Date: Thu, 29 Mar 2012 18:13:29 +0100 From: Ivor Sukwell Subject: Matthew Warning: This story is masturbation fantasy and wish fulfilment and contains sexual activity between a man and a boy. If this is not your thing then it would be better not to read it, and if it is your thing but, for reasons of law or age, you know you should not read it, then you continue at your own risk. This is a work of fiction and the characters are not real and not based, knowingly, on real people. Matthew A story by Ivor Sukwell "Love your body, Matt," the man whispered, having eased off nuzzling soft, smooth neck and lifted his head so he could gaze down the full length of firm, silky, adolescent flesh. "Mmmm," Matt purred back in appreciation; it was nice being told that your body was an object worthy of admiration, even though, a bare month ago -- was it really as long as that? -- the mere thought of being naked for a man to admire it would have brought him to a fierce, cold, sweat of denial. Matthew was not gay; he wasn't straight either and it would have been stretching things to label him as bisexual; he was a fifteen year old teenager and up until that moment a month ago, he had been strictly monosexual, his relief coming from his right hand with the occasional assistance of his left if he fancied some variation. So what was it that had brought him to this, to lying naked on a bed in the arms of a man more than old enough to be his father -- he was actually a neighbour and a friend of his father -- being nuzzled and stroked and told that he had a delightfully desirable body? He had no argument with the man's assessment of his flesh, it corresponded quite accurately with his own. Almost six feet tall, broad shouldered and deep chested, good looking and fair haired with the added bonus of full, firm and still smooth thighs, Matthew was a good example of adolescent male beauty; despite his solid build he had lost none of the slender coltishness of teenage years. Soon the hand that was stroking his flank would wander across, resting briefly of his tight patch of pubic hair before moving down to cup and gently juggle his full balls and finally grasping the prize of his upward pointing and very hard prick. It was not an enormous cock, if anything it was a little smaller than the ones many of his contemporaries possessed, although Matthew had no first hand evidence of that, but in its design and construction it was, like the rest of him, an example of teenage perfection. Perhaps five and a half inches in length -- Matthew was not a boy who indulged in daily measurement -- and probably not reaching even four in circumference, it was an object of beauty. A long, torpedo head that began almost at a point and swelled to a prominent ridge where head joined shaft, it was tipped with an ample bud of foreskin, enough to keep the sensitive glans fully covered even at full hardness, yet sliding easily backwards when required to do so. Both man and boy preferred all to remain skincovered for manual activity, but lips peeled him comfortably for tongue to flicker across exposed glans and drive boy to agonies of pleasure. The man, he knew, would spend some time stroking and kissing his flesh before he lifted his legs for analingus, which he liked, or for fucking, which he liked even more, or for both, which he liked best of all. And while the preparatory adoration of his body was taking place, Matthew, as he so often did in these circumstances, allowed his mind to wander over the events that had brought him to his present, delightful, situation. It wasn't that he wanted, in any way, to take his mind off the extremely pleasant sensations that he got from being cuddled and fondled by the man, it was the complete opposite; thinking back to how it all started actually made things even better for him. Remembering how so unreservedly and completely he had given himself to the man that first time made him horny as hell and eager to drain every last drip of pleasure possible from the present encounter. For the man it was no different; as he indulged himself in savouring to the full the delightful adolescent, teenage flesh presented to him, he couldn't help recalling, each time with fresh surprise, how easily the boy had submitted to him. He had been aware of Matt since the day that he was born, but the boy was of no interest to him until he was around fourteen. No boys were; he liked boys, he indulged in boys and he seduced boys, but only boys in their teens, boys who could produce sperm. As is so often the case, he had made no move on `the boy next door', not because, by the time he was fourteen, Matthew was in any way an unattractive specimen, quite the opposite, but simply because he was `the boy next door' and he, mistakenly, thought he knew the boy too well, knew that any move would be, at best, a waste of time and, more likely, distinctly counter-productive. And, as is also so often the case, the man did not know the boy too well, he knew only the public face of the boy, the persona that existed and survived in the maelstrom of adolescence. He knew that Matthew was a little on the shy side; he did not have a girlfriend but showed no indications that he may prefer cock to cunt; in fact he got absolutely nothing in the way of sexual vibes from the boy at all. It would not have surprised him in the least to learn that Matt, when showering after games and gym at school, kept himself covered until the last possible second, was in and out as quickly as he could be, taking just enough time to wash the sweat from his body, and wrapped his large, bath sized towel around his middle the moment he finished. He even had a second, smaller towel which he used to dry his top half, keeping the other securely around his middle until his briefs were safely on and his upper body covered, equally safely, once again with a shirt. It wasn't that Matthew was ashamed of his possessions -- under the cover of his bedclothes he quite liked them -- but simply that they were private, they belonged to him and were most certainly not intended for public viewing. It wasn't that he had any psychological hang ups about sex; it was simply that sex was also a private thing and involving another person, of either or any gender, had just not developed in his consciousness; even when such thoughts briefly raised their heads, the prospect of inevitable failure in any attempt to make them become real meant that they were quickly dispatched to oblivion. He did wear shorts a lot in the summer, though, and by fourteen his thighs had developed into things well worth looking at and the man looked whenever presented with the opportunity and wished that Matthew was a much more hormone overloaded teenager who there might be at least an outside chance of seducing. And so it had been without a single sexually orientated thought on the part of man or boy that Matt had been invited to his neighbour's house on a July afternoon to watch a World Club Championship game on Sky, a facility Matt did not have at home, and the boy had gleefully accepted. They sat beside each other on the sofa, closer than the man would have expected, so close, in fact, that by half time the man could not resist the impulse to put an arm round the boy's shoulder. Matt appeared to not react to the contact, he didn't stiffen, he didn't move away, he didn't even seem to notice. Sometime in the second half he had started to caress the boy's neck with his thumb. He didn't do it deliberately, consciously; it was instinctive, the sort of thing he did to a boy he was attempting to seduce, or to a boy who he had already seduced and knew liked such gentle attention as a prelude to the main event. Even when he realised what he was doing and paused, expecting some discouraging remark or movement, Matt did nothing, appearing to not even notice the gentle stroking of his neck. Encouraged, he continued. Matt had, of course, noticed. Having an arm round your shoulder and your neck stroked by a thumb was not the sort of thing you did not notice, but it was not, Matt thought, in the least bit threatening, and the idea that it may be sexually intended did not enter his head. It was, rather, quietly pleasant, comforting and relaxing. Neither his mind nor his body was demanding a cessation of the experience, and so he allowed it to continue. The game ended and Matt returned his attention to the reality around him, to the arm around his shoulder and to the thumb stroking his neck. Both nice, both not in need of stopping. It was with shock, though, that he heard the man's words. "You're a really nice kid, Matt. I reckon you'd be well worth taking to bed for an hour or two." The words just popped out. He hadn't been intending to say them aloud, they had been a thought in his mind but somehow they had turned into words and been spoken. `And that,' he thought, `Is the last I'll be seeing of Matt! I hope to fuck he doesn't tell his father!' Instead, about half a minute later, he heard, with just about the same level of shock that Matt had experienced, "Why don't you take me upstairs and find out?" Matt had no more idea of why he had spoken than the man had had. He'd thought about what he'd heard for almost a minute, analysing it, comparing the possibilities with the pleasantness of having his neck stroked, and, under considerable pressure from the urgings of his subconscious, mentally decided that it would, indeed, be interesting to find out if the man's suggestion had any validity. Had he really meant to say those words? Upstairs, Matt removed his clothes without a word, characteristically retaining possession of his underwear until he was safely under the covers, whereupon they, too, were shed and tossed out. He never even glanced at the man as he undressed, what the man looked like naked being of absolutely no interest to him. The man was surprised, though by now nothing should have surprised him, when Matt responded to being wrapped in man arms by wrapping his own around man. More surprise when he tried to ease a knee between the boy's smooth thighs, and Matt dutifully lifted a leg to allow the operation and then brought it down again, clamping their legs together. Man and boy were now in fleshly contact from shoulder to ankle and never, ever, had the man come across a boy who was so uncomplicated when it came to the initial stages of being bedded. Wondering just how far his luck would take him, the man moved in for a kiss. It was far too soon in proceedings to try to kiss a boy; he'd had more than one boy who had allowed him to fuck his brains out but refused permission for kissing; though, strangely, he had never come across the reverse -- any boy who kissed was, in his experience, a boy who fucked freely. Once more, man and boy surprised themselves; the man in that he had so soon gone for the hardest prize of all, the boy in that he co-operated without a second thought. At the first touch of lips, Matt's parted to admit entry of tongue to his mouth, and once tongue was in there and began to twirl around, he joined the game with enthusiasm. Matt's voyage to Blissland had begun. His first visit was to Kissland, an island that the man had visited many times before with a whole variety of companions. He knew that, with each companion, it presented a different face, sometimes dull and uninspiring, on others wild and adventurous. This time there were high, white, racing clouds and bright sun, the distant sound of sirens calling from islands further off, demanding to be explored. For Matt, it was a place of wonder, an unknown island that needed full investigation, and as he climbed to its heights, he caught sight of another island, one he thought he knew well, the island of Wankland, but the island he knew was unlike this one; the hand on his cock was not his own, and the cock in his hand was not his own either. The Wankland Matthew knew was a place he charged across with reckless abandon, but here he knew that only slow and careful exploration would possible because he was not expected, nor intending, to discharge his cargo there. From Kissland, with its so tempting view of Wankland, they sailed south to Fondleland, where Matthew's young body revelled in the warmth of the sun and the slowly stroking breezes that pleasured every inch of his flesh, wafting gently from shoulder to nipple, to hip and to thigh, filling him with a relaxed contentment he had never before experienced. The stay on Fondleland was a long one, and Matthew drank in every one of its lures to his senses, carried them with him on his journey to the incredible island of Suckland, an island of such indescribable pleasure that it had been, until now, beyond Matt's wildest imagination. So wonderful, so amazing was it, that Matt had to experience it to the full, twisting his body so his mouth, too, was full of cock and he could imagine nothing better than to suck and be sucked. Wonderful as it was, this was another island they could not linger on for too long on this, his first visit, for Matt had to nurse his precious cargo on a longer voyage yet and they set sail again, always heading towards the mainland, but with the twin islands of Eatland and Fingerland yet to explore. Whatever had gone before, they paled into barren desert compared with the lush vegetation and bird song of Eatland. Uncomplaining, because on a voyage of exploration like this there was no room nor need for complaint, Matt allowed his legs to be raised and the most hidden place on his body to be exposed to air, to view and, unbelievably, to mouth and tongue! The other islands had held their pleasures and delights, but it was on Eatland that Matt first glimpsed Blissland itself. The agonies of pleasure Matt suffered and enjoyed when the man kissed his hole, licked around it, sucked at it and finally probed his tongue inside it were almost unbearable, making him moan and whimper with delight and the need for more. And more there was, because Eatland and Fingerland are separated from each other by a mere movement of the body, and Matt was no longer on his back with his knees in the air, but on his side, one knee drawn up and a finger deep inside him. How it got there, or how he got there he was unsure and the pleasure he was suffering was even more intense. He could hear the waves crashing on the beach of Fingerland, unaware that the noises he heard were his own moans of joy, his own pleading for more, a pleading that was heard and almost satisfied by the entry of a second and even a third finger. Somehow there was a shift in the tectonic plates around the islands and Suckland drifted up against Fingerland and his cock was once more in hot, wet, paradise and the fingers inside him found the button that started the engines and he knew he would discharge his cargo, but that now it was all right to do so because the fingers and the mouth were calling for it. Lips peeled his pliant skin back, tongue flickered around his unbelievably sensitive glans and he screamed in his orgasm. He squirted, no, he hosed out his sperm; his sperm, half of his insides and all of his balls forced their way up and out of his prick and into the man's suctioning and grateful mouth, a mouth that savoured and slowly swallowed every drip of the teen cream that flooded it. It should have been the end of his voyage, drained and washed ashore, but the fingers inside him still played with the keys of his body, pushing that button and restarting his engines, though he had no control over the vessel of his flesh as a giant wave rolled him over, washed him onto the shores of Blissland itself and once more raised his legs into the air. He heard, as though in the deepest of fogs, the muffled voice of the man telling him that landing on Blissland for the first time could be painful, but that he should not tense himself against the pain, rather he should push back against it and soon it would pass. He did feel a sharp stab of agony as they landed, joining together, but it passed as suddenly as it came and he was there, on forbidden Blissland itself. All the wonders that had preceded it were as no more than a glorious dawn and now he was in the full light of the sun. He heard the breeze in the leaves repeating the same thing time and time again, his own voice saying, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," and the siren calls of "Harder, faster, more, please more," and his body surrendered to the bliss it was designed for as the waves crashed on the beach, the wind rustled the leaves and the sirens called. They did not leave Blissland then for the man told him there was another part he had not seen, and they went there a little later when he was able to go exploring again. He climbed on top of the man to explore it and discovered a completely different country, just as wonderful, but distantly related to Suckland, just as Eatland and Fingerland were to the other part of Blissland, and he didn't know then, and still didn't although he had visited both parts many times since then, which of the two he enjoyed the most. "Well," Matt had asked the man as they drifted slowly back to Normaland after their momentous voyage of exploration, "Was I worth taking to bed for an hour or two?" "Not sure," the man had smiled, hugging him tight, "Think I could do with a second opinion." "Me too," Matt had agreed. Now here he was, lying on a bed in southern Spain where he had been allowed to go by his parents for his entire school summer holidays, in order to help their neighbour in restoring a wreck of a house he had bought for next to nothing. They had done some work, and a lot more exploring of those forbidden islands, and Matt still did not know which part of Blissland he liked the most. Hope you enjoyed this little tale. Thanks for reading, Ivor Sukwell.