Date: Thu, 7 Oct 2010 20:08:54 +0100 From: Cynthia Parsons Subject: Mack and the boy Hi, it's me, Cynthia. This is my second story on Nifty, which is a tiny bit longer than the first one (Mack and John). I had some lovely emails from some guys after my first story, so thanks for those. I'd still love to hear from more people, though, so please email me if you like this. And if there are any other girls out there, get in touch and let me know I'm not the only one! Hugs, Cynth (cynthiaparsons@hotmail.com) Mack spotted the boy among dozens of others, standing out like a beacon shining in the darkness. He filled his lungs, imagining that he could catch the scent of him across the distance between them. He was a lion, hunting. Straining muscles held in check by infinite patience, a coiled spring ready to unwind. The boy was his prey, a lithe, agile gazelle, all thinness and grace. He ran with the ease of youth, the balance and poise of the naturally gifted. Bodies drifted past him, clouds slinking past the summit of a monumental peak. He towered above them, immovable and resolute. Still the boy remained, alone now, still running. Mack watched, unmoved, taking in the sight. If this was all were was to be, let him wallow in the sight of him, a moment's perfection, a spark in the gloom of an empty life, devoid of love, of passion. Still the boy played on, running, kicking, retrieving. Mack's nostrils flared. Now the scent was real, the hunt was joined, the game was on. He walked forward, feeling not earth beneath his feet, but the soft carpet of thin air. His head span with the unreality of it all. The ball came to him, its surface marred with mud and grass, an anchor to the real world, a reminder that they were not angels playing at the gates of heaven. Everything else seemed so ethereal, so devoid of the dull, monotonous feel of the everyday. He could never be ordinary, this shard of light stolen from the heart of the sun. The boy's warmth suffused Mack, heating his blood to boiling point, and he was yet distant. The other game was joined. The real game, the game where a man and a boy pass a ball back and forth, for the enjoyment of both. Oh yes, it was enjoyable for Mack. He somehow knew it would be, but was surprised to find himself drawn into the boy's world with such ease. So simple a pleasure, so much more innocent than the games he planned to play when the sun had set and darkness enveloped them in its comforting bosom. A drink. That seemed the right thing to offer. The boy looked thirsty. In more ways than one, or was Mack just imagining it? The thought of the boy's parched mouth suddenly seemed overwhelming to Mack. He had to offer the boy a drink. Had to offer. For no other reason than the boy was thirsty, of course. It was accepted. The eagerness in the boy's face was clear - Mack was famous, at least to local young boys. A player in the small-league-winning local side. It was a dangerous game he played, but his heart swelled at the thought of the boy, and heart won out over head. His presence at the field was safe enough. The boy's presence in his flat would not be. Oh, but for him no price would be too great, no penalty worth more than the winning of the game. A milkshake, of course. Questioning eyes of the girl behind the counter rebuffed with nonchalance, a table in the corner sought out, Mack's anonymity ensured by his lack of real, honest fame. The boy had probably barely recognised him. They talked, of this and that. At least, Mack thought of this and that. It could have been one or the other, or both, or anything at all. Milk dribbled from the corner of the boy's smiling mouth. His tongue glistened pinkly with the cream-coloured liquid which had bought Mack another half hour of his time. Then, of course, the drink was gone, the very last of it sucked with gleeful abandon from the heart of the straw, a pink tongue-tip gathering the last errant droplets from plump, red lips. An open mouth, showing the proof that every last, milky drop was gone. Mack shuddered, his mind unable to resist transposing one image onto another. Mack shook himself. It was an innocent act, nothing more. The boy was an innocent, too young to realise the implications of his actions, what they might mean to an adult. Yet deep down Mack hoped that he understood, that he intended the comparison, for if the boy did not, how was Mack ever to communicate his desire? His plans relied on the corruption of the boy's soul to have already come to pass. Nervous fingers fumbled with currency, spilling coins onto the table. The boy grinned, retrieved those which rolled onto his side of the table, dropped them into Mack's outstretched hand. Did the fingers brush against his palm deliberately? Was that touch sought after, deliberate? The boy's smile gave the only answer worth listening to. Suddenly the truth crystallised in Mack's mind. Uncertainty was banished, giving way to the excitement he had so strongly suppressed. There was a film on at the cinema. There was always a film on at the cinema. Why had he said something so obvious? But the boy understood, knew the film of which Mack spoke with such a lack of eloquence. And yes, he really wanted to see it. Mack would take him, of course he would. The boy, still in his football uniform, muddy kneed, a scruffy little angel, disappeared and reappeared moments later, shorts swapped for jeans, shirt swapped for something a little cleaner, but certainly not fresh and all the better for it. And his hair, when had that become styled? Mack regarded the boy with a certain sense of wonder. Such little embellishments, such minor changes, so great an impact. His heart beat ever faster as they walked toward their date. He had not asked if the boy had to be home, he did not want to know the answer. He shook as he bought the tickets. Was the girl behind the counter wondering about them? Was she going to call her manager over as soon as they entered the cinema? Would he be trapped like the rat that he was? No. Nothing of the sort. No emotion registered on her face, nothing given away. No shock, nothing. Just the bored, resigned countenance of someone who is being poorly paid for a terrible job. The passed the young lad on the door, equally bored, and then they were into the corridor. But first, suddenly, the boy wanted to pee. Did he dare follow? Could it possibly be acceptable? No time to wonder, because his feet were following without the instruction from him brain. Good old reliable feet. They stood together, father and son to the rest of the world, lovers yet to know each other should the truth be known. The boy's most intimate part on display, in an innocent way. Yet to Mack there was no such thing as innocence. He stared unabashed at the tiny morsel of flesh, the thing by which he hoped to bring the boy the ultimate pleasure, the tiny, skinny little thing he would give anything to make his own, if just for the night. The boy smiled. He had made an assessment of his own. The film. What could be said of a film from which Mack could not recite a single line? Not terrible, but unmemorable in the light of the boy, who outshone actors, plot, direction to no little extent. And then suddenly it was gone, and they were among the crush to leave, the boy's hand having somehow snaked into his own, warm, soft, trusting, just like the boy's smile. Trusting. No comment was passed. They simply drove, the boy snuggling down into the warm leather of the fast car's passenger seat, eyes scanning the streetlights as they passed. Up the newly painted hallway with it's strong smell of fresh paint, to the newly installed door smelling like nothing so much as a sawmill, into the newly built flat which still held the scent of just-installed carpet, fluff-balls covering its surface accusingly. To the sofa, where the television was pressed into service, to provide a background, a backdrop, a diversion, something with which to keep the mind shielded from reality. The boy watched, even as Mack's hand alighted on his thigh, even as his fingers grasped the muscle. Even as the man moved closer and had oh so lightly kissed his ear, his neck, the top of his collar bone. Only when Mack's hand turned his head away from the screen to kiss him full upon the lips did he finally respond. Hesitant at first, and then suddenly, as if a dam had burst inside, passionate, hungy, needful. Hands wrapped around Mack's neck, holding him close into the kiss, forcing him to remain until the boy was done with him. In response Mack's strong hands gripped the boy, first his flanks, then his hips, then his rounded behind as he pulled the boy on top if him. The kissing paused to allow the passage of the boy's shirt, and then Mack's own, discarded carelessly on the floor. A moment's further kissing, and then a break again, as hands frantically worked at catches, the boy's golden laughter filling the room as hands touched his skin, suddenly agonisingly ticklish as excitement got the better of him. Mack, too, was suddenly denuded, the boy as eager as the man had been to unwrap his prize, to see again what it was that he had only glimpsed before. Mack's blood coursed strongly at the thought of being allowed to pleasure the boy. Like the needle of a compass the boy's cute little spike pointed directly to him, quivering in anticipation, a metronome measuring the rhythm of his heartbeat. He was small, so small, and suddenly frail seeming, submissive, expectant, fearful. A smile curled the corners of his lips, but his eyes betrayed uncertainty. Mack's heart went out to the boy - so eager, so driven by flooding hormones, so ready for this and yet so unready. He remembered his own first forays, so frightening, yet so full of gut-wrenching excitement. Mack's hand alighting on the boy's skin made him jump. It was but a prelude to the main act, one which Mack began with relish. Muscles strained to breaking point, the boy's body arched upwards from the cushions beneath. He gasped, his face a rictus of pleasure so strong that it verged on pain, experiencing sensations unlike any other he had felt before. Fingers grasped at hair, toes curled until fiery cramp was felt, thighs crushed against ears. The boy's pleasure was complete, and consuming. It took him, flung him this way and that, forced beads of sweat out onto his brow, wetting his blonde hair until it lay dark against his skin. He thrust, impotent but not powerless, immature but aware. As the feelings within him ebbed away and he returned from the peak of his excitement he smiled once more, this time wantonly, lasciviously, contentedly. The boy's love for Mack was a devotion. The softness of his hands on Mack's body, the feel of the boy's perfect skin against his own, the touch of his tongue upon Mack's raging manhood. Blackness crowded out vision, then was superseded by flashing lights. Mack sunk deeper and deeper into the pit, walls surrounding him, crowding him, focussing his sensation on a single point which must have been part of his body, and yet where was his body? There was only that point, singular, alone, the source of all that was wonderful in the universe, the seed of heaven itself. When release from his torment came he was lifted clear of the pit, rushing upward, soaring skyward, screaming starward. Flashing lights became blackness, and then vision once more, and then the boy's smiling face, his countenance marred with something unspeakable, his innocence gone, ruined, replaced with something animalistic, something so much more utterly desirable. The gazelle had shed his skin, become a lion cub, full of a power all his own. He swallowed once, twice, his pink tongue glistening wetly again, his empty mouth shown off in such a perfect mirror of his earlier action that Mack lurched as butterlfies flooded his stomach. The cub growled, snarled, leapt, pinned Mack to the ground, possessed him, gnawed at his retracted flesh, grinned insouciantly. His tail may have been between his legs, but for the moment the cub was king, and Mack submitted with divine pleasure as he once again felt the beast rise within. This time he would possess the whole of the boy.