Date: Sun, 5 Jun 2011 14:51:48 -0700
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Ollie

Disclaimer: Oh, whatever. If you're going to read it, you're going to read
it. A man and an eleven year old boy play the sort of games men and boys
have been playing for millenia, and telling you not to read this won't stop
it happening. Just enjoy the thing, and please email me if you liked it:
zackmcnaught@hotmail.com. Apologies for all the moralising at the end - if
you don't want to read it, skip the last couple of paragraphs.

Cheers,

Zack

P.S. Please donate to keep Nifty running. Many authors give countless hours
of their time to write stories for your enjoyment. As a way of saying
thanks for all their hard work, please help to keep Nifty open, and keep it
free: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Thanks.

'Ollie'
(M/b (12), mast, oral)

Ollie stormed from the room, muttering "Fucking paedo!" at me as he went,
eyes boring into me with unconcealed hatred. I watched him go, sighing
inwardly. His cute little brother, Ryan, looked round from his prone
position on the floor, chin cupped in hands, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"Is he OK?" he asked, to which I responded with a shrug. He obviously
hadn't heard what Ollie said.

"Dunno, mate. I'll go and find out."

I couldn't tell Ryan why Ollie had left in such a hurry. Couldn't explain
to him that his brother had caught me staring at his cute little behind,
wiggling about as he watched TV. Couldn't explain that Ollie was bang on
the money, that I wanted to get inside Ryan's y-fronts. Instead I stood
awkwardly, concealing the lump in my jeans, and went off to find Ollie.

He hadn't gone far, thankfully. He was sitting on the swinging bench in the
corner of the garden, his favourite spot. He liked to sit in the shade of
the clematis which adorned it, reading a book. Unusual for a kid his age,
perhaps, at least if you believe the media. Now he was huddled with his
knees up beneath his chin, arms wrapped around his shins as though it were
the middle of winter and not a sultry August evening full of the threat of
thunder.

I sat down next to him, setting the seat swinging slightly. For a minute I
said nothing, just sat there feeling the waves of hatred emanating from
him, washing over me. When I did break the silence, I was surprised at the
strength in my own voice. I had expected it to be shaky.

"What was that about?" I asked, as if I didn't know. He turned his head to
glare at me, then returned his gaze to the garden, addressing his reply to
the nearby stand of raspberry bushes, heavy with late cropping fruit.

"You're just like that wanker Dave mum went out with. Fucking paedo
scum. Only want to get in his pants, don't you? You want to bum him. Sick
wanker."

There wasn't the conviction in his tone that his words hoped to convey. He
was resigned, beaten down by experience, perhaps feeling that only being a
child himself he was unlikely to be taken seriously. I declined to be so
crass as to deny that I'd thought about it, but it wouldn't be a lie to say
that I'd decided not to go there.

"Ollie, I'm not going to try to do anything to Ryan, ok? He's nine years
old, for fuck's sake! Why would you think that?"

I hoped that by casually swearing in front of him, something his mother
strongly discouraged, I would gain his trust.

"That's bullshit. I saw your computer. I saw those stories you wrote."

Well, fuck, that changed everything, didn't it? I had written fantasies
about Ryan, and they were on my computer. And all over Nifty, too, though
somehow I doubted Ollie had been there. I chose to ignore the fact that I
should have been giving him a bollocking for using my computer - it was
probably my fault anyway; must have left it unlocked.

"Ollie, they were just stories, that's all. I wouldn't actually do that
stuff to him."

"Yeah, right."

"Seriously, mate. I'm not going to do that to Ryan."

"You want to, though, don't you? Why would you have those stories if you
didn't?"

"Mate, it's not about wanting to do those things to Ryan. It's about
imagining doing those things to a version of Ryan which doesn't exist. The
real Ryan would be messed up if those things happened to him. I don't want
to hurt him. What did this 'Dave' bloke do to him?"

"He... he made him show him his willy for a Playstation game. Then he made
him touch him."

I didn't even try to decipher the 'hims'. Clearly 'Dave' was not beyond
grooming a boy. Not really my kind of guy, even if we shared rather similar
tastes in boys.

"Well, that's wrong, isn't it? What did Ryan think about it?" I asked.

"He got really upset one day. He doesn't like playing on the Playstation
anymore. He thought he was going to be in trouble."

"See?" I said, perhaps a little triumphantly. "That's why you can't do the
stuff in the stories. Boys are too young to know what they want. They
always get hurt."

He sat there sulkily for a moment, then said,

"I'm not too young."

It was barely more than a whisper. I looked across at him, recently twelve
years old, just beginning to enter puberty, and thought to myself, "No,
you're not so young any more, are you?". Ollie and Ryan are my nephews,
though my brother is no longer with their mum. But they used to hang out at
my place a fair amount anyway, because it was free childcare and I had the
time to look after them.

"You got a girlfriend, then, Ollie?" I asked, changing tack slightly. He
shrugged.

"If I did, you'd know about it, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know, mate. You used to tell me everything that went on. Best
mates and all that. Doesn't happen so much now, does it?"

"Well, you didn't use to be a pervert, did you?" he shot back at me. I
sighed heavily.

"Ok, fine. Look, Ollie, I'm not going to attack anyone, ok? Least of all
Ryan. Sounds like Dave already messed him up. Does your mum know about that
happening."

He nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. She kicked him out. Didn't go to the police because she said that
would just make it worse for Ryan."

"She told you that, did she?"

"Well, I kept saying we should tell on him, but mum didn't want to, so she
told me why we couldn't."

I nodded. "Fair enough. Are you going to tell her about me?"

He sat silently for a while.

"If you promise not to touch Ryan, I won't tell."

I looked him in the eyes. I needed him to know I was telling the
truth. "Cross my heart and hope to die," I said. He gave me a half-hearted
smile, and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Umm....." he started, suddenly seeming loud in the newly still air; the
promised storm was on its way. "Did you ever write stories about me?"

I wasn't sure how to answer. The truth was yes, I had. But would that freak
him out too much? Only one way to find out...

"Yeah, there were a couple."

"Can I... can I read them?" he asked. "To find out how much of a pervert
you are, obviously," he added rather too quickly. I couldn't gauge his
intentions in asking, but then I couldn't see a solid reason why
not. Things couldn't get any weirder between us at that point in time.

"Ok, sure. Yes. Do you want me to get my laptop now?"

He shook his head. "No, later. After Ryan's in bed, ok?"

"Sure," I answered. Just then, a sonorous peal of thunder echoed round the
nearby hills. As the first, fat drops of rain began to slam into the dry
earth, kicking up little puffs of dust, we made a dash for the safety of
the house.

---

I was barely back in the living room when Ollie came to me with my
computer. I'd just tucked Ryan in, making sure he was going to sleep. The
whole time I could feel Ollie's eyes on my back, watching from the hallway,
making sure I wasn't doing anything inappropriate with his brother. I
railed at the injustice of his accusing stare, but if I was honest he had
every right to act the way he did.

He dropped the laptop on the sofa beside me, then sat down on the far side
of it, legs crossed beneath himself. It was already booted up, on the login
screen waiting for my password. The fact that he didn't know the password
at least confirmed that it was my fault Ollie had seen what was on my
computer, even if he must have snooped around a bit to find the stories. I
must have left it logged in at some point, and so I only had myself to
blame. Idiot.

"There you go," I said, handing him the computer. Its screen showed a text
file containing all five short stories I had written about him. I sat
nervously watching him read, seeing his eyes widen at several points, and a
troubled frown cross his face more than once. When he had finished he sat
and stared at the screen for a moment, before scrolling back up and
re-reading some parts, subconsciously reaching a hand down to adjust the
front of his jeans. Perhaps it had had the desired effect on him, though if
I'm honest it was just as likely to have been an itch he was scratching.

"You're really good at writing, you know," he said after a few moments. I
suppose it was a nice neutral statement to make while he digested my
fantasies, but it told me nothing of what he thought about them. "Um, how
did you know about my... Well, you know..."

Actually, I really didn't know, and told him so. He sighed.

"My willy. How did you know about my willy?"

I grinned at him. "Well, I saw it when you were younger. I figured it was
probably still quite big for your age. Was I right?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. It's about this long," he said, holding his palms
about five inches apart. I was a bit surprised, and surmised that he was
exaggerating significantly.

"Wow..." I said softly, showing every sign that I believed him.

"So... you want to do all that stuff with me?" he asked, his tone
deliberately neutral, giving me no indication of whether his question was a
simple query or an offer. I imagined it to be the former.

"Ollie, like I said, I don't want to do that to the real you. You'd freak
out. You're quite a lot freaked out right now, aren't you?"

He shrugged, but then nodded. "It's just weird knowing you would put it in
your mouth. And you want me to put my mouth on yours. Do people really do
that?"

"Oh yeah, they definitely do that, mate," I replied, smiling.

"Why?"

"Well, it feels amazing to get it done, and quite a lot of people like
doing it, too."

"Do you like doing it?"

"I don't actually know, mate. I've never put a boy's willy in my mouth. I
want to try it to see what it's like. I reckon I'd like it. It makes me
horny thinking about doing it."

"Are you horny now?" he asked, eyebrows shooting skywards. I laughed.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Talking with you about this stuff makes me
horny."

"You're not going to do anything to me are you?" he asked, a little panic
entering his voice. I could see his legs moving underneath him, ready to
fly if needed. I desperately wanted him to trust me, to believe that I
wouldn't hurt him, but after the day's revelations that was more than I
could reasonably expect. I shook my head emphatically.

"No, Ollie, I'm not going to do anything to you. I thought I told you that
already."

"Yeah, I know, but then I read the story and..."

He left it hanging there, not needing to say explicitly what he felt. He
was right to freak out - here he was, sitting on the sofa with a previously
trustworthy uncle who had just shown him fantasies about wanking, sucking
and in the last case fucking him. He had every right to be well and truly
scared of me right then, and I had no right whatsoever to demand that he
behave otherwise.

"If I wanted you to - I don't - but if I wanted you to do it, would you do
it to me?" he asked. I sighed. I hated being asked that question, because I
knew the truth. The truth which, on this occasion, I hid from him. Or
rather, tried to hide from him.

"No, mate, I wouldn't. It wouldn't be right."

"But what if I knew what I was asking for and begged you?"

"Well, for one, you wouldn't --"

"I might!" he interrupted, but then burst out laughing.

"Yeah, right. Anyway, the answer is still no, Ollie. I wouldn't do it even
if you begged me to."

"But you want to, right?"

Something inside me snapped. Not in an angry way, or a lustful one. But my
patience was worn beyond its limits by his questioning. I made the classic
tickling fingers pose and pretended to make a grab for his ribs. He
squealed and bolted, running over to the other side of the room. Thankfully
he was laughing as he did so, so the tension had at least been broken.

When he and Ryan left the next morning I wandered out into the garden and
sat heavily on the wall of one of my raised beds. For nearly an hour I sat
and watched nature doing its thing around me. Bees wandered lazily amongst
the flowers in my borders, and an industrious trail of ants worked
feverishly to clear the undisolved grains of sugar stuck to the rim of my
discarded morning coffee mug. All around me plants and insects grew and
matured. Just like Ollie, I thought.

What the hell was happening with him? I reflected on the previous day's
conversations, and concluded that I still had no clue what he was
thinking. I was fairly confident that he would keep my secret, though I
lacked any evidence to that effect. Nothing in what he had said or done
convinced me of any opinion on his part. I tried not to focus on his
insistence on reading the stories, the fact that he had eagerly re-read
some passages, the quick adjustment with his hand in his lap. All of those
things meant nothing, if I was brutally honest with myself.

What did I want of him? Why was I agonising over this so much? It was true
that I had promised myself I would never touch Ollie or Ryan. That was for
lots of reasons, and though I tried to convince myself that they were all
noble, a large part of it must have been that I was simply scared of the
legal ramifications. Of course I didn't want to hurt them, but was that all
that was stopping me? No, not if I'm honest. If I could be sure that I
wouldn't hurt Ollie in the long run, would I try to seduce him? It was a
question I couldn't answer, and a moot point regardless - I could never
know for certain that I wouldn't hurt him, so I could never take the risk.

Frustrated and unresolved, I sat alone and let the warm rays of the sun
cleanse my mind of thoughts of boys.

---

It was a week before I saw Ollie and Ryan again, another Friday when their
mum would be working late and the boys would stay over at my place. They
both sloped in after school, discarding shoes, blazers, ties, bags and
anything else they could manage all over the hallway, before Ryan sat down
in front of the TV and Ollie disappeared out the back with a book.

"You two not going to the Rec to play football?" I asked Ryan.

"Nope."

"Because..."

"Matt and his brother are away and John's with his dad this weekend, so we
couldn't be bothered."

"Right," I said, leaving him to his kid's TV and heading out to where his
brother was, sitting on the swing seat, staining his grey school socks by
running them through the grass beneath. He had a book in his hand, but
wasn't reading it, instead starting into space. He looked round and smiled
when I approached.

"Hey," I said, sitting down next to him.

"Hey."

"Long week at school?"

"Yeah. Glad it's the weekend. Loads of homework though."

"Ryan said you're not going to the Rec this afternoon."

He shrugged. "No-one's about."

"Want me to go over with you and kick a ball around?"

Ollie looked up from his study of the floor. "Yeah, that would be cool. Are
you sure?"

"Of course I am, mate. Go and chuck some shorts on and pull your brother
away from the TV, and I'll get some trainers on and get the ball out of the
garage."

I found an old beaten up pair of Nikes, and fished the ball out of the
garage, giving it a quick shot of air and being pleased with myself for
putting the adapter somewhere I could find it. Ollie and Ryan were waiting
by the front door when I got there.

We were practically the only people at the Rec, apart from a few younger
kids with someone's mum, playing on the swings. For an hour or so we kicked
the ball about, taking turns at being goalie, and having epic rounds of
keepy-uppy (best score: 33!). We finally gave up when the boys were both
too thirsty to carry on, and then stumbled across an ice-cream van on the
way out, which ended up costing me a few quid but made the boys
inordinately happy. On the way back, with Ryan walking in front of us and
kicking the ball along the pavement, I looked over at Ollie. With a glint
in his eye he did something utterly obscene with his ice lolly and then
doubled over with silent laughter at my rapidly reddening face.

---

When Ryan was in bed, and with Ollie in possession of two hours of his own
time, I was once again presented with the laptop. I raised my eyebrows at
him.

"I want to read the stories again. And the ones about Ryan. And have you
written any others?"

"I don't know, Ollie. I shouldn't be showing you this stuff."

"Come on, uncle Zack! Please! I won't tell anyone you showed it to me."

"How come you're so interested in reading them anyway?"

He shrugged, breaking eye contact. "Just want to read them. Find out how
much of a pervert you really are."

He'd used that line before, and this time it held even less
plausibility. Without another word I unlocked the computer, then spent a
few minutes collecting all the stories I could find in one folder. I
disappeared out into the garden while he read, ostensibly to use the last
of the day's light for some weeding, but largely to avoid his accusing
stares.

When I returned, he was still reading. He lay on the sofa, laptop on his
stomach, legs crossed at the ankle. Perhaps because the screen shielded his
view of his body below the chest, he had made no effort to hide a rather
obvious lump at the crotch of his satiny football shorts. I almost doubled
over at the sudden jolt of sexual excitement which shot through me at the
sight. Even with me in the room he made no effort to cover himself,
wilfully oblivious of the show he was giving me.

"Enjoying yourself?" I asked, managing with some difficulty to keep any
hint of mocking out of my voice. I sat down on a chair at right angles to
the sofa and tried to keep my own mounting excitement from becoming too
visible.

"Mm," he replied, which could have meant 'yes', 'no' or 'my face is being
eaten by zombies' for all that I could discern. I sat back and let him
carry on reading, heart hammering against my ribcage, my excitement in no
way lessened when he reached down a hand a squeezed his impressive erection
through the fabric of his shorts. He pushed it down hard and released it,
making the tent all that much more obvious. If I hadn't known how utterly
absorbed he could become in a story, I would have thought it
deliberate. But with Ollie, it may well have been subconscious.

When he was finally done he dropped the computer on the sofa and without a
word disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. I heard the door close
and the lock snick into place, and I could only imagine what was going on
inside. Even the thought of it was too much for me to handle, and I rushed
into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of kitchen towel just quickly enough
to avoid making a mess of my boxers. I binned the evidence, cleaned my
sticky fingers and went back to the living room to retrieve my computer.

He emerged ten minutes later, looking flushed but not otherwise showing any
signs of embarrassment. In silence, as though the events of the last half
hour had not transpired, he flicked on the TV and tuned into a repeat of
QI.

Twenty minutes later Ollie had come back to life a bit. He was a huge fan
of the program, and somewhat idolised Stephen Fry, though I wondered idly
if he realised the great Mr Fry is gay. Would it have made any difference
to him? Was his twelve year old mind yet full of the propaganda which
inevitably sweeps the playground? Was 'gay' an insult his peers used? I
felt almost certain that it must be. I wondered what he felt privately,
too, whether his obvious physical appreciation of my stories meant that he
perhaps had tendencies in that direction. Of course you can't know for sure
at twelve whether or not someone is gay. But you can have an idea... if I
was honest, though, I knew Ollie was nothing more or less than a horny
twelve year old boy, and that horniness would be directed wherever it could
safely be released.

"Do you have any pictures?" he asked, out of the blue.

I wasn't quite sure what he was referring to, and so I asked, "Of what?"

"You know. Of boys and that."

I was flabbergasted. I couldn't quite work out if he was trying to entrap
me somehow.

"Well, I've got pictures of you and Ryan playing football," I replied,
deliberately misunderstanding him in the hope that he would leave the
subject alone. I should have known better than to hope for that, though.

"No, stupid, not pictures like that. Naked pictures. Come on, I know all
you paedos swap them all the time, don't you. Bet you've got loads."

He said it with a smile, but there was the hint of something else beneath
his expression. Not malice, exactly, but a certain enjoyment gained from my
obvious discomfort. When it came to pictures, though, he was dead out of
luck. Nothing like that was kept on my laptop.

"Ollie, let me make it absolutely clear that I don't have a single picture
or video of a boy getting abused on my computer. That would be very wrong."

"But you wrote those stories. What's the difference?"

"The stories are made up, Ollie. No-one was abused so that those stories
could happen. The only real person involved in making them was the
author. But boys in pictures, no matter how happy they look, no matter how
much fun they appear to be having, are probably being abused."

"What if they wanted to be in pictures?"

I shrugged. "You can never know."

"Unless you were the one taking the pictures and the boy told you he wanted
you to take them."

"Even then," I replied, "he might regret me taking them later. Then it's
too late."

"Dad always says 'no regrets'."

I couldn't decipher quite what bearing that had on the conversation. It was
just the sort of throwaway comment my stupid brother would make. Ollie
didn't seem willing to expand on the point, and so the conversation,
thankfully, ended there.

I sent him off to bed half an hour later. He was in a genial mood, though
there was a glint in his eye which suggested some variety of impending
naughtiness. The form it took utterly astounded me, for not five minutes
later, when I assumed him to be changing into his pyjamas and settling into
bed, I heard the thunder (never a patter!) of his feet down the
stairs. Ahead of him came the cry 'no regrets!' and then he appeared in all
his glory, naked as the day he was born, preceded by a half-mast erection
of the most excellent calibre, a chubby, pale, perfectly smooth rod of
flesh which bounced around to a rhythm of its own, jutting a comfortable
hand's width from his unfettered groin. He stopped for a moment, dancing
sensually, hands roaming over his crotch and tugging at his tumescent
boyhood, his face contorted into apparent rapture, before once more giving
his cry of 'no regrets!' and sprinting from the room.

Heedless of possible ramifications I grabbed a handful of tissues from the
box on the coffee table and pumped a sudden, unexpected emission into them.

---

I lay in bed playing back the evening's events, determined to derive what
meaning I could from Ollie's act of streaking. His war cry suggested that
it was linked to our earlier conversation, though what meaning he intended
to convey wasn't clear. I knew what I hoped he meant by it - that he was
willing to do something. To show himself to me, and not just as a defiant
act, but in a sexual manner, full of intent and deliberation. It wasn't a
boy streaking for the mere effect his streaking would have. It was a
sexually charged situation, the tension heightened by his clearly visible
excitement.

Oh, and what a sight it was! Such a weapon for such a skinny young boy! The
air of wishful thinking in my stories was swept aside by a surprising
reality. His boyhood, last glimpsed in the swimming pool changing room at
the age of eight, had grown with him. Oh, I knew alright, knew it was big
for his age, for a child of any age.  What had been impressive when dormant
was positively shocking when erect, quite easily four and a half inches in
length, and proportionally thick, a stark contrast to his narrow hips and
boyish torso. I longed to feel it, to feel the steel hardness of it, to
gently skin the foreskin back behind the head and wrap my lips around it,
to feel its blunt warmth pushing against the roof of my mouth, to
experience the smooth skin of his crotch on my lips as I dipped my head
into his lap, devouring him whole. I ached to feel it pulse and kick in my
mouth as he came, maybe spitting out a thin, slimy ejaculate, tangy with
youthful vitality. His testes had appeared large enough that I held onto
hope. Oh God, worst of all, most depraved of all, I wanted to part his
rounded cheeks with the sabre of my passion and deflower him, to feel
myself rush into the warm confines of his bowels again and again, to mount
him face to face and see the expressions of agonising pleasure distort his
features, to send his penis, flaccid from my penetration, bouncing around
and dribbling pre-seminal fluid across the creased skin of his stomach as I
hunched into him in search of my release, of spilling myself within the
hot, dark depths of him, of owning him in such an utter manner as this. I
wanted to know what it felt like to reach the ultimate state of being with
him.

I couldn't sleep. Nothing would clear my mind of thoughts of him, least of
all mere fatigue. I stumbled blearily from my room and downstairs to the
living room, flicking on the TV and blinking heavily to clear the mist from
my eyes. Baseball was on ESPN (one of the only reasons to buy Sky, in my
opinion), so I half-heartedly watched that with my hand shoved down the
front of my sleeping shorts, idly toying with myself.

I wasn't aware of him in the room at first. It was probably half an hour
after I had adjourned there, and something at the very edge of vision
caused me to look around. He stood there, entranced in the TV, face bathed
in its sterile blue glow. As subtly as I could I removed my hand from its
location in my crotch, and hoped that the darkness had hidden my actions.

"Hey," I said, sounding suddenly very loud. "I didn't mean to wake you. You
should get back to bed."

He shook his head. "Not sleepy."

Normally I would have told him to go to bed anyway, but something told me
he wasn't being simply naughty, but really couldn't sleep. I waved him over
to where I lay on the couch and to my surprise, rather than sitting down he
lay full length in front of me, head resting in his arm. I revelled in the
intimacy, whilst also hoping that he made no move backwards, for he would
surely bump into the dull prong of my half erection where it tented my
shorts. He wore nothing more than a flimsy pair of cotton shorts to sleep
in, leaving his bare back resting against my chest, similarly devoid of
cloth. With nowhere else to put it, and hoping that it would be taken as
simply the act of a loving uncle, I draped my upper arm over his torso,
placing the hand flat upon the surface of the sofa cushion.

For several minutes we lay this way, until with a deep breath and a sigh
Ollie snuggled back into me, pushing his back into my chest and his bottom,
clad only in that very thin sheen of fabric, into my crotch. A hand reached
down and plucked my own from the sofa, moving it to lie very deliberately
on his soft, warm lower tummy, mere fractions of a hand's width from the
crinkled hem of his shorts. At first I simply held it there, but driven by
passion and forgetting all of the promises I made to myself and to him, I
started moving it in circles on his delicate torso. The circles grew wider
by the turn, running fingers across the indent of his belly button, then on
the downstroke letting my caress stray into the valley which led to his
crotch on the left hip, across to the right, trailing along the edge of the
hem, and then back up the right hip and round once more. Even in the TV's
dim light the growth of his excitement was apparent, and before long it
tented strongly in front of him, the blunted tip of it (confined as it was
by cotton stretched to its limit) sat higher than the hem, and finally came
so far up his body that the back of my knuckles brushed against it.

I lurched and so did he. His motion, a sudden stiffening so strong that he
all but jumped away from me, was due to surprise. My own was down to the
jolt of sudden, excruciating sexual excitement which surged to the pit of
my stomach and sent spasms of cramp through my abdomen. He pushed urgently
back into me, grabbing my hand and pushing it downwards, but I, in a sudden
moment of remorse, resisted his movement.

"Please!" he whispered urgently, but yet I resisted.

"No, Ollie. I can't. I promised you I wouldn't!"

"Fucking hell, Uncle Zack! Please! I know what I'm doing! I'm old enough!"

"No, Ollie, no!"

"Fucking hell!" he spat at me, and tore himself from my grip. He dropped
his shorts as he moved to the chair nearby, and then, watching me through
half-closed eyelids, began an amateurish, not-yet-well-practised wank.

What would you do? Would you be able to resist doing something? Would you
be able to walk from the room and leave him there to his business, knowing
that he wanted you to feel his body, to take his boyhood in hand and give
him the greatest feelings a human body can experience? Oh, for fuck's sake,
I'm not a saint, and I wasn't then. He grinned as I knelt by his chair, and
gave an 'oh!' of surprised pleasure as my hand closed around his shaft. The
hot hardness of him was enclosed in my fist, the peak of it, sheathed in a
foreskin which tapered to a nipple-like point, just emerging from the
confines of my grip. I held him a moment, not quite willing to believe that
I did so, until it sank home and I ejaculated into the confines of my
shorts.

My ardour was in no way dampened, my lust undiminished by the spilling of
my seed. No, the change which came over me was more subtle. I was now in
control of my emotions, of my libido. I could approach wanking Ollie with a
detached mind, determined to make it as thoroughly exceptional for him as
possible. I began slowly, letting a loose fist run up and down his shaft,
snagging the foreskin slightly on the downstroke, watching the opening of
it stretch around his bulbous head before springing back as I released
it. Against all likelihood (and the evidence of his smooth, utterly
hairless crotch) he was damp with precum, though judging by the plump
fullness of his crinkled scrotum I shouldn't have been surprised. It
jiggled up and down pleasantly as I wanked him with a firmer motion.

He was lost to the feelings growing within, squirming around on the chair
as the pleasure grew to a crescendo, the tip of his rod on fire, the flesh
ever stiffer beneath my roaming fingers. He needed desperately to reach his
peak, and switching to thumb and fingers I pushed him over the edge,
feeling the kick of his orgasm hammering through his penis, as his face
contorted, brows knitted together as pleasure grew so great it resembled
pain. Two almost clear bolts of semen exploded from the exposed head of his
willy, landing lightly on the tensed board of his stomach, before a third
dribbled slowly over my fingers. He expelled his held breath through pursed
lips as he came down from his high, and then panted with the exertion of
his orgasm.

As he came back to earth I rolled the skin back over the head of his
rapidly deflating boyhood, squeezing another half drop from the opening of
his foreskin and bringing it to my lips, tasting the salty tang of his
youthful emission. His eyes flickered open, and with a grin he propelled
himself forward out of the chair, throwing his arms around me, hugging
tightly around my neck. He kissed me quickly on the lips, a hard peck, and
then whispered a quick 'thank you!' in my ear, before retreating to his
bed. When he returned a few moments later for his shorts, he gave me a
sheepish grin and waved his willy in my direction as I sat dumbfounded on
the sofa.

---

How could things not change between us following that? How could we ever
have the same uncle-nephew relationship? As I sat opposite the boys over
breakfast the following morning I was bombarded with secret smiles from
Ollie, a wordless conversation about our mutually held secret. And a secret
it most definitely would remain. Ollie clearly felt himself a legitimate
partner in the seduction. For him it was no form of abuse, because he had
demanded my touch. To my mind, I had still taken advantage of him, but if
there was a crumb of comfort to be had, it was in his cheeky grins and
knowing smiles. He had wanted it. He had wanted it.

And he wanted it again. In the briefest window of opportunity, Ryan's daily
excretions, Ollie had his shorts around his ankles, naked bum in my lap as
I rapidly rubbed him to another orgasm, drier this time but no less potent
in sensation. He gave my bulging manhood a quick squeeze as he hopped from
my lap, laughing as I doubled over in pleasurable pain, once more filling
my underwear at the slightest stimulation. And again, as we went swimming,
sending Ryan ahead into a changing cubicle of his own and when his brother
was unaware dragging me in with him into a family cubicle, touching me when
I was naked, watching with pleasure as the thick splatters of my semen
coated the tiled floor, wiping the residue from his fingers on his towel
and then insisting as I sat on the bench and he stood in front of me that I
take his immature load in little marks all over my body, and what's more
leave it there as we walked to the pool. And again, as we adjourned to the
toilets half way through a movie, giggling as he pulled me by the hand into
a stall and watched with delight as I wanked myself, doing himself at the
same time, though not arriving at his peak so quickly and then insisting
that I finish him. And again, when his brother was in bed, this time
suggesting meekly that I might like to see what it was like to suck him
off, just like I had in my stories, and lying there on the sofa, knees up
as I crouched between his legs, bobbing my head on the shaft and
experiencing something so much better than my fiction could possibly have
predicted.

God, I make it sound like it was non-stop sex. It wasn't. But if I was to
suggest that there was anything more deep and meaningful to it than sheer
physical fulfilment, it would be a lie. This wasn't the meeting of two
great lovers, nor the opening gambit of a sizzling affair between us. Ollie
was a horny boy, and I was his outlet, and as soon as another, less
intimidating outlet was found our activities would cease.

Actually, that's entirely what happened. Ollie, for his twelfth birthday
only weeks later was given a laptop, and his mother, bless her, paid no
heed to warnings of easily available pornography on the internet. Ollie had
his outlet, and instantly our sexual contact ceased, to be replaced by a
surprisingly close and loving friendship. Ollie became my best mate again,
something he had been before, and something which I was pleased to find he
was again. He might have been too embarrassed by our prior intimacy to take
that step, but instead those few occasions were simply forgotten as though
they had never happened. I was quite thankful for that, too, because it
diminished my own guilt.

Looking back, I should never have allowed my urges to overwhelm me in that
way. I should have stayed resolute, because although Ollie was unaffected
in the long term, that may not have been the outcome. I could have hurt
him, could have skewed his world view. His safe, loving uncle, his rock in
the world in amongst the raging torrent that was his parents' destructive
relationship, had turned out to be a child's nightmare, a paedophile, a
boylover. Someone sexually interested in him. He could have been so thrown
by the revelation that he lost trust in all adults, and especially in
me. But wonder of all wonders, he remained, at least to the best of my
knowledge, largely unworried about my actions, and indeed his own.


If you enjoyed 'Ollie', please let me know: zackmcnaught@hotmail.com
For more stories, visit the Zack Mack archive at www.asstr.org/~zack/