Date: Fri, 29 Jul 2011 16:56:48 +0000 From: Jon Kent Subject: Re: OSCAR MY LOVE Part 2 Gay Male Youth Adult 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 4 I play the same image over in my mind agaion and again. I, a fully-grown man, naked, kneeling, one knee on either side of a six-year-old boy's head, squirting semen into his open mouth and across his face. I see one drop of cum hanging from the long eyelashes of his right eye, another splashed across his blond fringe, his lips, cheeks and chin a mess of splattered cum. I see my buttocks clenching, my dick so stiff it hurts, as I fire glob after glob across the sleeping boy's face. And I can't understand why the image is so intensely erotic, probably more erotic than the experience itself because I have time to replay the scene again and again from every possible angle. The detail amazes me. I see my thumb in close-up as it eases open the boy's mouth, my finger circling inside his mouth, the way he gasps for breath when I pinch his nostrils, eyeballs fluttering beneath the thin skin of his eyelids. Why is this all so intense as I stand in the shower jerking myself furiously to orgasm, or lie on the same silk topcover - now washed - as I take all the time in the world to replay the scene again and again before finally allowing myself to shudder to a climx that leaves me gasping like a goldfish out of water. I try to explain it to myself, but none of the explanations seems to fit. Power? Am I really enjoying my power over Oscar, his powerlessness when faced the relentlessness of my desire? I don't believe so. Apart from the sex, I try not to exercise any power over the boy. In fact, if I'm guilty of anything, it is allowing the boy to have so much power over me. I present Oscar with the options - whether it is having mayonnaise on his chips, a sip at my lager (he loves it), going to the park or the Marina, choosing a movie, showering alone or with me - and he decides. If I'm guilty of anything, it is of spoiling the boy, the saving grace being that Oscar remains as polite and unspoilable as ever. So I dismiss power and consider other possibilities - the more difficult of which is... corruption and degredation. Do I enjoy corrupting a six-year-old boy? It's certainly not my intention, and to tell the truth I'm not even sure what corruption is? Oh come off it, I hear you say. How many six-year-old boys regard having their assholes kissed and sucked as not only fun but something quite normal, though not to be shared with Mummy? And how many grown men regard a six-year-old's anus as amongst the most beautiful things our Planet has to offer? And how many grown men would.....? But the focus of this story is not on me. I'm not here for analysis, self or otherwise. I'm here to tell the story of Oscar, Oscar my love, and then at the end, if there is an end, and only at the end, try to figure out what it was all about. And ever at my back I hear your voices: O for fuck's sake, get on with it. What happened next?! Well, let me tell you that what happened next didn't happen next day, or even next weekend. I tried to keep myself under control, I really did. Even when Oscar was sprawled across my lap, more naked than clothed, even when my fingers were permitted to stroke, caress and tickle more or less where desire led me, I resisted the compulsion to... It was the showers that were most difficult, especially when Oscar insisted that if I helped wash him, he was obliged to offer the same service in return. Not that Oscar, no matter how precocious he was, put it quite like that. All he said was "My turn now," and who was I to deny him. "My turn now," pipes Oscar, reaching for the wash cloth. He giggles as he jumps to wipe my face, then solemnly reaches to do my shoulders and chest. "You've got big nipples," he remarks, "but not as big as Mummy's. Hers are like dinner plates. But ladies need them for carrying the milk and feeding their babies, don't they?" Oh how I would like to feed Oscar, have him suck the milk right out of me. Oscar doesn't use childish terms for things such as pee-pee for penis though equally he doesn't use words such as cock, dick and balls. Amy recognised early she has a remarkable boy on her hands; she doesn't treat him as a baby, and she is never condescending or patronising towards him. So nipples they are as Oscar circles them with the wash cloth. Oscar is used to the little trunk swinging between my legs but I wonder what he'll make of it as it stiffens and heads upwards towards my belly button. I soon find out as he steps back and says, "Wow! Look at your penis growing." I'm surprised by his matter-of-fact statement until he adds, "Mine does that, too." He points down to the evidence and for the first time I see Oscar getting a stiffy, a hard-on, an erection that stands vertical rather than horizontal. "But look at you," he continues, "when does it stop growing?" His hand keeps running the cloth across my belly. "And your balls..." (I guess gonads or testicles were too much even for a six-year-old as bright as Oscar.) "...they're huge, too. And really hairy." He pauses, then... "But you haven't got any hair on your chest. Just this..." and he trails a finger in my pubic hair. "One of mum's boyfriends was as hairy as a gorilla. Mum called him her 'chimp' - but not to his face, of course. That would be rude." He pauses, then... "I better do your penis. Mum says you have to be clean everywhere - specially under, under... what's this bit called again?" "That's my foreskin," I manage to blurt. "Yes, that's right. This is your foreskin, and this is how you should clean under it." He lays the wash cloth aside, take the soap, make two handfuls of bubbles, and places his small hands round the swollen head of my penis. And Oscar begins to circle the glans again and again. Then he lets his cupped hands slide down the shaft into my bush before heading back to caress the head again. I going literally insane with desire. I see the top of his head, see his hands round my dick, watch his fingers slide up and down, and I can't help myself. I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, and like Alice I've no idea where this is taking me. Reaching down, I close my big hand round Oscar's two little hands. "Oh, am I doing it wrong?" he pipes. "No, no, you're doing great, but it's even better like this." I enfold both his hands in mine, and guide them up and down the shaft. Oscar catches on almost immediately, and I'm able to watch his small hands and tiny fingers work my cock. Now I'm not huge, but I might just squeeze into the category of big, about seven and half inches, and fat with it. I'm not huge except maybe to a six-year-old boy whose fingers barely lap over each other. Oscar looks up at me, those big hazel eyes shining. "Am I doing it all right now?" This time I can't speak. I grunt like a chimp in heat. Oscar, ever the scientist, is carrying out little experiments of his own, varying the speed of the the stroke, and the pressue of his fingers against my tumescent flesh. I have a decision to make, but in truth the decision has already been made as I hit the point of no return. Huge spurts fire from the head of the shaft, splattering Oscar's face, neck and hair. As if it were an electrical shock, Oscar hangs on tight watching each spurt from the little mouth on my cockhead. Only when I push him gently away does he react with, "What the fuck?!" I don't know who is shocked more - Oscar or me. I look down. He is bright red except where creamy globules spatter his face. I shouldn't burst out laughing but I do, which makes Oscar go even redder, and for the first time show a bit of temper. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It slipped out." I realise he is on the verge of tears and scoop him up into my arms. I plant little kisses all over his face, at the same time licking away the cum. I give him a huge smile, and, relieved, he smiles right back. "Guess it slipped out of me, too," I tell him, though I doubt whether he got the import of the remark right then. "Let's get under the shower again," I say, "and get the rest of this stuff off us. Remember we're meeting your mum at seven, and we're all going out for dinner." The boy babbles on charmingly as we shower again, I dry him off, and send him to his room to dress in the jeans and shirt we bought in the afternoon. As we wait for Amy, he asks me again, "What was that stuff that came out of your penis? It didn't hurt you, did it? You're not sick, are you?" I briefly explain that it's 'man stuff' and I'll explain what it's all about on Sunday. But, no, it's good stuff. Only men and boys, when they're wee bit older, can make it, and someday he'll make just as much as me." "But I'll be careful where I shoot it," he grins, still with little idea of whatr the stuff actually is. "Can I help you make some more?" he asks. "'Course you can," I tell him, "but remember it's 'man stuff', tapping the side of my nose as I say it. Oscar smiles and taps his nose in response - "Man stuff. Just between us." The doorbell rings, and Oscar rushes to the door. It's heartening to see a boy love his mother as much as Oscar loves Amy, though Amy has less time for him now that she's recovered some of the freedom she lost as a single mum. Now don't get me wrong. Amy adores Oscar, and she has done a wonderful job of bringing up a wonderful boy single-handedly. But she is only in her early twenties, and if someone has come along, someone she can trust, who can take Oscar off her hands now and again, and who can actually benefit Oscar, she'd be stupid not to, wouldn't she? As Amy remarked, "Oscar needs men in his life. There's nothing but women in his school, and a boy needs role-models, doesn't he?" She admits some of her past boyfriends had hardly been role-models for a small boy but she'd always dumped the worst ones as soon as she saw there were no good for Oscar. "You wouldn't believe what pigs some men can be," she told me as if it were a secret known only to women. "When you came along, it really was a bit of a God-send. I can tell you now I was struggling to make ends meet. And... well, Oscar adores you - he can be very choosy, you know - and you like Oscar, so..." There was no need for Amy to finish the sentence, and I was touched when she laid her hand on mine. "I know whatever you do," she said, "it will always be what's best for Oscar. And he knows it, too, because I've told him so." Sunday afternoon and Oscar's curiosity is far from satisfied. "So, you see, the stuff that comes out my penis is semen, and the semen carries the sperm, and the sperm is what makes the lady have a baby." "I understand that," says Oscar, but you weren't making a baby, so why did it shoot out of you." This is more delicate, but in for a penny... "The semen shot out of me because I got excited," I tell him. "Excited?" he repeats. "What got you excited?" Deep breath. "Well, to be honest, it was your hands on my penis, and it was you rubbing my penis that got me excited. First the rubbing got me hard..." "You were hard before that," he interrupts. "Okay... being in the shower with you got me excited. Your hands got me more excited. And in the end I got so excited I couldn't help shooting the sperm." "Being with me got you excited?" he questions. "You must like moe lots and lots." "I do." "That's good." He thinks. "So if you rub my penis, I'll get excited and I'll shoot sperm just like you/" "No." "Why not?" "Because you're so young. Boys can't make sperm until they reach puberty. Remember, I told you about that." "Oh yes... pooberty... that's when I get hair, and my balls get bigger, and my dick - Can I say 'dick'? - Thank you. - and my dick gets as big as yours." "You got it." "Good." Oscar thinks some more. "But can I get them feelings you get? My dick gets hard, too." "Yes, you can get those feelings, but you can't cum until you reach puberty. Remember what 'cum' means?" Oscar gives me a look that says, I'm six years old but I'm not a dummy. "I want to try it,"! he announces firmly. "Try what?" I naively ask. "Rubbing my dick, of course. I know I can't cum but I want to see if I get those feelings." The six-yearold twists round against my body, and looks up expectantly. Decision time. "Well, go into the bathroom and have a 'go'," I say as if I were sending him to try a new computer game. "No way," he says. "You have to do it for me. I did it for you in the bathroom. Fair's fair. You always tell me that." "Oscar," I protest, "this is man-stuff, real man-stuff. You're a six-year-old boy and I'm..." "My best friend!" he finishes for me. "But maybe you dont want to do it cos you don't really like me. Maybe you like my mum better than me. Maybe you're just like her boyfriends." His voice tails sadly away. "No, Oscar, that's not it. I like your mum, but I like you better... better than anybody in the whole wide world, and you know I'd do anything for you you, but..." But again Oscar finishes for me. Not by saying a word but by pushing his trackies and his underpants - psychedelic orange! where does Amy get them? - to his knees. His dick is in the small-boy position, somwehere round 45 degrees. As I hesitate, he struggles his way out of the bottoms and underpants. I say nothing but reach to help him off with his T-shirt. I shift positions so that I'm sitting on the couch with Oscar stretched across my lap, A naked six-year-old boy is stretched across my lap, knees dangling on one side, head on the other, helpless to my gaze and touch. I reach to stroke his penis with one set of fingers while the others play with his body. I'm startled by how quickly he becomes fully erect. His erection remains just over four inches, but it has the hardness of a school milk bottle. With thumb and forefinger I draw his foreskin as far back as it can go. Close it over the head, draw it back, close it over... sometimes slow, sometimes faster. I feel the tension in the boy's body as it rises from my knees, his back arching until the strain causes him to fall back, only for him to arch again a few seconds later. Oscar's head, hair hanging back from his face, dangles over my right knee now, his legs hooked over my left. He is truly helpess in my grip, and in the excitement that is coursing through his body. He begins to whimper, to make tiny mewling sounds like a kitten. I want to lean over and take him in my mouth but that would be for my pleasure, not his, so I concentrate on the rhythms and pressures that seem to give the him the most pleasure. Can a boy have an orgasm at six years old? I'm sure he can - though maybe not connect it to sexual stimulation. Whatever Oscar was having, there are no better words to describe it than having an orgasm. His bottom, hips, belly, chest and genital region buck out of control. Eyes tight shut, he finds the only words he can to express what is happening to him: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Even before the convulsions subside, he pulls himself up, turns towards me, throws his arms round my neck, and buries his face in my chest. I'm growing sick with worry until I hear: Awesome! Fuckin' Awesome! Then he pulls away, looks at me with glazed eyes, and whispers: "Did you feel that way when I made you... cum?" "Yes," I nod. "Do it to me again. Do it again." I laugh and bounce him from my knee, slapping his cute little arse before he hits the carpet. "Get your clothes on, you little minx. We've both got school tomorrow. It's Sunday. Your mum will be here in half an hour." "Oh," he murmurs, standing naked before me. He pust a finger to the side of his nose and whispers, "Man-stuff. Don't forget." "Man-stuff," I echo as I stoop to help him step into his undies. I recognise the song on the radio. It's the Carpenters. 'We've only just begun.' (to be continued)