged firmly in his brain. He had to have Erik inside him. He pictured it in his mind; it often filled his thoughts. Now he felt his cheeks growing warmer; the idea simply would not go away.

“No hard feelings then?”

Anders turned in the direction of the voice. It was the French player.

“You can't have me ejected now,” the boy said coolly.

“Perhaps I don't want to, now,” Fragonard said. He deliberately eyed the boy's crotch. “You must know,” the player said, “it's all about strategy. I just did what I had to win. Nothing personal.” He continued to gaze down between the boy's legs, and predictably, a mound began to appear. The player leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Eh...I take back what he said about no hard feelings.” Now he looked up into the boy's eyes. “Nice,” he breathed and then added, “Perhaps you'd find a hot French stud more appealing.” He leered back at Anders and his intent was unmistakable. Anders squelched an urge to tell the player how revolting he was; didn't Fragonard understand that for Anders it was about more than...than that? Now the boy realized something that had been there all along: what he and Erik had was about way more than just sex; it was about love. Love! Pure, trusting, fulfilling, perfect.

The Frenchman saw the dreamy look that flowed across the beautiful face he gazed upon, and completely misread it. He thought the boy was actually considering his crass offer. Fragonard snorted, rolled his eyes, and then turned his attention once more to Erik. “C'est la vie,” Fragonard muttered, “Until later, then, my young friend.” Again he offered that lewd smile, and then stepped back to his warm ups. As Anders thought about the French player, suddenly it all made sense. Erik had said Fragonard knew he was a boy lover. And now Anders knew why: Fragonard was a boy lover, too. A shudder passed through the boy's slight frame, and he recoiled at the thought of being alone with that vile man.

In the first part of the match, Erik and Fragonard were actually quite evenly matched. Through four sets, the match was a draw. The fifth set, Erik came out ready to play. During the break he'd looked over at Anders, and the boy had given him a thumbs up. That seemed to give the Swedish player a second wind. He took the first three games, and was well on his way to the fourth, when a line judge made an absolutely terrible call in Fragonard's favor. After that, Erik tried to gather his thoughts and focus, but he was having a hard time of it. The call seemed to have just the opposite effect on the French player. By the end of the next game, the momentum seemed to have shifted, and Erik seemed visibly tired.

It's so unfair, thought the boy, unfair that Erik should again be in danger of losing to Fragonard because of something having nothing to do with his skill. Anders glanced around at the crowd which had grown quiet. As the crowd sensed the change in the players, Anders felt thousands of pairs of eyes on him. They all seemed to be feeling sorry for him because of what appeared now to be an unavoidable defeat for Erik Pederson. Anders also was aware of the TV cameras that seemed to be focused on him as well. The boy blinked, and squinted at the camera. And slowly an idea formed in his head.

At the end of that game, Anders exited the seating area. Carefully, he retraced the tour which the TV technician had given him just the other day. In no time, he was standing below the stadium seats next to the remote-controlled camera. In the back of the small room, he found a large equipment case. It was just what the boy needed. When the players stepped back onto the court, Fragonard was facing him from across the net. Anders carefully checked the stadium; no one else was able to see into the compartment.

Anders stepped back into the shadows and up onto the case. He lowered his shorts; his cock sprung free. He fingered himself and slowly, his body responded. When he was hard, he stepped forward with just enough light to catch his rapidly moving hand. He hoped this would work; it had to. On the court, Fragonard waited to receive the serve. Erik faulted on the first serve. The second was perfect, and Fragonard returned it perfectly as well, but then some movement caught his eye...and, as he returned the ball a second time, he glanced quickly into the camera compartment. He gazed on the most beautiful boy cock he could have imagined, and suddenly his focus was completely broken. In the next instant, he was doubled over in pain.

Erik had returned the ball with an unusual blast of power and prepared for Fragonard's volley, but it never came. The ball nailed the poor Frenchman right in the middle of his...um...“tennis whites.” Seeing that elicited a loud gasp from the crowd. Fragonard thrust down his racket to keep himself from falling over. He sucked in a sharp breath, and the color drained from his face. When he glanced again at the camera compartment, it was empty, save for the camera itself. The poor Frenchman even wondered if perhaps he'd imagined the whole thing, but then he glanced up to where Anders had been sitting, and the seat was empty.

Erik graciously allowed his opponent as much time as he needed to regain his...“composure“. The Frenchman again glanced up in the stands and found the boy. Anders was eating a sweet, and as he gazed down at Fragonard, he lifted his butt and adjusted his shorts. Anyone else looking would think nothing of it; however, the French player knew exactly what the subtle action meant. Anders smiled a smile of supreme satisfaction and then shifted his glance away from Fragonard.

After Erik had won, he and Anders walked down the corridor to the players' rooms. It was a bit of an awkward moment when Fragonard appeared in the hallway. “Good match,” Erik offered. “Tough break, though, losing your concentration like that.” Fragonard glared first at Erik, then at Anders.

“No hard feelings,” Anders breathed, and Erik looked at him and then his opponent, wondering what was going on. Fragonard reddened, and then stepped back into his changing room. Erik looked questioningly at the boy, but Anders just shrugged.

“Nice win,” the boy said. “It was sweet.” Anders's lover smiled, as did the boy, and together they stepped past the door marked, “Erik Pedersen“.

“So, my love, what was that all about?”

The boy's expression grew coy, and he shifted uneasily.

“Let's just say, I gave him a taste of his own medicine.”

“And that's all you're going to say?”

Anders smiled so that great dimples formed in his cheeks. “Mhmmm.”

Erik pulled the boy to him, and they grabbed onto each other and hugged and kissed, and between kisses, Erik managed, “For some reason, I think I need to say thank you.” He grinned down at his young lover.

Anders smiled right back. “Mhmmm," he said, "...a proper thank you.”

Erik's hand drifted down the boy's back and slipped under the back of the boy's shorts. “Oh, you do, do you?”

Anders giggled, but he never got a chance to answer; a knock on the door interrupted them. With effort they both broke away. It was Erik's business manager. “It's the school calling...again...apparently a decision about Anders is pressing.” “What!” gasped the boy. “So soon! No!” he cried tearfully. “It can't be!”

“Well, Anders,” Erik said softly, “it won't help to jump to conclusions. Maybe it's something else. You just have to take these things as they come. Would you like me to call and find out what all the hurry is?”

“Would you?” The boy sounded immediately relieved.

“Of course.” The business manager gave Erik the number, and then left them alone.

“Yes, Headmaster,” Erik began. “Yes, yes, he's right here.” He's getting a bit apprehensive, I believe, about the whole situation.”

It's funny how a phone conversation can sound totally different, when you're hearing only half of it. What Anders heard simply confirmed what he already feared: the school was moving quickly to place him, and that caused him immense distress. What Erik heard, however, caused none of the concern that Anders was feeling; in fact, quite the opposite.

“You okay,” Erik asked his lover.

In response, the boy held onto the man with an even tighter grasp. “I'm scared,” Anders said finally. “I don't want to go.”

“Well,” Erik whispered, tucking the boy's head under his chin, “perhaps you will be surprised where you end up.”

“Wherever it is,” the boy said, “it will be without you.”

“Ohhh...my sweet boy,” Erik breathed, and he pulled the boy closer to him if it was possible. “I never want that to happen.” He felt the boy press his belly against his package, and he slipped his hands up under the boy's shirt and savored his warm, silky smoothness. “Ahhh....me...Anders....what is to become of us...” The boy sighed, sounding as if he bore all the weight of the world's problems on his shoulders.

After dinner that night, they did not make love. They had intended to; in fact, Anders thought perhaps this would be the night his lover would introduce him to the pleasure of anal sex. Indeed, both thought they wanted that, but once they were naked, neither had the drive to move to the next steps. Instead, both realized it was enough just to be together—and both were unable to clear their minds of the thoughts that pressed in on them. But their time together was precisely what both needed more than anything else in these moments. They simply lay in the other's arms, holding each other, sharing in the heaviness that both felt.

At one point, Erik felt great, hot tears spill onto his chest. The man ran his fingers through the boy's silky, yellow hair, and comforted him. “Oh, my sweet boy,” he whispered. “I wish I could make it better for you...I so do wish that.” His hand travelled up and down the boy's back and came to rest—so naturally— on the thirteen year old's firm, exquisite bottom. “Ooohhh...my sweet boy...”


The semifinals were to begin early the next day, and before 8:30 that night, Anders was back at the school. The headmaster sent him off to his dorm, and then invited Erik into his office. There was much to talk about.

The talk of Wimbledon, on the other hand, was the slow, but steady refocusing of Erik Pedersen. “Nothing,” one commentator announced, “can keep the trophy from Pedersen now—not unless disaster strikes.” And as long as Anders and Erik found time to be together, disaster seemed distant indeed.

The match against Fragonard had been a turning point. It seemed to ignite Erik—that and having his “good luck charm” sitting in the stands.  With each match, Erik seemed to grow stronger. It was wonderful for Anders to be a part of all that, and wonderful, too, for Erik. The boy really did seem to help him focus; his enthusiasm and single-mindedness was infectious. And if Erik did have a break in his concentration, later, at dinner, or in Erik's hotel room, the boy would give the player his critique, something that others around the tennis star were reluctant to do. Nine times out of ten, the boy's assessments were correct, and rather than upset Erik, he was almost delighted that his young friend was able to see where he was going wrong.  Wimbledon's number one seed wanted to nothing more than to show his young lover that he was right.

The day of the men's finals turned out to be a day of extraordinary ups and downs for Anders. It began when the boy awakened with thoughts of Erik Finals match filling his head. But then immediately after breakfast, the adrenalin that was coursing through his veins evaporated with one, brief comment from the headmaster. “We've made a decision, Anders,” he said, “and we will discuss it with you later on today.”

“But the Finals are today!”

“Indeed, young man,” the headmaster said, “we are aware of that.”

And so it was, that even as Erik was holding the trophy high above his head, the boy was being torn in two, thrilled at his lover's victory...agonizing that this was all crashing down to a terrible, empty end. Erik would leave—he was scheduled to leave this very night on a private jet—and Anders would be taken by as yet unseen people. The boy had begged Erik to promise that he would stay in touch, and, of course, the man did promise to do exactly that, but the boy knew it could never again be the way it had been these past two weeks.

When it could be put off no longer, there was a teary farewell when at last Anders had to leave the winner. He understood of course that the Wimbledon champion had obligations—press conferences, endorsements, meet-and-greets as the publicist called them; in the midst of this, his business manager was also talking to him about something, and Erik was on the phone for long periods of time. For the boy, it was all happening too fast. And in the midst of it all, the school called requiring him to return “forthwith”—a word that Anders could imagine coming directly from the headmaster's mouth.

Upon a tearful return to the school, the boy was directed to shower, and dress in the school uniform. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he prepared himself as directed. The preparations to meet his new “parents”—no, step-parents, he corrected, were painful; at one point he even contemplated running away. But the boy recognized immediately the folly of that. In the end, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve once more, and slipped on his school blazer.

Now he waited to be called into the headmaster's office, snuffling, with red eyes, and an unbearable heaviness in his heart. At last the door opened, and the headmaster beckoned him in. “Anders,” the headmaster said, “there's been a bit of a delay...unavoidable, I suppose, under the circumstances...but this will be over soon enough. In the meantime, there's the exit interview I must undertake with you.” With that, the headmaster opened a file folder and removed several pages of questions. Forty-five minutes later, the headmaster had finished with all the questions. He placed the papers back in the manila folder, straightened them, closed the folder and neatly arranged it squarely on the blotter on his desk. Then he took another folder, this one also clearly having Anders' name written boldly on the tab. “Now then, Anders, there is something I say to all our exiting students: We are not abandoning you. We will check in with you periodically—several times during the first year, fewer contacts in the ensuing years. However, if at any time you feel things are not going the way they should, please let us know about your concerns when we contact you.”

The headmaster looked suddenly uncomfortable, and after a moment's silence it became clear he had nothing more to say to the boy. It was at this moment that the headmaster's phone rang again, and he answered it. “Oh, thank you, Ms Brigham...Yes, now is fine.” The headmaster seemed visibly relieved, and said simply to Anders, “It's time.” And then the door was opening.

At first, Anders' brain had seemed unable to process what was happening. He seemed dazed. He was terribly confused. Then the headmaster was speaking again—though in Anders' ears he seemed a thousand miles away. “Anders, this is your...stepfather.” Even then, the boy didn't seem to understand. He stood, mouth agape and tried to form a thought. It took his new stepfather to break through to him: “Anders...” He held open his arms.

The boy looked first to the headmaster, who wore a bemused expression, and then the boy fairly leapt into his stepfather's arms. “Erik,” he whispered...and again, tears fell from his eyes...tears of utter release, tears of joy.

It took remarkably little time to pack the boy's belongings. The school quite possibly had never been in such turmoil, but then, it had never had the Wimbledon Men's Champion appear at their door just hours after a stunning win on center court. In less than an hour, they were back in the headmaster's office. Erik thanked him for all his help, and then offered the man an envelope. “Here is the first contribution for your new project." Anders looked questioningly.

The school is building a new athletic complex: gym, swimming pool, and even two tennis courts.” The headmaster beamed, and Erik smiled and shook his hand. “The facility,” the headmaster said with a note of pride, “will be known as the Erik Pedersen Athletic Complex.”

“It is an honor, Headmaster,” Erik said graciously. “And now, sir, I'm sure you'll understand when I say I'm a bit tired, and we have a long flight ahead of us.”

“Of course, of course,” the headmaster mumbled. He vigorously shook Erik's hand, and then thrust his hand out and shook Anders's hand as well.

“Well...” Erik said as he held the door of the limo open. He gazed at Anders—at his stepson. The boy looked up questioningly; he was still dazed. “Get in, Anders...there's a plane waiting for us.”


The two figures walked along the white sands of the beach at sunset. Their feet danced among the gentle waves. The moon, full or nearly full, rose from the water on one side of the point as the last pale remnants of the orange-pink sun was fading above the western horizon. The two walked hand in hand, one tall, one coming up to just below the taller one's shoulder. At one point, the two stopped, and the smaller one—a boy—picked up something from the beach and threw it out over the water. The taller figure—a man—moved his hand gently over the boy's shoulder, and then his hand drifted down the boy's back and came to rest on the boy's butt. The boy turned, reached up, and hugged the man, and the man bent down slightly, and they kissed. After a moment, the man picked the boy up, and carried him from the private beach to the villa.

Outside, they showered, removing the sand and salt from their bodies, and removing their Speedos as well. They swam, naked for a time in the pool, and when refreshed, climbed out and dried each other off. Then the boy climbed up on the man, wrapping his strong, lithe legs around the man's waist. The boy's arms encircled the man's shoulders, and he leaned his head down on the man's shoulders.

“I think I'm ready,” Anders said softly.

“Okay, my love,” Erik whispered in the boy's ear, and then he stepped from the pool area through filmy curtains into their bedroom. Erik placed the boy—his boy—one the king-sized bed, and retrieved a bottle of lube from the nightstand.

The boy lay unmoving. This was not something he was doing casually. As Erik had explained to him, this would change his life. “We'll do this when you're ready; it doesn't have to be on any specific day,” Erik had told him as they had talked about it. And indeed, Anders had asked to have time to think about it. Three days had passed since they'd arrived at the island. Then, as they strolled along the beach just a few hours ago, Anders announced that he'd made his decision. “Erik, ever since I found out that men could have sex this way, I've wanted it,” the boy had said. “It's scary sometimes, thinking about it, and I've listened to what you've said: I know it's going to hurt—at first anyway, but I...I dunno...I need you inside me. I don't know how to explain it. I have to feel you there. I want you to be...to be...part of me. I dunno, Erik...it doesn't make sense, but I need it.”

“Oh...Anders," the man responded, "...it makes perfect sense to me, and afterward, it will to you as well.”

They had returned to the house then and the man had selected a tool—a butt plug, the man had called it. Erik had placed the boy on the bed (“All fours, honey, doggie-style“) and lovingly lubed up the boy's anus. He used only one finger at first, then two, and finally, when the boy appeared comfortable with two, three. Anders whimpered at the man's three fingers cruelly assaulted him, but the man was patient, and the boy, willing. When Anders finally became comfortable with the man's three fingers, as Erik knew he would, he slowly withdrew them and quickly set the tip of the plug in their place. The tight pucker winked in on itself, and the man, determined not to rush the boy, held the plug steady and waited. Several minutes passed, and then Erik felt the boy relax and loosen. With a gentle twisting motion, he pressed the wedge-shaped plug into the boy's hole. At first, there was resistance, as Erik knew there would be, but then with his persistent, tender pressure, the boy's resistance gave way, and the plug began its slow journey inward.

The boy groaned as the plastic tool entered him, but he actually pressed backward, willing himself to “take it all.” The tool had a sort of lip around it, and when this wider part pressed past the boy's tight anal rim, he actually buried his face in the pillow and Erik heard a muffled cry. But when Erik had finally gotten the wider part past the boy's rim, the boy's chute almost seemed to suck the rest of the tool deep inside him. There were straps that Erik could attach to the thing to help hold it in place, and that is what he now did. For the first part of their walk, Anders moved—waddled—almost like a small child trying to keep from having to having a bowel movement.

At first, Anders was afraid the tool would pop out, but Erik assured him this was not possible, given the straps and the shape of the thing. And so, for the better part of two hours, the boy had held the plug deep inside him. For Erik's part, he felt some relief, knowing the boy's virgin hole was being stretched so that he would be ready if and when he wanted to go to the next step. For the boy's part, he had never felt so full. It was also more comfortable than the man's fingers. Thus it was, that over the course of evening, Anders began walking more normally—though occasionally if he moved in an unexpected way, a gasp would escape from his lips. Before they had left the first time, Erik had taken a large, soft rubber sheet from a bureau drawer, sandwiched it between two plush towels, and spread it like a sheet over the sheets on the bed. Then, hand in hand, they went for their walk. The natural action of the boy's body as he ambled easily along would prepare the muscled chute which firmly held the plug in place. When the boy had truly grown comfortable with it, he had leaned into the man and whispered, “I think I'm ready.”

Now they had returned to their bedroom; both sensed the “specialness” of the moment, and yet “special” was barely adequate to define what they were feeling. It would not have been too much to suggest it was a sacred moment—a kind of sharing that two people rarely experience.

Erik turned the boy so he was on his back, and Anders looked up at him. The expression on his face said it all: the boy was serious, committed, but understandably apprehensive. Indeed, he worried that he might not do it “right“, that he might not be able to take the pain that he knew would be a part of his initiation to the wonders of anal sex, that he wouldn't be able to provide his lover with the pleasure he wanted to.

“Just relax, my sweet,” Erik said. “That's the key, Anders: relax.” Erik leaned in and kissed the boy.

When the man lifted away, Anders offered, “I want to make it good for you.”

“Oh, Anders, you will.” Now Erik leaned down again, and began a slow ritual, kissing every centimeter of skin he could reach. His tongue toyed with the boy's two small, coppery nipples, and Anders gasped as he felt his lover's tongue bring the two little nail points to erection. Waves of arousal flooded through the boy's body. Anders expected those sensations to be familiar, but the sheer anticipation of what was at hand made everything new. Erik's hands continued drifting like a feather in a breeze over the boy's neck, and shoulders and arms, right down to his fingertips. The youth's skin was so soft, so smooth, so warm, so inviting...so perfect, and the man's touches were awakening him—sensitizing him—preparing his body for the change that it would soon be experiencing.

The boy was so good; he was trying to do exactly what Erik had asked: He was trying to relax, but it was difficult. While he breathed slowly and easily, the man could see waves of energy surging through the 14-year-old body; it alternately tightened and eased, quite independently of any response the boy willed. Indeed, that is one of the true joys of sex, the man reflected: giving yourself over to an unseen power that surges into your body—trusting it, opening yourself up to it, allowing it to totally possess you, being vulnerable. Erik had made love to the boy enough times already that he knew—he could see—those things happening to the boy's lovely body.

For his part, the boy lay open, understanding even now that his role here was much more passive than active—at least for this first time. His body—which was being assaulted by the energy which he had come to crave—would become a vessel which would contain his lover. He would open himself, and the man's essence would enter him. He didn't understand it, but he knew it must be.

Erik kissed down past the boy's throbbing boy-spike, and his pulled-up balls. He smiled momentarily thinking that soon, those small orbs would virtually disappear—retreating into his body as it tried to protect those two precious treasures; it would happen as soon as his huge tool pressed its way past the boy's defenses—and unless the boy was extraordinarily passive—necessarily almost to the point of unconsciousness—then his tight anal ring would fight the thick intruder.

Earlier, the man had released the straps holding the plug in place, but he'd made no attempt to remove the tool itself . He intended to remove it only at the last moment, for its presence would help keep the boy loose and—hopefully—minimize the pain that both knew was coming.

Erik rubbed his nose lightly over the boy's pubes. The tip of his nose, he'd discovered, was the best way to feel the very lightest of hairs that over the past week had just begun to appear. That knowledge elicited another smile from the man; it was one more sign that the long-awaited (on Anders' part) beginnings of puberty were at hand. Erik would love watching those changes. The hair was so soft, so light as to be invisible, but it was there like the finest silk, and the man nuzzled it before kissing the boy's penis, its full length.

But tonight wasn't necessarily about Anders' genitals; it was about his bottom; it was likely if he achieved an orgasm—when he achieved an orgasm—it would be a very different one to what he had come to expect of his body's response. Erik had tried to explain the difference, but he recognized that to fully appreciate the difference, the boy would have to experience it himself.

Throughout his “tongue-worship” of the boy's body, Erik had—like a scientist—observed the changes in the boy. Contrary to relaxing, the boy had grown more desperate, more needy. Now all that extraordinary, surging energy that the man's touches were releasing made the boy cry out, stating once and for all, his need: “Put it in!” It was an odd, whimpering command—a plea.

Erik needed no further instruction. “Get me ready,” he breathed; it was as if Anders' need was infectious, for as soon as the boy had spoken, Erik felt his manhood twitch, and he suddenly shared his young lover's need to move ahead.

In short order Anders squeezed out sufficient lube to slick Erik's throbbing cock. Erik lifted the boy's bottom slightly, resting it on his thighs. He pressed back on the boy's legs, bending them toward his chest, and levering them outward. The effect was to expose the boy's hole and the plug that still blocked it from his lover's view.

“I'm going to take it out now,” Erik whispered, and the boy nodded his assent. The man grasped the tool's rim, and with slow, gentle twisting motions, began to ease it out. When the thicker part—the part that had held the tool in place began to press against his stretched rim, the boy moaned. “I'll go slow,” Erik said quietly, knowing—as the boy himself knew—that more pain would soon follow. With more twisting and patience, eventually the plug moved past the bulge, and then, as if realizing the worst was over, the boy's anus practically launched the tool into Erik's hand—glad, it seemed, to be free of the pressure.

Anders gasped at the sudden emptiness, and he recognized how quickly he had grown to savor the fullness in his belly. “Put it in,” he repeated, now practically whining he was so desperate. Erik leaned down and kissed his sweet lips one more time, and then, with the boy's stretched hole having nearly returned to its normal size, Erik brought his tool to the mark. He watched as the tip of his tool touched the boy's small pucker. It winked, pulling in on itself. The immense difference in sizes made him shudder, and he wondered at the ability of that part of the boy's body to expand as would be required. He moved the tip of his penis around in tiny circles, in effect kissing the boy's pucker with the lips of his piss slit. A slick of precum formed over the boy's sweet bud as his cock continued to ooze.

Erik glanced up at the boy's face, and saw a look of utter concentration flow into him. The boy seemed to will himself to relax, seemed to steel himself to what would come. Erik sensed the change in his lover. “Open up to me, Anders,” he breathed. The boy seemed to settle even more, and Erik pressed in. He felt the boy's anus tighten momentarily, but then, as he watched the boy's expression change to one of sheer determination, he felt the pucker loosen just slightly, and he pressed in. As quickly as Erik pressed in, Anders' tight rim contracted, squeezing the man's cockhead tightly. The boy cried out and his face drained of color. Erik looked down at the boy, and felt only a sense of overwhelming love for the boy. “I know, Anders,” he mumbled, “I know.”

The boy panted like a dog—breathing in short, sharp breaths, his anus trying desperately to rid itself of the intruder, but Erik knew what he needed to do, as did the boy, for they had talked in great detail about what would happen. Erik remembered his own initiation, and how painful it had been, but he also knew that if Anders could work through his pain, then the pleasure would be like nothing he'd felt before.

“We'll wait,” Erik said softly, and wait they did. At some point the boy's anus seemed to realize this was a battle it would not win, and it tentatively seemed to ease its opposition. Erik glanced down between them and could see that about half his cock head was lodged within the taut ring of muscle. The tissue, which was normally a brownish-pink was now a pale yellowish-white. The pucker seemed stretched to its limit, yet the head of his penis had yet to pass through the boy's anal barrier. “This is the worst part,” Erik offered, hoping to assure him. Anders nodded tentatively, seemingly not convinced about anything at the moment. Erik massaged the boy's legs and buttocks. “Try to relax, Anders,” he said quietly, and when it seemed the tightness surrounding his cockhead had eased a bit, he grasped the boy by his hips and pressed deeper. Predictably the same thing happened. The pain had become too great, the boy's body spasmed, and the already tight ring became even tighter.

Anders looked up at the man. I can't: that's what he wanted to say, but he didn't want to fail in this; he wanted to open himself to the man, to let him in. He would not fail. And so, with all the resolve he could summon, he willed himself to relax—to open that place that was so tight. He would do it! He would master his body, and force it to open.

Erik watched the boy grow even more focused. It was an amazing thing, and then, it was even more amazing when he felt the tight ring loosen, and Erik slowly pressed his tool home. The pain had subsided a bit, but the moment Erik moved, Anders furiously sucked in a breath and froze. He felt as if he were being torn apart. Erik almost felt his head “pop” into place as the corona around the corona finally pressed past the resistant ring. A cry tore from the boy's throat, and a tear spilled onto his cheek.

Erik lowered his mouth, being careful not to put any more pressure on the boy's anus, and kissed away the tear. “There, there, my sweet boy,” he breathed. “So brave.” He kissed him again. “You know, don't you,” he said, “that 'Anders' means 'strong'. You are strong. I am so proud of you.”

“It hurts,” the boy murmured.

“I know, my love. I know. It will get better. You have to move through the pain...relax...” Eventually Anders did exactly that, and eventually it did get better. When the boy again willed his anus to open, and Erik felt the pressure lessen, he—as gently as possible—eased his big tool further into the boy's tight chute. Anders remained rigid as if any movement might trigger a monstrous quake that would rend him in two. The boy was exquisitely tight. For all the pain he felt, Erik felt the opposite on his throbbing penis. There was such heat...such tightness surrounding him. Incredible. His cock pulsed with his heartbeat, and each time Erik's penis jumped, the boy's body stiffened. When Erik felt his blond pubes crushed against the boy's bottom, he whispered, “my love, I'm home...we are truly one now.” Anders let out a long, slow sigh of utter relief. He was weak, and exhausted, but they were only halfway to the nirvana Erik knew the boy would soon be feeling.

Again the man waited, and again he covered the boy with kisses, and again the boy—despite his pain (or perhaps because of it) felt his body responding, awakening.

Slowly, Erik pulled back, watching for Anders' every response. “Better?” Erik asked?

Anders appeared momentarily confused, almost shaking his head, no. “Empty,” the boy murmured, and Erik smiled. Already, the boy was recognizing the fulfillment that he'd longed for when his lover's manhood filled him. Erik understood that completely, for it was how he had felt when his lover had taken his virginity. Erik looked down. The boy's testicles had practically disappeared—sucked up into the protective canals from which they had once descended. Anders' tight, wrinkled scrotum simply revealed a gentle mounded swelling. The boy stared down at his boy tool which was also uncharacteristically soft.

His lover saw the look of concern on his face and quickly reassured him: “It's normal with anal sex. Too many other things going on.” The man flashed a quick smile and the boy nodded but seemed unconvinced. “You ready?” Erik asked, and when the boy again nodded, he slowly eased back into the boy. Anders sucked in a slow, raspy breath, matching in time the inward movement of the penis that was once more filling him. It was almost as if the man's cock was a lever operating the boy's lungs. When man had gone as far a he could, the breathy sounds ceased. Erik leaned in and they kissed; it was an urgent, hard, and needy kiss, and one did not satisfy. Now Erik, sensing the boy had moved past the initial surge of slashing pain, began a slow rhythmic cycle of thrusting and withdrawing. The sensations on his penis were like nothing he'd felt before, and he didn't know how long he could hold out.

Erik felt his lover miraculously loosen even more, and he picked up his pace. With each thrust, Ander's body would jerk slightly, and a small moan would escape from his throat. It was, curiously, a quiet echo of the groans often heard on the tennis courts, though shorter, and softer, and perhaps less mechanical sounding. “Oh, God,” the boy murmured with his eyes seemingly focused on some unseen thing above their glistening bodies. “Harder,” the boy begged, and Erik was pleased to oblige. That seemed to be like shifting a Porsche into a higher gear, and wave after wave of pure, raw energy surged through the boy's body. Anders was giving his lover his entire being, and that essence had been localized in the boy's rectum. With the harder thrusts, Erik's tool bumped into that magic gland deep inside the boy, and when that happened loud cries of ecstasy punctuated the litany of little moans. Something else happened, too. The huge man tool bumped into the boy's bladder, and not surprisingly small spills of golden syrup fell from the boy's limp penis and drooled only to the sheets. Again Anders lifted his head, and when he realized what was happening, his expression became one of concern.

"It's okay, Anders. Remember, we talked about this happening. That's one reason why the rubber sheets here. It's fine...it's not a problem." He smiled reassuringly, and increased his action in the boy's rectum. Now the boy's response changed again; once more his body shifted into yet a higher gear. It was extraordinary to see the boy's body respond with total abandon. It was as if some alien serpentine creature had possessed the small body, for each part of it seemed to move almost independently of the other—alternating between being impossibly rigid, then as flaccid as his penis. That spurred Erik to ratchet up his own movements. Now the boy thrust his arms out at sharp angles to his sides and grabbed handfuls of sheets. His eyes rolled up into his head, and his head thrashed from side to side. Anders had lost all control; his body was responding only to the massive tool that pumped wildly into it. The boy—no doubt totally unaware of what was happening—screamed and cried in utter rapture. Suddenly, the boy's body seemed to spasm as if a grand mal seizure had struck. It almost seemed to levitate, lifting the boy above the bed, and a high-pitched squeal tore from his throat. That drove the man past the point of control, and with one final thrust, he began a violent seizure of his own—his body desperately seeking to expel what it needed to—one, twice, five times, eight times in blinding succession. And each time the boy uttered an almost pathetic cry of total release.

And then the storm of their virginal passion was over. A complete sense of peace flowed into them, and with their bodies still inextricably linked, they settled into their shared nirvana. Only the distant waves, gently washing up onto the beach suggested they remained in this existence. Erik knew the weight of his body would crush the boy, so with his final reserve of strength, he grasped the boy's softened buttock firmly in his hands, and gently rolled him over, so the boy was now stretched on him.


In some ways it seemed so long ago: that wondrous night. Now, some four years later, Anders lay in the same bed; his sleeping lover at his side. Their relationship had changed over the years, for indeed they were both boy lovers. Anders reached down and scratched among the tight curls of his own golden pubic hairs, then reach over and gently stroked Erik's smooth belly. The older man stirred and opened his eyes, and just in time it seemed, for suddenly the door burst open, and two hungry-eyed youngsters, naked with handsome little erections sprang onto the bed. “Sleepy head! Who's a sleepy head!” they chanted, and giggled wildly. They were extraordinary: bronzed bodies, firm and healthy. They were twins—identical in nearly every way—and they were clearly ready for some fun.

“Ok, ok,” Erik said, ticking one while Anders grabbed the other and gave him the same treatment. Anders gazed lovingly at the two boys. They were 12 years old—12 years and 8 months, they'd clarify if given the opportunity, but already they were more knowledgeable about how to pleasure their bodies and their lovers' bodies than Anders had been at their age plus two years.

“Come here, you,” Anders breathed, drawing one of the twins to him. The boy grabbed at Anders big cock. “Hey, hey,” the blond young man said, and wrapped his strong arms around the boy. “Plenty of time for that later. Right now, I just want to hold you. And then there's breakfast waiting.” Both boys pulled faces at that; they had something else on their minds, but the men moved so their backs rested against the headboard. Then they drew the boys tightly to them, savoring the warm softness of their exquisite skin. The two men shared similar thoughts in these moments: they were reflecting how often they had lain in the exact place, arm and arm, watching the early morning sun dance over the waters beyond their bedroom. Again, the 12-year-old, perhaps absentmindedly, perhaps with intent, let his hand drift down to find Ander's tool. Anders looked over and saw the same thing happening next to him. “Ohhh...you guys...”

“Please,” the youngsters whined together.

Anders and Erik exchanged glances. “I can't believe it,” Anders said in a tone of mock irritation.

Erik laughed out loud. “I can, my love...it wasn't too long ago that you were their age.” Anders leaned over and the two men kissed.

“Me, too! Me, too!” the boys screamed.

The day was beginning, but—it seemed—breakfast would have to wait.