Date: Tue, 26 Jul 2011 14:25:20 +0000 From: jonkent@post.com Subject: OSCAR MY LOVE Part 1 DISCLAIMER Everyone should accept the laws of his country, reserving the right to strive democratically to change those he disagrees with. Therefore, if the laws where you live say that you should NOT be reading stories like these, you are legally obliged to leave now and read no further. It does not matter if these stories are fiction, made-up, only written to entertain, instruct, engage, and inform. If for any reason, the law where you live says you are NOT allowed to read them, you have to go. So off you go. Live a healthy and happy life, and come back, if you want to, when your laws say. And remember: these are only stories. They are made-up. They did not happen. And the writer does not believe they should happen. The first responsibility of adults is to protect children and their innocence. It doesn't mean some adults won't enjoy reading stories like this, but it doesn't mean they should go out and do things like this. Who knows? maybe reading stories like this will actually stop them going out and doing these things. OSCAR MY LOVE Part 1 Oscar is 11 years old. Oscar is not cute. Oscar is beautiful. He turns heads in the street. In restaurants and cafes, both men and women find it hard to take their eyes from him. When he flicks his blond fringe from his eyes, women sigh and think eyelashes like his shouldn't be wasted on a boy. When he rises to go to the toilet, they marvel he can be so slender, so slim, and yet not seem skinny. Women would die for those hazel eyes, perfect skin, small white even teeth, and those pale pink lips that lick so casually at his ice cream cone. Oscar is in the wrong place at the wrong time. He should be naked in the baths or gym in 5th century BC Athens, the eyes and boys and men caressing his body. Even Oscar's rosebud is beautiful. I know because that's what I'm looking at now. The pale pink of his skin gives way the the faintest tinge of brown that finds its centre in the portal to his anus. I pry open his cheeks a little wider and flick my tongue against the tiny starfish. I'm stretched out on the bed, full-length, naked. Oscar, naked, is stretched along my length facing in the opposite direction. He holds my hard-on at the base, his finger-tips touching as they meet. He licks tenderly at the head of my dick, then slips it inside his mouth, something he certainly couldn't do when he was six years old. The fingers of his other hand play with my balls, slide in the sweaty crease that leads to my own bruised starfish. His lips, tongue, mouth tenderly caress my glans, make little circles, plant tiny kisses. He releases me for a moment to sing 'Never Say Never' with Justin Bieber and Jayden Smith. His sweet unbroken voice joins them in perfect harmony. Oscar is a happy boy. He returns to his work, his long middle finger sliding back and forth over my arsehole, mirroring what I am doing to him. I place my thumbs on either side of his hole and gently prise it open. A musky smell fills my nostrils, and I tickle the entrance with the tip of my tongue. I hear him giggle. Later I will fit his butt plug. I want him to be ready tonight. Ready for the camera. Ready for those men all over the world who want to peer into the boy's anus as much as into his hazel eyes. The boy's penis is as hard as a stick of asparagus, the head poking out obscenely from the foreskin. I fight my desire to lick it because I know how easily Oscar can cum when he is fully aroused as he is now. I feel him pull my open legs even wider as he plunges his face between my legs, between my buttocks. He is kissing and sucking at my hole, almost frantically, as if he wanted to find and suck the life essence out of me. I wonder for a moment if this is something he learned as a child from me, or whether he would have come to this kind of pleasure on his own. I can feel one, then two fingers, fight their way inside me. They start a sawing motion I know will open me wider and wider. A third finger tries to join its brothers, but I clench my buttocks, the sign that's enough, enough for now. To tell the truth, my arse is still sore from Jack's little fist last night. Jack is still too young to do anything subtly. This has its own delights but not when his little fist and arm is deep inside to the elbow. I wonder if I'll use Jack tonight. Probably not. There have been so many requests for Oscar that it has to be his night to do whatever he wants for his adoring audience. "I said 'Aren't you...?' You're not even listening!" I realise Oscar has been speaking to me. Gently I ease his fingers from my hole and swing his body, feather-light, round so that his hard-on is against my belly, his shoulders against my chest, his face and lips to mine. His breath is so sweet, a wonder when you consider where his lips, tongue and mouth have just been. "I said," he repeats, "what should I wear tonight? Until I take it off..." he giggles. "How many viewers do you think we'll have? We'd 411 last Friday. That's a record, isn't it? Can we have a Big Mac after?" Like most boys, Oscar flits from one topic to another with hardly a breath between. I'm still amazed how innocent he can still look. Stretched out along me, his chin resting on his arms crossed on my chest, his face a picture of concentration, a frown that only serves to make him more lovely. "I've got two little hairs down there," he adds suddenly. "They'll have to come out, won't they? The guys don't like hairs. But you're not plucking them! You fukin' make it hurt." He is serious but smiling at the same time. "I'm gonna pull the hairs out of your bumhole," he adds. "See if you like it." A moment of sadness. Two hairs down there. Time passes too quickly. Was it only yesterday.....? Oscar is six years old. He is sitting on a swing in the park. He looks so tiny, so alone. It's only 6 o'clock but already shadows are long, there's a chill in the air. Who the fuck leaves a six-year-old kid on their own in a public park? The toilets are only a few steps away, for Chrissake, and these toilets are not only used for the obvious. I sit down on the next swing. "Hi, kid. You on your own? What you doing?" The boy raises his head, and for the first time those big hazel eyes look into mine. My heart skips a beat, no, it skips half a dozen beats. He looks at me brightly. "Waiting for mum. She's in there." He turns his head, and I realise he's looking at the local clinic. "Oh, is she a nurse or something?" "Don't think so," he says. "She cleans the place in the afternoon. I come and play here till she comes out at the end of school." "What time does school finish?" I ask. "Not sure. I don't tell the time so good." Then brightly, "Can you teach me?" Where did that come from? In time, I will learn Oscar is one of life's optimists. For him, the glass is always half full. I'm about to accept the invitation when I hear... "Oscar! Oscar!" and a young woman, looking remarkably like a blond version of the dearly departed Amy Winehouse comes clicking across the tarmac. "Hi, mum," returns Oscar, leaping from the swing. Oscar's mother stops in front of us. I see where he gets those big eyes from. "I've told you not to speak to anyone," she begins to scold him. I intervene with "But Oscar knows that strangers give the best sweets." She looks at me uncertainly. "And, anyway, Oscar didn't speak to me. I spoke to him. I'm a teacher. I guess that's what we do when we see a little kid sitting on his own in the park at this time of night." Amy - for almost incredibly that turns out to be her name - says, "Oh, a teacher... well, thanks. I know I shouldn't have Oscar wait here for me. But it's only for a couple of weeks. We're new around here. I don't know anybody. And I've got to keep this job. I've just got to." Almost desperately. "You understand, don't you?" "Coffee?" I say. "Pardon?" she says. "Coffee?" I repeat. "And juice for him. No Cola, no Pepsi... juice." I turn and point to a high-rise behind us. "That's mine. Way up there. Twentieth floor. Top flat. The lift's working. At least it was this morning." Uncertainty flits across her face. "Can we? Please, mum, can we?" Amy shrugs her shoulders. Sighs. "Oh, hell, why not? Anything to get off my feet." Pauses. "You sure you're a teacher." I laugh "Well, at least I was at 4 this afternoon. And I'm pretty sure I will be again at 8.30 tomorrow morning. St. Stephen's. Deputy Headteacher." Amy blushes, "Sorry," and takes Oscar's hand. The boy takes my hand, or at least wraps his little fingers round mine. "Come on, let's go," he pipes, and off we go.