Date: Mon, 8 May 2023 00:51:09 +0200 (CEST)
From: maxkent69@tutanota.com
Subject: MEANT TO BE by Max Kent - Adult Youth

MEANT TO BE

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MEANT TO BE

Once upon a time there was a little boy who wanted only to be loved. It was
not until years later the boy realised he wanted to be loved by a man. I
know. I was that boy. Even then I knew it was a man I wanted though if
you'd asked me at the time, I wouldn't even have understood the question.

Men were mysterious creatures. I knew that other boys had men living in
their houses. These men were 'fathers' and the boys called the 'dad'. But I
didn't have a 'dad'. I didn't really mind because I wasn't sure what dads
were for. I was perfectly happy with my mum and I guess I was happy because
I didn't have to share her with this huge version of me that everyone
called a 'man'.

Men were dark and hairy and strong, and even though I didn't want one of
them living in my house, sharing my mum, I loved how they looked, how they
sounded, and how they smelled.

A rocky shore, a sunny summer day, and shadow-filled caves. And the man had
held me in his arms, sat me on his knee, stroked me, and whispered things
in my ear that made little or no sense. The words I didn't understand; the
feelings thrilled me, and I still remember that heady mixture of tobacco
and tweed, of rum and sweat, and the bristles sharp against tender skin.

I knew the man only for a day, but for that warm sunny day he played with
me down on the shore, showing me how to leap from rock to rock, how to edge
towards the inrushing tide, then jump precipitately backwards from its
greedy grasp. How to chase tiny crabs fearlessly into the nooks and
crannies of the sea-weed strewn rocks.

When I grew tired, sun-bleached, he carried me into a golden cave that
caught the shadows, and played fingers of lights across its walls as his
fingers played across me.

If it was wrong, I had no way of knowing it. I felt safe, secure and
wanted. And if his lips ran over my chest, my tummy, inside my thighs, to
those secret places, it made him happy at no cost to me.

Why he did this did not even cross my mind? Maybe he was a doctor. And I
remembered Mum had told me: "Just do what the doctor says. I'll be back in
half an hour. Wait in the waiting room if the doctor's finished with you."
I didn't mind; they had comics in the waiting room so that was fine.

So I was pretty sure the man in the cave was a doctor and "the doctor knows
best".

I lay stretched face down across his lap, my head dangling on one side, my
skinny white legs on the other. It was silly but it was kind of fun. My
underpants were pushed down my legs. His big thumbs opened the cheeks of my
bum. That was rude - but he was the doctor.

I felt a finger brush the tiny opening I did my shits through. I knew what
a 'shit' was, though I'd never use the word in front of my mom or my
teachers.

Then it wasn't his finger.

Whatever it was, it was warm and wet and bent backwards and forwards on the
area around my hole. Something began to push into the centre of the
hole. His thumbs tried to open me up again but he couldn't really get
whatever it was inside.

I began to squirm a bit, because it was hurting back there, I was getting
light-headed and I didn't like the feeling. I was glad when he gently
raised me and flipped me over so I was straddled across his lap, face up.

I liked looking at the man's face. I knew he liked looking at me because he
smiled and licked his lips, murmuring stuff I couldn't really
understand. He pulled to a sitting position, tight against him.

I snuggled deep into his chest as he held me and made my senses tingle,
made my skin goose-bumpy, and my twig stand hot and hard till it jerked
between his fingers and exploded like sugary sherbet inside me.

Gently, carefully, lovingly he dressed me. He held me again and stuck his
big rubbery tongue into my mouth. I could feel his saliva trickle down my
throat.

I didn't know the taste was a mixture of tobacco and rum, but I liked the
taste, I liked him. I wanted to take him home. He could my daddy. I'd be
like the other boys.

No, no, not take him home. I wouldn't share my mum with anyone. But if he
lived in the cave, I could visit him -and he could do things to me. He
could do whatever he liked. And maybe some day I could do things to him,
when I knew what they were.

But we cannot keep summer forever, and we couldn't even keep that day
forever. Too soon, all too soon, he was gone, and I was clambering up the
rocks and heading home, making up a story about where I'd been and what I'd
been doing.

I even threw the money he put in my pocket away - I can still the note
fluttering away on the sea breeze. I didn't let the man do what he'd done
for money. I did it because I wanted to. And anyway how could I explain the
money to mum. They know about things like that, so it's best not to tell
them about things. Secrets are secrets, and the man in the rocks was my
secret.

And in time I became the man in the rocks. Or was I born with the boylove
gene?

His name was Gabriele, and he was only 10! And what was I doing,
skinny-dipping with Gabriele on a hot, lazy summer afternoon when everyone
else had gone off in the coach shopping, and I'd been left behind with
crazy, beautiful Gabriele.

I was doing a summer job. I was 16, doing my A-levels, and I'd landed a job
with a company that runs English courses for kids from abroad. We were in a
prep. school the company rented for six weeks in the summer. I was here to
give the kids lots of opportunities to talking in English me, and, of
course, the kids gravitated towards someone closer to their ages: 10 to 14.

I wasn't a virgin. I'd had my first sex earlier in the year: two girls and
one boy, all my age. Not the three together at the same time! I enjoyed the
boy better but I didn't, daren't label myself as 'gay'.

I'd been two weeks in my summer job, and Gabriele arrived with his group
from Italy.

Gabriele, with his shoulder-length corn-coloured hair, hazel eyes, perfect
teeth, and smile that seemed to have escaped from a television
advertisement. Gabriele, whose English was so fractured that it was
difficult to determine when he'd switched from Italian into the language
he'd come to England to learn.

And there he was, with me, swimming naked, in a back-garden pool,
frolicking like a demented baby dolphin, climbing on my shoulders, then
diving headfirst into the water's sparkling embrace. And me hopelessly
embarrassed to feel my cock rising hot and hard as underwater the slippery
ten-yearold wriggled between my legs.

Damn it! Don't tell me I am a pedophile. Just let me enjoy Gabriele for
what he is - a beautiful, crazy Italian boy having a great time with me in
the pool. And out of the pool he climbs, butt pale cream in the tanning
sun, and sprints into the house, crystals of water splattering behind him.

Forbidden!

He hasn't even tried to find his towel. Just out of the pool to spring step
by step across the grass and into the country house. The carpet will be
damp and I'll get my ass kicked, or my wrist slapped by the boss when the
coach gets back.

Little fucker!

I climb from the pool, grab a towel, give myself a perfunctory rub, and
stride into the house after him. Where the fuck is he?

"Gabriele! Gabriele!"

Up the stairs. Check the boys' dormitories. The toilets. The broom
cupboard.

No Gabriele.

My room.

There he is, stretched across my double bed, legs hanging over the edge,
his hair splayed out , lying on his back, holding above his face a copy of
'The Beano' and laughing at the antics of the Bash Street Kids. At least he
has spread a thick white woollen towel below his damp satin blue briefs.


God, but he is beautiful. Skin kissed by the Italian sun. Shoulders broad
for his age though he is close to being skinny. Cream-coloured chest topped
by the cherries of his nipples. His stomach so flat there can only be five
inches in depth. The dimples of his thighs carved by Donatello. Long legs,
big feet, long toes. His genitals curled up like...

Not quite.

Gabriele has an erection impossible to disguise - not that he seemed
bothered - beneath the skin-thin fabric. His stiff penis rises like an
ivory asparagus from the twin orbs of his balls, the little sac lying
between his join of his legs. His toes brush back and forth across the
carpet.

I sit, towel-wrapped, by his side and let my fingers brush his hair, thick
and damp from the pool. Gabriele throws the comic backwards over his head,
cups his hands beneath his head, gazes at the ceiling and closes his eyes.

I lean over and kiss his belly button. Tiny kisses. Flutters of tiny
kisses. The boy smells like freshly-baked bread. He is still wet, wet and
slippery, so how can he smell like fresh bread? I run my lips across his
tummy, up his chest, into his armpits as smooth as a chalice, and down to
the forbidden lands again.

A tiny pressure on the back of my head. Gabriele is pushing my head
downwards. This is crazy. This is impossible. This boy is ten years
old. This boy is from one the richest families in northern Italy. Gabriele
and I have developed a close relationship in three days, but what signals
have I given off that have led him to this.

I try to fight the urge.

Who am I kidding?

I let my lips brush the stalk of the boy's penis, up and down, up and down,
until my lips close over the small mushroom head - his foreskin already
retracted.

I hold the head between my lips sucking gently as the fingers of my right
hand stroke and pressure his tummy while the fingers of the left stroke the
sensitive area beneath his balls.

I open my mouth wide and slide down to engulf his penis and balls until the
gathering saliva forces my head up from the smooth silky skin.

My lips slide upwards to lick his belly, what there is of it, before they
fasten round the tiny button in the middle. I suck hard on the little knot
as if I could magically open it. Upwards my lips go - first the right
nipple, then the left, taking them in turns till they are hard like little
raisins.

Everything about the boy is miniature and perfect. Upwards my lips go till
my tongue slides into armpits unblemished by a single hair. Christ, the boy
is only ten.

My tongue slides across his lips, improbably red, and I brush them again
and again, applying tiny pressure until they open fractionally to my
probing. Gabriele seems to sense what I want and stick out his pink
tongue. I fasten my lips around it as they were fastening round his stiff
penis only minutes ago and again I suck gently.

I want to explore every millimetre of the boy's body and at my gentle
urging he turns over and squirms until he is comfortable on his front.

My eyes sweep his back, buttocks, legs and feet - ctreamy ivory. I'm going
to take my tongue round the world. I begin by pushing the hair from his
neck to lick and kiss his neck, the angel wings of his shoulders and his
upper back. I try to be patient, to ration myself, but it's hopless; my
tongue knows where it wants to be and slides down to join the fingers of my
hands that are gently parting Gabriele's buttocks.

I slide down his body so that I can gaze between his cheeks and find the
tiny starfish at its centre.

At last my tongue finds what it seeks and I broaden my tongue to sweep the
area with wet licks until the tip of my tongue centres on the tiny mouth
and pushes firmly - again and again until I feel it start to give way to
the pressure.

My thumbs prize him ever more open, the scent is intoxicating. My tongue
seeks to go deeper and deeper. I marvel at how elastic young flesh can be.

Time for my middle finger...

Noises in the drive. The coach crunching over gravel. Excited voices,
Italian, squabbling, must be the Italian kids back from the outing.

I sprang from the bed, grabbed Gabriele, the little bastard was giggling,
half-carried him to the shower room, stuck him inside, turned on the
shower, and then returned to my own bedroom, my own bathroom, my own
shower.

I let the water run hot and cold until the witness of my desire
subsided. Dried myself. Hopped downstairs to greet the weary
shoppers. Atthe top of the stair my hand was grabbed. It was Gabriele. He
had on his blue jeans with Mickey Mouse braces. We skipped down the stairs
together.

Close, so close, but close to what?

Catastrophe or ecstasy? Depression or delight? Self-knowledge or
self-denial? That summer I did not find out. I surrendered to the joy of
being with Gabriele as his friend, his teacher, but never his lover.

I know that Gabriele was discovered in the bed of an older Italian boy, 13,
and as handsome as Donatello's Adam. We discovered Gabriele tucked in
between Gabriele's legs, sound asleep, his thumb in his mouth. All the
other boys laughed, but it was kindly laughter, for they were Italian boys,
just crazy, beautiful Italian boys.

Gabriele knew what he wanted. And I knew what I wanted. I saw what I wanted
in my dreams, sleeping and awake, I saw me in my dreams, held, caressed and
loved by a man, by men. Men who wanted me. Just as I wanted to hold a boy,
love and caress him... forever...

For the rest of the Italians stay, I was sick with anxiety - and lust. I
imagined myself being called into the office:

"Now you know why you're here. We're going to have to let you go. We're not
going to talk about it. You're not going to talk about. Here's your
wages. And here's how you can explain you're leaving early. I'll drive you
down to the station myself... you silly bugger."

And here I am, kneeling on a carpet, in a sun-dappled room, between the
legs of a beautiful boy who said that afternoon, "Sir, you owe me a
massage," both of us knowing we had gone as far as we could. Any further
and we would be in that Dark Continent with its forbidden, alluring signs
that read 'Here Be Dragons'.

Both of us knowing it is the only place left to go. So the boy, let's call
him Jude, lies stretched languorously on my study carpet, stripped to the
waist, looking into my eyes to whisper, "I really like having a hard-on, I
really do."

I must be fucking insane. I'm 18. Another job surrounded by boys. I'm
assistant to the Assistant Housemaster in the junior school of a public
school. It's only a six-week job, then summer, then university, and...

Jude was 12, and had the strongest body of all the boys in the Junior
House, home to sixty boys between 7 and 13. Tall for his years, Jude was
not heavily built but he had the elegant muscularity of a gymnast.

Deep chest, small waist, rounded buttocks, long legs, and a face that was
more handsome than beautiful. The planes of his face were sculpted like a
young Greek god. Strong eyebrows over large, wide-set eyes. Thick golden
brown hair that flopped over one eye.

Yet, what I remember about Jude is his voice. Though not broken, it seemed
deeper and richer than the boys around him, and his diction was
flawless. Completely natural, completely flawless. And it was this voice
that was telling me: "I like having a hard-on, I really do."

For a couple of weeks I've been giving Jude massages. They started with the
gentle stroking and kneading of his back when he came in from sports. Since
Jude was in a six-boy dorm only three doors from my room it was easy for
him to slip in and park himself on the long comfortable sofa, stretching
himself out full once he was assured it was permissible.

And I'd sit alongside him, my thumbs working on the knots in his shoulders,
the butterfly of his collar bone, the spine that provided the way to
paradise. And with a a grunt Jude would roll over onto his back, tug off
his sports shirt and fling it carelessly across the room.

The boy would raise his arms above his head, then cup his hands to cradle
his head, close his eyes, murmur, grunt. and wriggle himself into a
position offering everything, if only I had the nerve to take it.

My fingers would caress his chest, linger over his nipples, then a single
finger would trace a line down his front to play in his belly button, the
only 'blemish' in what was otherwise flawlessly fine skin.

"These shorts are sticking to me," he would whisper, then push them down to
reveal the wonderful articulation of his hips, and the satin smooth skin
running down where my tongue longed to follow.

Hairs?

No, not one, not yet, though the bulge beneath is dark blue shorts revealed
a developed and developing manhood. Of course, I'd seen Jude lots of time
in the showers and watched the small trunk that swung between his legs. It
still surprises me how well-developed some young boys can be even at 9, 10
and 11 years old, and yet still preserve the purity of an angel.

"My hard-on's hurting," he murmurs.

I slide down onto the carpet. I kneel by his side.

Jude has already given me most of his body, now he wants to give me all of
it. My right palm slides over his stomach, down over his belt, onto the
bulge, and presses against the flesh, hot and hard beneath the denim.

Even then I could stop, I could draw back. I don't. I look into Jude's eyes
and see the storms of desire, gold-flecks amongst the hazel. I see and hear
his sigh, feel his fingers round my own as he forces them into the
throbbing hardness of his boyhood. His hips and buttocks rise and fall from
the carpet.

My thumbs work open the buckle of his belt. My thumbs grasp the waist his
jeans and work them down and over his hips, taking the snow-white cotton of
his underpants with them.

Jude holds his hips high as I work jeans and underwear his knees. His
erection struggles free from the cotton embrace, bounces against pubic
bone, and stands hot and hard in the sultry afternoon air.

I glance at Jude's face. His eyes are closed. He luxuriates in a world of
sebsation where, to tell the truth, I am probably not needed. For pubescent
boys there is no such thing as love; there is only the need for the
throbbing sensation that is so novel and arousing for them.

There are no ethics, no morals, no right and wrong, only the thrilling
sensation of the taboo. I lower my face, drink in the smells, smile at
Jude's swollen balls, and let the tip of my tongue run the length of his
stiff, straining penis.

No doubt many men and women will share this experience in time, but I will
always be Jude's first, the first to the flesh so eagerly and willingly
offered to me. I let my lips tighten to push back the boy's foreskin, and
slide my lips down his hard-on till they kiss his balls.

My head begins to bob above his tummy. My lips tighten and slacken as I
draw him in, draw him deep, then let him slide almost out. Jude raises his
hips, lets them fall, raises them again. The boy is fucking my mouth; it is
instinctive; his hips rise and fall from the carpet to press deeply in
until I'm able to swallow his balls too, hold his complete genitals in my
mouth, pressing gently but insistently on the flesh.

As he rises, my hand slides under his bum. At first I'm not sure how far he
will let me go, but as he pushes rhythmically into my mouth and throat, I
realise he doesn't care what I do - at least till now.

My fingers edge between his cheeks, feeling the heat increase until the tip
of my middle finger is against his anus. For a while the muscle resists,
then with the equivalent of a sigh, it surrenders and opens, and my finger
slips in to the first knuckle.

I'm tempted to drive it in deeper but I don't want to hurt or scare
him. Gently, gently, until he gives himself to me because he wants to,
because he needs to - until there are no boundaries.

I find I'm on my back. Jude is fucking my mouth. His increasing intensity
tells me he will orgasm soon,. I wonder if can cum. You never can tell at
their age. He may be ready but I'm not. I raise my head, I let him slide
from my mouth, he tries to slide back in but I close my lips. I hear a
little grunt of frustration as I slide away from him, turn alongside him,
then gently edge the boy over onto his front.

As he turns, he looks at me questioningly out of those wide hazel eyes. I
raise my eyebrows and he turns over, resting his face on his elbows. His
jeans and underpants are at his knees his bum in the air.

The boy is not sure what my intentions are, and, to be honest, neither am
I.

I'm acting on instinct. I prise open the cheeks of his buttocks -
millimetre by millimetre. I want him to feel the air on his hole to realise
he is intimate with me in a way he's never been with another person before.

There's the thrill of discovery, the thrill of the forbidden, but I don't
want to scare the boy, so I'm giving him the chance to clench his buttocks
and warn me away. But he doesn't, and I can see my goal.

It's a tiny starfish, slightly discoloured at the centre of ivory-cream
skin. I press the tip of my middle finger against it, draw the tip back and
forth on the miniscule serration, and move my face closer. Can Jude feel my
warm breath on it? Would he feel the tip of my......?

The tip of my tongue is touching the tiny centre.

I have gone too far. There is no way back now. I know the male teachers
around me might understand the attraction of a 12-year-old boy. Fondling,
naive kissing, even mutual masturbation might be acceptable - even if it
meant instant dismissal - but my adult tongue licking his juvenile anus?
No, far too far. For them that's dirty, unnatural, unforgivable. For Jude?
I don't know. His rhythmic breathing tells me nothing.

Panic strikes.

With as much dignity as I can manage, I raise myself from the floor. Jude
rolls onto his back. He looks up at me, questions in those mesmerizing
hazel eyes.

"Must be nearly Prep time," I gruffly announce.

I reach down to give him a hand up, then kneel to draw up his underpants
and his jeans. I try not to but I can't help myself. Before zipping him up,
I lean forward and kiss the erection below his underpants. I'm rewarded
with a smile.

"Can we have football after Prep?" he asks.

"Yes, I don't see why not. Go downstairs, ring the bell for Prep. Pass the
word: football after Prep."

Jude grins slips out of the door.

I collapse on the sofa. I realise I'm trembling, shaking, sweating. I'm not
taking Prep., so there's plenty of time before I ref a House football game.

I spend the next few hours in ecstasy and dread. I've crossed the
line. I've undressed a 12-year-old boy, I've sucked his cock, licked and
kissed his anus. Whether any of it had been at his invitation is neither
here nor there, at least in the eyes of the school and of the law. He is a
boy, a minor, and he is in my trust, and, according to them, I've betrayed
it.

But, oh, the ecstasy.

After the football game, after dinner, after free time, showers, bed time,
I sit in my room playing images in my head over and over. Those wide-set
hazel eyes. The curve of the eyebrows. The auburn hair. The perfect nose,
the perfect skin. The elongated, slim but powerful body. Nipples like
raisins.

The smooth flow of the torso, curvature of the tummy, and the bones of
those hips as they slide down to the flat pubis - hairless, smooth, silk,
with Jude's erection straining towards his belly button. Three to four
inches, the solidity of the shaft, the foreskin that slips so easily back
over the slick head with its single eye demanding to be kissed.

But, oh, the dread.

The knock at the door. The polite request: the Headmaster would like to see
you in his study, please. The long walk down to the main house. The
shame. No, not shame, that would be a lie. The embarrassment.

The humiliation of sitting there thinking, "I did it because I wanted to. I
did it because I couldn't resist the beauty, and, yes, the sensuous
sexuality of the boy. And, yes, I would do it again.

I'd like to go back to the House, call Jude to my room. Suck him
silly. Kiss, lick and suck his anus. Then fuck him silly. And send him and
me to bed happy."

It would all be so polite, so pleasant, so civilized, almost sympathetic,
for how many men in boys' school would like to fuck at least some of the
boys, night after night.

What a selection! What paradise!

That's what often made them such great teachers of boys - the unspoken,
unadmitted, even subconscious bond between man and boy. The boy wants sex,
and doesn't much care where he gets it; the man wants sex, and he cares
where he gets it. That's why he puts up with all those long years of
isolation, incarceration, separation from the adult world.

To share the lives of the boys, forever and ever, Ah boys!

It must have been around 10.30, bit late for the Headmaster, or his
emissary to be calling. Why had he waited so long - to let me sweat it out?

"Come in."

Jude comes in.

He's in his pajamas. Off-white with blue vertical stripes. They're a bit
frayed and battered. They don't cover his ankles. He's the tallest boy in
the House. The rope belt hangs down over his crotch, the tassels bouncing
against an erection. Few of the boys keep on their underpants at night.

"Well, Jude, it's good to see you. But it's a little late to come calling."

The boy took two steps forward. I'd never noticed how big his feet
were. Shapely but big. Where were his slippers? He could catch splinters in
the corridor. Such are the concerns of a Housemaster (assistant).

"Got a headache, sir. I can't get to sleep."

The boy has my sympathy.

"Isn't Matron in?"  (I knew she wasn't. It was her night off.)

"It's her night off, sir. She won't before midnight. And she'll be..."

His voice tails away. We both know how Matron will be on her night off.

"Okay," I say. "I'll make up a Lemsip for you."

"It's not that kind of headache, sir."

In recollection, what amazed me about Jude was his ability to look right
into one's eyes and maintain the contact even when he knew I knew what he
meant.

He takes two steps forward. He's standing inches from me. My eyes are level
with his chest. I reach forward and undo the tie of the pajamas. They slide
to the carpet.

His erection, his stiffy, looks as if it's aching. I slip one palm
underneath his balls - unlike many boys in the House his balls have fully
dropped and swing in their sac - lean forward and run my tongue up and down
his shaft.

I can feel it throb beneath my lips. I slide my lips over the head, push
down the foreskin, and run them round the glans. I run my free hand over
his pubic area - flat and smooth as ivory - across his tummy, up his chest,
to tweak each nipple in turn.

I feel the boy's hands either side of my head, pushing himself deeper into
my mouth, and regulating the speed at which I'm fellating him. As I've
mentioned, Jude found it easy to take command.

My other hand slips round his bum so that I can squeeze those luscious
cheeks. His legs begin to tremble, and I wonder if he'll be able to
ejaculate semen into my mouth, my throat, my stomach.

"Can you do some of the other thing, please, sir?"

For a moment I'm puzzled?

The other thing?

Reluctantly, I feel him slide from my mouth. I look up. The boy is
blushing. This was another first. I'd never seen Jude blushing before. He
turns his back to me and bends over. He pulls his cheeks wide open. He
turns and faces me.

"Oh, the other thing."

"Yes, please, sir."

I stand up, shift my erection to a more comfortable position, take Jude's
hips and turned him round, give his back a gentle push, and he is bent
double, resting his head on the back of the couch. I slide to my knees and
urge him to open his legs wide. I open his cheeks as wide as I can without
causing him too much strain.

Every boy in the House has a shower every night before bed. Few sights are
more stimulating that twenty or boys, naked, dripping, soap-sudded,
cavorting in the showers - no cubicles, everything open to all.

Laughing, making jokes, pointing at each other's 'willies' - "Look! Tim's
got a hard-on!  Look!  Oscar is getting hairs! Look at Robin! Bet he'd like
a bum-fuck!"

But no matter how much they scrub and soap, they still smell
-hamsterish. Like a freshly cleaned hamster cage, different soaps adding
personal scents to each boy. There are times I have to leave the shower
area as I feel myself getting light-headed as well as randy as an in-heat
jack rabbit.

I could have kneeled in front of Jude's arse till morning, just gazing in
awe and wonder, but my tongue wanted more. Again the thrill of running the
tip of my tongue over the brownish anus. I wonder how a big turd can escape
from anything so small, so beautiful. I peel open those tiny lips and my
tongue tip worms inside.

The smell hits me. No, not smell, that's too crude a word. The scent hits
me, envelopes me, literally makes shivers down my spine.

Jude's anus is greasy, as if he hasn't wiped himself properly, and I'm
surprised how easily my middle finger slips inside him. He grunts and
pushes himself backwards, sending the message I want. This affair started
with body massages, now I can reach up into his rectum massage its walls
with my fingers. I do. This increases the smell tenfold. For a moment I
slip out my finger and hold it under my nose. A boy's most powerful
aphrodisiac.

"Get it in again sir... please, please."

Can I get my finger deeper in his rectum?

Can I locate and massage his prostate gland - tiny as it might be?

I finger-fuck the twelve-year-old faster, harder, the slippery mucus
letting me finger-fuck him even faster, even harder.

Jude's legs tremble, shake as if he has the palsy, and he falls forward
face-first onto the couch, his arse bobbing backwards and forwards on my
finger.

The boy is cumming.

I get my free hand round his front, my fingers round his hard-on, drive his
foreskin back and forward over the head, whip him round, open my mouth and
let him spurt into my open mouth.

I slide my finger from his bum, stand up, and look down at the sight of a
twelve-year-old boy in a pyjama top crumpled on my couch. For a moment I'm
sick with worry. Then Jude rolls over. Hauls his pajama bottoms up and
throws himself backwards onto the couch. Red in the face but
laughing. Laughing.

"Did I cum, sir? Did I cum?" he asks excitedly.

"You certainly did, Jude, and you taste yummy!"

There's a look of pride in his grin.

"That was great, sir, that was great."

There was a silence, but it was my silence, not the boy's.

"May I have that Lemsip now?" he asked. "I really have got a teeny weeny
headache. I didn't just come here for the... massage." He laughs again.

I make a Lemsip for Jude, and a gin&tonic for myself.

We sit together on the couch, sit and sip and chat and gossip - mainly
about the hockey tournament on Saturday (Jude is Captain of Hockey) but
also about..... oh, I can't remember.

What was important, and still amazes me, is how self-confident,
self-assured but not cocky, good-humoured the boy was. Not a trace of
shame, not a trace of regret. If there was to be any of that, he was
leaving it to me the adult.

"Bed, Jude, and no argument. Get your sweet little backside out of here and
into bed. And no playing with yourself. Too much of that and you'll go
blind. Not much use having a hockey captain who can't see the puck."

Jude rises. Stands over me a moment. Leans down and kisses me on the lips.

"Thanks, sir. Thanks for the Lemsip. And thanks for the... massage."

One more smile and he's gone.

Now here's the thing.

There was sex yes, but not as often as you might have anticipated.  Nothing
else changed in our relationship. Jude remained friendly and fun, kind and
considerate, a leader amongst boys, who would forget me long before I
forgot him.

I was addicted to a curse and blessing.

At university, during the long summer breaks, I looked for opportunities to
work amongst boys - and there were plenty of them, jobs, I mean, as well as
boys.

During my first summer, I got a job in a school on Brighton that was
providing tutors for kids who needed an academic boost. And that's when
Troop turned up who needed to pass A level Law with flying cultures.

Did I mention I was studying Law at ......... ?

Troop is sitting in the study-bedroom I've been given for the summer. He,
too, is dressed in denim. Troop is 14, with skin as unblemished as Jude's,
satin skin, sun-kissed by a long hot summer in Tunisia.

It is late September, Sunday afternoon. We have been practising at
football. Troop is a goalkeeper. I have grown expert at chipping the ball
above his head so that he must rise to tip it over the cross bar. As he
rises, he reveals and expanse of skin, so beautiful I am paralysed by the
need to see, touch, lick and kiss it.

Does Troop suspect?

At the time I would have said no, later I was not so sure. Did I seduce
Troop or did he seduce me? I hope it was mutual seduction.

We have been playing records for another. Troop loves my company as much as
I love his. Our conversation has wandered across continents; Troop, though
Canadian, lives with his family in Tunis; his father holds high office.

The conversation has strayed to what the boys in the dorm do at night, how
horny they are, who jerks off in bed, and who goes to the toilet to do what
boys have to.

I'm 18. Troop is 14. We are not that far part in years. That means we are
open to conversations we wouldn't have if one of us was much older than the
other.

"Sometimes I get so horny, I wouldn't care if..."

Troop leaves the sentence unfinished. His eyes drop to the bulge in his
jeans. Then he tells me about the manager of the London hotel where he
stops overnight before flying home to Tunis.

"The guy's gay," laughs Troop, "but I don't give a shit about that. I think
he wants to touch me, but he's scared..."

The sentence hangs unfinished between us. The boy squeezes his legs
together - "You know how it is."

"Look," I say, "don't do anything stupid with that guy. You don't have to
do anything as stupid as..."

"I know," Troop smiles, and pushes his hips towards me.

I gulp. Yes, I actually gulp, lean forward, and feel his erection straining
under my flat palm. My fingers seek out its shape, pull it away from his
body. I know what I want but I am not sure he does.

"Continue."

It is not a request, it is an imperative. And a strange choice of word. Not
"Go on," or "Please," but "Continue."

"Continue" is a word that's resonated through me ever since.

Moments later, I am kneeling between the boy's legs, his denims are wide
open, his boxers pushed down his knees. I am holding his thick cock which
bends slightly to the left. His cock is around six inches in length, very
thick, set in a fold of thick, silky, dirty brown and golden hair.

His balls are big and press the column of his cock up towards me. His
foreskin is loose and slides back over the slick, wet head. The smell is
intoxicating... sweat, urine, pre-cum.

"Fuck, this ain't comfortable enough," he says.

Troop stands, hobbles backwards and lets himself fall onto my bed. His legs
are raised for me to yank his denims off. I push his shirt up past his
nipples.

He is a well-built boy with skin like old ivory, hot to my lips as they
brush over his body, chest, nipples, stomach, thighs, and then finally the
length of his cock. He pushes himself towards me, eager for what...

For what?

For what he has only read in books.

Later, Troop and I discuss what we have done.

"No, I've never done anything like that before," he says. "I just wanted to
do it with you. Fucking horny, I guess.

"I don't want any of the boys in the dorm. I don't want any of the
teachers. I don't know why the fuck I want you to do stuff with me. I just
do."

And then he says something I'll never forget. He says:

"Can I say something? I'll say it anyway. Don't go on a fucking guilt
trip. I mean, don't try to get rid of me just cos you feel guilty about
what happened. I don't. So it's great if you don't. In fact, it will be
fucking boring if you do." (pause)

Here's a photograph. Troop with his classmates. Standing, grinning out of
the photograph without a care in the world. Troop, my Canadian adventurer,
who knew how to give as much as he took.

Our last time together. Troop arrives at my rooms on a Saturday night. He
has sneaked away from the disco. He is slightly drunk. He dives uninvited
onto my bed, it's been a long time since he needed an invitation. He sits
down. His hard-on is obvious.

"How do you want me?" he asks. "Anything's okay. Anything's cool tonight."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Troop knows what I want. He has been reluctant before, not fiercely
reluctant, but hesitant enough for me to draw back. I love the boy and
would not offend him for the world.

Moments later Troop is lying on his front reading a porno book I brought
him from Amsterdam. It's a fucking hetero porno book! It's what he wanted;
it's what he can have. I am in no way disappointed, insulted or
offended. I'd rather Troop didn't go through the difficulties, the sadness,
the barriers of being gay.

He is lying on his front, his jeans and underpants dragged down to his
ankles. His rounded arse pushes up from his torso, a darkening valley
between the ivory cheeks.

I am lying between Troop's legs, towards the bottom of the bed, my tongue
probing, pushing, penetrating Troop's rectum.

And I was puzzled.

Why was I so hungry to get my tongue inside this boy? I suppose I would
have fucked him if it had not been such a momentous step, but there was an
unspoken agreement between us that fucking was not something we would try.

But what was this fascination with his anus, his rectum, his asshole? Why
did I find this small orifice so luring, so fascinating, so bewitching? I
am sure Freudians have a theory for it, but at that precise moment as my
tongue tip penetrated Troop, and my tongue muscled its way inside him,
theory was the last thing on my mind.

Troop had large, well-muscled buttocks, not fat, but solid in their
presence. I leaned my cheek against his and licked the walls around his
hole, as if the sweat was a nectar to my darker gods.

Was the smell offensive? Not at all. Because it was the smell of
Troop... of the internal Troop... of his most private place. Troop was
heterosexual and he simply wanted sex. He was horny and aroused as only
14-year-old boys can be aroused. He liked me, admired me, but he didn't
love me, nor did I expect him to.

I wrapped my arms round his waist, my hands round his belly, pulled him
higher, raised his buttocks, and wriggled as deeply as I could between his
cheeks. The muscle of my tongue strained as I forced it half way into
him. I wondered what it would be like if he took a crap. I knew that in his
state of arousal Troop would simply let it happen. But would I? I honestly
didn't know what I would do if I felt the tip of my tongue touch something
solid inside him.

"Quick," he gasped, pushed me away and rolled over on his front.

My mouth closed over the head of his hot throbbing cock - I describe it in
these pornographic terms only because it was hot and throbbing. It pulsed
with life and he squirted five or six jets of sweet-salty cum into the back
of my throat. I gulped it back, and held his cock inside my mouth until I
felt it soften, slide onto my chin, then flop heavily onto my chin and
neck.

Troop reached for me, pulled me up level with him, and for the first and
last time kissed me long, deep and hard, fencing my tongue with his,
letting his saliva dribble into my mouth as mine dribbled into his.

The boy smiled, held me tight, and for the first and last time in our
relationship, I was the boy being held tight in the arms of his cosmic
maleness.

The last time I saw Troop he was stretched out in a public park surrounded
by boys and girls his own age. Troop was smoking a joint. There was no
ostentation. He was just a teenager lying in a park on a warm summer
afternoon toking on a joint.

I saluted him with a smile, a wave and went on my way. Our paths had
crossed, separated, and resumed their separate journeys, but I am glad that
we met and carry something of Troop with me always.

Troop was 14. I was 18. Maybe I could find an excuse, at least to kid
myself. But, in the two weeks of that summer job, what was my excuse for
Matteo?

Matteo was 11.

His mother is Italian, his father is Lebanese. He is beautiful; it isn't a
word I use lightly. Tanned skin, perfect, silk and satin; big brown eyes
heavily lashed, thick shaggy brown hair, the body, not of an athlete, but
perfect in its form.

He is lying on my bed, it is hot, a devastatingly hot August afternoon. The
school building is empty. Students and staff have fled to the beaches, the
yacht marina, or the lanes of Brighton.

Matteo and I are going to play tennis. He has stretched out on the bed to
rest after lunch. I have been massaging (yes, smile, I am smiling, too) his
shoulders and legs before the match. He is shirtless, wearing only a tiny
pair of tight white tennis shorts with a blue band round the top.

I turn away for a moment to adjust my stiffened penis. I turn back and the
tops of Matteo's shorts are open, the flaps pulled back to reveal grey
Calvin Kleins. The boy's huge brown eyes are open, gazing at mine. I sit on
the bed and edge open flaps still wider. His hard penis is outlined beneath
the thin silk. I trace its four inches with my finger tips and feel it jump
under my caresses.

My fingers edge down Matteo's underwear. His hard cock jumps free. It is
about 4 inches long, very hard, brown, and circumcised, the tiny lips of
the cockhead wine red. I lean forward and kiss the tip, my tongue flicking
away the bead of cum at the tip.

Matteo pushes his hips higher, his erection slides into my mouth. One hand
slips beneath him to prise open the cheeks of his bottom; I press a finger
tip against his hot slippery opening.

Where did this boy find the courage I never had? This is what he wants. He
has made a decision and opens himself up to me.

His anal lips and rectum are very slippery and sweaty, my middle finger
slides in easily. I finger-fuck him as my head bobs up and down on his
throbbing cock. I have to use "throbbing" again because that is what I feel
between my lips.

"Sir..."  Matteo's voice seems to come from far away.

"Sir, can we try more?"

I am not sure what Matteo's 'more' involves, but I raise my head, eyes
glazed, lips already puffy, and whisper: "Let's go round the world."

Going round the world involves starting at his forehead, then kissing and
licking every part of him in a line down his nose, chin, neck, chest,
stomach, cock, balls, asshole, buttocks, back, over his head, and back to
his forehead.

I think Matteo wants me to try and fuck him, but I'm scared. At least I
want to, have to feel my hard cock between his cheeks.

"Turn over."

The eleven-year-old turns over. I push down my tennis shorts, step out of
them, and lay my body the length of his, adjusting myself so my cock is
between his cheeks.

I'm not going to fuck him, I say to myself. I just want...

My thumbs press his cheeks wide.

"Pull yourself wide open," I whisper.

His hands come round. He stretches himself open. I use one finger, two
fingers, and finally three fingers until he signals to me it's hurting.

I lap my fingers over, slide them in as deeply as I can, and swirl round
and round and wtch him open. I place the head of my cock into the opening
and gently push. Push, hold, push, hold - a milimetre at a time.

Matteo is making sounds. Is he actually biting the pillow?!


Matteo wrestles me away, gets my cock out of him, springs from the bed, and
is out in the corridor of one of the most famous schools in England,
sprinting away naked. I am stunned. I sit on the bed and imagine...  What
the fuck?

Matteo returns. He is laughing. He holds out his small clenched fist
towards me, and unfolds the palm. There in the middle of his palm is a tiny
tooth. And in the tooth a tiny metal filling.

The boy hops back onto the bed. "You can have it," he laughs, handing me
the tooth. "It's been loose for days and you got it."  He lowers his eyes
for a moment, the lashes of his eyes are thick and beautiful.

I take the tooth and place it carefully on my dressing table. We head out
for our tennis match. Fucking him doesn't seem quite appropriate.

Here's a funny thing. After dinner, I wander round the school and play
areas looking for Matteo. I'm horny as fuck. No sign of him. Where can he
be? I even try the girls' side of the block, though everyone seems to be
outdoors on a beautiful evening.

I'm on the upper level, checking the rooms. As anticipated, they are all
empty. I pass, then pause, at one door - it's a single room. I turn the
handle, open the door, and look in.

Matteo is sitting on an armchair. A girl is sitting in is lap. She can't be
more than eleven. Her blouse is open. Her bra has been pushed down. Matteo
is squeezing her breasts - hardly formed. I look down. The girl's hand is
in his shorts. I can just make out the head of his hard-on.

"Excusez-moi," I say. "It's a good idea to lock the door. Buona notte."

I smile and close the door quietly behind me.

I still have Matteo's tooth. I keep it in a small wooden treasure box. It
reminds me of a feat I never accomplished again: sucking a boy's tooth
right out of his head. It also reminds me of one of the sweetest, funniest,
most generous boys I've ever met.

Way to go, Matteo!

Boys who knew what they wanted and had the courage to ask for it. I had
never had that kind of courage though, when I'd allowed myself to be taken
it was such relief, delight and liberation I bounced for joy days after.

I was 12. I was late out of school. I'd been kept in back in detention by
some sadistic bastard who'd driven away in the falling darkness while I ran
along the lane in the pelting rain towards the bus station.

The bus had gone. Half an hour to wait. Rain bouncing like hailstones on
the tin roof of the shelter. Only the station toilets sent out a beacon of
light in the gloom. I made my way into its shiny, tiled comfort, only half
needing a piss, but at least it would pass a few minutes.

There were two urinals with a tiny partition between them. I stood at one
fishing my penis out of my thin, grey flannel trousers. It was half hard
and pleasantly warm to the touch.

The door swung open, then closed. A man took the urinal next to mine. I
kept my head down. I tried to focus on the wet tiles, but my eyes betrayed
me and slid to the left.

Wow!

 He was big, and he was making little effort to hide himself. I jerked my
eyes away, they slid back, the piss was squirting from him in an almost
continuous flow. It was beautiful.

Shit -was I sick or what? Between my own fingers I felt my own dick
thicken, harden and stretch to a fullness through which I struggled to
piss.

The man half turned to me. He edged me backwards, I hardly resisted as he
edged me backwards into a cubicle. The back of my knees bounced against the
toilet seat. Reflexively I sat down.

I risked glancing up. The man was about thirty years old. Dark haired,
strong eyebrows, straight nose, cheekbones, good-looking.

Good-looking! Yes, he was! And wearing what looked like an expensive
jacket.

"Don't do anything you don't want to do."

His voice was low but not whispered.

His voice was dark and warm.

I risked a look at his penis, his cock, his dick. Shit - it was huge. Hard
and huge. It looked tanned, though the head sticking out from the foreskin
looked a mixture of brown and purple. And, like him, it was beautiful.

Don't do anything you don't want to do. That meant to do anything you
wanted to do. I wasn't sure what I wanted, but whatever it was I wanted to
do it.

I raised my hand and fitted my fingers round his shaft.

Shit! My fingers hardly touched. It was hard and soft at the same, warm,
satiny, slippery. Pointing right at my face. At my mouth. I flicked my
tongue out and licked the head.

Shit! Was I crazy or something? I knew people did that. I knew prostitutes,
fallen angels as my mum called them, did that to men for money. I Even knew
that gay men had their own way of having sex. I knew that some men liked to
do things to boys. Here I was, sitting on a toilet seat, in the bus station
toilets, in my full school uniform, licking a good-looking man's erection.

"Go on."

That must have been him because I wasn't aware of myself speaking.

Go on. So I did. I let the head of his cock slide into my mouth till the
tipped touched the roof of my mouth. I adjusted my mouth until his cock was
sliding in and out like a huge stick of Brighton rock you've just started
and you think you'll never finish.

My lips slid up and down the shaft, a bit of an exaggeration since I could
only take in about half of the hot hard shaft. Sometimes I let it slide out
and pressed its length along my cheek.

The pressure felt wonderful, but, to tell you the truth, it was the smell I
loved. You can't describe the smell to anyone who hasn't experienced
it. You might as well describe a rose to a blind man.

It was the smell of a man, of a man in heat, of a man who had the hots for
me. It was me who was exciting him, me who was arousing him, me who had
taken possession of him. And I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

I slid my spare hand under his balls. They hung heavy and low. I want to
feel their weight, feel their texture, feel the dark hairs brush against my
hand. My fingers slide past his balls to his crack, and he shuffled his
feet wider.

The man moaned! He fucking well moaned! And he moaned for me!

I had been scared. Maybe he didn't want me to touch him there. maybe I was
being too forward, or even dirty, in seeking out his most private place.

I put the tips of two fingers against his hole, not that easy to find as
they wriggled through the dense hair, but I found it! The entrance to King
Solomon's mines and I'd found it.

The opening was hot, sweat-slick, and hot. Do whatever you want? Go for it!
I brought my fingers back, raised them to my mouth, let his dick slide out
for a few moments, slid my fingers in my mouth and sucked them.

Bliss!

Okay, I am crazy. I was twelve years old. A grammar school boy from a good
family. And I was sitting on a toilet seat in the bus station sucking two
fingers that I'd just removed from a grown-man's arse.

Crazy!

I am not even going to try and describe the thrill, the terror, the ecstasy
of holding a grown man's hard cock in my mouth, letting it slide in and out
as he tousled my hair, as I heard his moans high above me, as I felt his
cock push deeper and deeper into me, until I gagged, he withdrew, and I
insisted he penetrated me again and again.

His cock seemed to swell, get even thicker, and suddenly it was exploding,
spurt after spurt, deep into the back of my throat. Too much, too much, and
I wanted more. So much that my mouth couldn't hold it all, and it came
squeezing out of the sides, through my swollen lips, until I was coughing,
choking, and trying to lick up every last drop.

It was the man who had to push me away from him. I didn't realise how
sensitive a cock could become, and I didn't much care, I wanted more, just
more of more, and more than more, and more forever inside me.

I wanted to eat him devour him, swallow him more, eat him till he became
me, and me him, and... I might have passed out for a few moments. I
definitely don't remember how I got into his car.

A BMW!

And he was driving me home. Driving me home and telling me what a
wonderful, silly little fool I was. Having sex with a stranger. Swallowing
what he called his cum. Getting in a car with a bloody stranger. Didn't I
have any more sense than that?

Fucking hell, it was like getting told off again by that sadistic bastard
back at school. But the man was smiling at the same time, tousling my hair,
tracing my cheek with his fingers, showing me where his 'cum' had
splattered onto my school shirt.

Thank god for that; at least I'd be able to dump it into the laundry basket
as soon as I got home. Stick it under the tap first. Soak it. Tell mum it
got soaked in the rain.

Silly little fool. Yes, that was me. Yet not that silly. I gave the man a
false name. Billy. I gave him a false telephone number. I told him to let
me off on a street two away from my own road.

I went hopping and jumping and skipping home in the rain, half worried that
I'd end up pregnant, and half worried that I was stupid enough to believe a
boy could get pregnant. But I was elated, yes! I wanted something, and I
had got it. I had made a man love me, not only love me, but take a
desperate risk to show his love. well, at least his desire.

The cubicle door in the toilet didn't even lock, was half off its hinges,
and I'd sucked off a grown-man when, at any moment, anyone could have
walked in! Not only that. I'd wriggled two fingers up his arse, then taken
them out and sucked the juices from them.

I lay in bed and sniffed my fingers. Nothing. And I was disappointed. I
pushed down my pyjamas bottoms, rolled my legs over my shoulders, and
worked a finger in my arse hole. It wasn't easy but I got it in up to the
knuckle. Then I pulled it out and sucked it. Not bad. But no way as
exciting as his smell.

I wondered what it would be like to wiggle my tongue up there.

"You're fucking crazy," I told myself, but I knew that someday that's
exactly what I would do. All I needed was a man to let me.

What if there hadn't been one man, but two, three four, half a dozen. And
they all wanted me to suck them off! I'd sat there for ages, sucking each
one, teasing, tormenting, bringing to the edge, backing off, sucking fast,
slow, shallow, deep, until even I was filled up, filled by their 'cum' down
my throat, in my belly, squirting out of my asshole.

Crazy, crazy - beautiful and crazy! And then sucking each man inside out
through his asshole!

I have got lots of photos of me from that year, school photos, summer
photos, Christmas photos. God, I'm just a baby! Twelve years old and
looking about ten. Not a hair round my dick, but checking most mornings,
praying for them to show up, so that I could stand in the showers with
twenty other boys, proving that that I, too, was entering puberty.


Christms photos - and there was Adam.

I was on the edge of 13. It was Christmas. The house packed. Adam was
there. He was my cousin's cousin's uncle, or something like that. He was a
bit older than my dad, I guess. I'd only met him a couple of times, but I
liked him. He was great fun.

The house was so packed for the long weekend that names for people who
would have to share went into hats... and I got Adam. Tough luck on him. My
bedroom was up in the attic. It was a huge room, but it was the only one,
and it was miles away from everyone else. I loved it. It was warm and
cumfy, and it had its own bathroom, so what's not to like?

'Uncle' Adam said he didn't mind. It would be an adventure. Christmas
Eve. I got sent to bed at 10.30. Uncle Adam turned up half an hour
letter. He brought a bottle and let me have sips of the cherry brandy -
"It's Christmas," he said. "Every boy should get to try something new."

I swigged at least a quarter of the bottle, and put on some music. You
couldn't hear the all the way downstairs. He even let me have a couple of
puffs on his cigarette, but it made me cough and splutter.

How did it start? I am not sure.

One moment we were sitting on uncle's bed, next minute we were dancing a
slow dance, body to body, skin to skin, my head jammed somewhere underneath
Adam's chin. Maybe he was teaching me to dance; I honestly don't
remember. But I could feel him hot and hard pressed against me.

As usual our home was over-heated. Outside snow was falling. If memory
serves, we both had on T-shirts and shorts. One hand stroked my hair, the
other went round my buttocks as he rocked me in time with the music.

Then we were on his bed, naked. How the hell had that happened? I was on
top of him, my face between his legs, taking him into my mouth, afraid I
might choke, and afraid I might not be taking enough of him.

Uncle had thick, black hair down there, not on his chest, but down there,
black and silky. It tickled my nose. I felt like sneezing but thought that
would be cheeky. I felt him grow harder as the head of his cock moved
through the foreskin. I inhaled smells of soap and sweat, of unnamed scents
of sex.

As his prick moved back and forward in my mouth, in my throat, I tightened
my lips, then relaxed them, I sucked fast, then slow.

I felt Adam's tongue run from my scrotum backwards towards my most private
place. I gulped, almost bit him, prayed for more. I felt the hot tip of his
tongue press against my bum hole, my anus, probe and push its way in. I
grew almost faint with excitement.

Bryan Ferry was singing: Love Is The Drug... my dad was a fanatic about
Roxy and I'd inherited it from him.

Every nerve in my body seemed to rush towards his tongue pushed, probed and
wormed its way into me. Too much, it was too much to bear. I pushed him
away, swung myself round to lie beside him, keeping my lips round his
hard-on, and sucked, my head moving up and down, taking in as much as I
could without choking.

Suddenly I felt it, a rush, a squirt, a spurt inside my mouth and throat,
again and again. I kept my lips tightly round his shaft and swallowed as
best I could...

I held on as he pulsed himself into me. I opened my eyes and felt more than
saw his stiff cock slowly draw back into itself, leaving a big silvery drop
hanging where the foreskin had folded itself up like a flower as evening
fell. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth: I both tasted and
smelled the after-taste of toasted salted almonds.

Adam pulled up and held me close, running his tongue over my eyebrows and
closed eyelids. I couldn't open my eyes; I was ashamed, but I wasn't sure
of what I was ashamed.

Certainly not of the sex; I loved that. But maybe ashamed that I wasn't
enough for him, that I was only a boy, only 13, with a little cock - little
compared to his - and no muscles, and a little hair, a baby, just a baby.

As we lay there, he held a small bottle to my nose.

"Sniff it, sniff I hard," he whispered.

Something changed. It was like a switch had been thrown.

Did he read my mind? He was down there again, his hot tongue everywhere. I
thought I would faint. I whispered to him. Sex things, dirty things. I
whispered: "Put it inside me. You can put it inside me. If you want. I want
it inside me."

We kissed deeply while he pushed a finger against my anus, trying to slip
it into my rectum; my body betrayed me, resisted, contracted.

Uncle Adam raised his fingers to my mouth. I sucked his digit and middle
fingers together. He pressed again, and down there I opened, slowly, until
he could slide in two fingers, then three. He moved them around, seeming to
open me, to widen me. Pain, dull then sharp cut through me down there. I
bit my lip.

"Tell me if it hurts too much," he whispered.

I said nothing. I lifted and swung my legs over his shoulders, closed my
eyes and tried to relax.

I felt his penis against my anus again. He began to push and withdraw
gently. I felt myself open, felt the head bludgeon its way in. Excruciating
pain, and I wanted more.

The back of my head buried itself in the pillow. I was unable to speak; I
was impaled and felt his cock slide into me deeper and deeper. He asked if
I was all right, and I pushed my arse harder against him, sliding more of
him into me.

Nothing mattered except what was happening everywhere and nowhere in my
body.

Bryan Ferry was doing one of his best songs ever: Let's Stick Together.
It's the best song ever for fucking or getting fucked.

I clasped my legs round his back and humped him best I could. From behind
closed eyelids I saw stars spatter my eyelids, the universe exploding in a
million pinpoints of light. I thought I could feel him thicken and pulse
inside me.

His hair tickled the inside of my thighs. He was cumming, cumming, cumming.

No!

That was me!

I was spurting hard against his belly, and for a moment I felt ashamed
again. What would Adam think? A little boy who couldn't even hold in his
own... And Uncle was cumming, too. A million trillion zillion little sperms
swimming up my rectum.

I fainted.

I know I fainted because Adam told me later. Because for a few moments he
was sick with worry. Then, he says, I stirred, opened my eyes, wrapped my
arms around his neck and pulled him to me.

I fell asleep, in his bed, in his arms.

We woke up early. We lay in bed and chatted. He made me feel so
comfortable. He took my guilt away. And he warned me about being very
careful.  And I listened to every word.

We showered together, in the hot and splashy water. Adam checked my anus to
see if there was any damage. Just a little. He put some cream inside my
with his middle finger, and I started to hump it.

Dirty little bugger, he laughed.

Then we dressed in woollies and anoraks, and we went outside and build the
hugest snowman you could ever imagine. I know it was a Snow-man, not a
Snow-woman, because it had Snow-balls! That's one of Uncle Adam's jokes.

Uncle Adam died that Spring. In Thailand. In a traffic accident. He got
buried in Thailand because that's what he wanted. Although I hardly knew
him, I missed him. 'Life is what happens to you when you're busy making
other plans.'

I don't want to finish on a sad not. I've had lots of happy times, and I
expect to have lots more. I wish I was a better writer, but all I can do is
put down my thoughts the way they come to me.

Can you be a boylover and a manlover at the same time?

If you look at those boys like me, you'll find they have something in
common: they are missing a significant male figure in their lives. Absent
fathers, inadequate fathers, insignificant fathers won't do. Boys are
hungry for role models, and the only role models who really matter are the
men because finally that is what they have to be - men.

Don't get me wrong. Many of the sweetest, strongest, most tolerant,
independent boys I have met are those from single parent families where it
is mum who has raised them; it is mum who has passed on to them so many of
their caring qualities, their ability to listen, their ability to feel,
their ability to share emotions; it is mum who has allowed them to develop
their female side.

But in the end boys have to function in the world as men, and if they have
no men as guides, mentors, role models, they will go out and find them.

Oscar found me, when I needed to find him.

Oddly enough, given the overhwhelming love I have for Oscar, the images
that come to mind aren't initially sexual.

There is Oscar running in from cricket, diving full length onto the couch
as if he owned my room and all its possessions as exclusively as he held my
heart.

Face flushed, he announces: "We won! Just by 3 runs but we won!"

Oscar taking the stairs three at a time, diving into my arms, embracing me
with his legs, yelling, "Mum says I can stay the weekend."

Oscar gobbling half a kilo of ice cream, then staring hungrily at what's
left on my plate.

Oscar by the lake, stretched out full length, his head on my stomach as he
twitches on the fishing line tied to his big toe.

Oscar taking a shy bow as he completes his first evening in the school play
I have written especially to provide him with a starring role.

Oscar mastering backgammon in a couple of hours, then going on to defeat me
time after time, unhindered, as I am, by my steady gaze at his face rather
than at the board.

There is a special picture of Oscar that hangs in this room. It is Oscar
and his mother. We travelled across the county on a warm, sunny June day
for Oscar to battle through to the final of the County Under-13's
championship, and Oscar has won the final 6-4, 5-7, 6-4.

His head is tilted back, his face flushed with laughter, victory, exertion
and the sun. Opposite is his mother, her head thrown back, laughing,
sharing in Oscar's pleasure. And I am there to capture the moment in a
photograph which may never be equalled in either of their lives.

The sex seems almost trivial though Oscar approached even that with his
typical forthright delight. How did it begin? With sport of
course. Rugby. Oscar staggering into my rooms in the House after a school
match in the mud.

He is 12.

He has to wait for his mother to arrive in the MG to pick him up; she is
always late. "May I?" and he is into my shower cubicle, throwing his shirt,
socks, shorts, jock strap behind him as he goes. The young take so much for
granted.

"Don't go. I want to talk about the game."

Oscar steps out of the shower, water running down his well-built,
well-formed body, diamonds hang from his nipples, he rubs his thick dark
hair briskly as his penis, large for a 12-year-old, bounces between his
thighs. It is only later Oscar admits he pulled at his penis in the shower
to thicken it a bit, "just in case..."

He throws the towel to me.

"Can you do my back, please?"

I catch the towel, it is very damp, so I flick a fresh one from a drawer
and begin drying his butterfly shoulders, the nape of his neck, his back,
his strong rounded buttocks. His presence is over-powering. "Mum says come
for dinner," he announces between recollections and reflections on the
match.

"Shit, I've got cramp. Ooops, sorry, sir, but I really do."

He turns to me, left leg cramped in pain. I kneel before him and begin to
knead the calf muscle. He is in pain, his groans and assorted ouches tell
me so. My open palms run the length of his leg again and again, and then
squeeze the calf muscles rhythmically.

I glance up and Oscar is fully erect.

His erect penis is about four inches length and thick for his age. The skin
is the palest pink. There is a flutter of foreskin round the head of his
cock. A few wisps of dark hair show that puberty has set in. His balls hang
low, the outline of each testicle clear. He pushes himself towards me a
fraction.

I look up into his face. His eyes are alight with desire.

"Maybe I'd better lie down," he whispers.

Oscar backs towards the couch. I follow on my knees. He stretches out full
length. "Can you massage me?" he whispers. I know I should turn away, step
briskly to my feet, play the man to the boy, nothing has happened yet. His
voice is filled with desire...

"Please."

I lower my face and press the length of his penis against my cheek. I am
lost. I am drowning, not waving. And stretched out before me is the Word
made Flesh, beauty incarnate, a desire as compulsive as my own. A light
breeze flicks the curtain open. I open my lips and seal the future.

Oscar and I have two years. Then he moves up into the senior school, and I
move away to London. And, yes, there is sex lots of it, and so much of it
humorous and in the most unlikely places. But the time comes when it is
time for me to move on, to let Oscar move into a life that does not depend
on me, a life where all the options are open to him.

Unlike me, Oscar is not a fly fixed in amber, but, like me, he is content
with what he is, or with whatever he will become. And I honour him by
letting him go.

And so it is night: 31 December 2010.

Time to move on. Time to let the old baggage go and only carry what's
important into the future. And my boys, all them, are important, and I will
carry them into whatever future unfolds. Photographs, memories, and
profound gratitude they welcomed me into their lives.

...

Thanks for finding time to read this story. You may like some of these:

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One Boy's Story - Adult Youth - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/one-boys-story

Learning with Leo - Young Friends - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/learning-with-leo

Let Me in - Adult Youth - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/let-me-in

Beautiful Games - Young Friends - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/beautiful-games

In My Secret Life - Young Friends - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/in-my-secret-life

Telling Tales - Young Friends https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/telling-tales

Here We Go Again - https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/here-we-go-again