Date: Thu, 04 Aug 2011 15:57:45 +0000 From: Jon Kent Subject: OSCAR MY LOVE Part 7 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 you can. 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 7 If you are thinking that Oscar and I were leading a life of unbridled lust and sexual activity, you are rather wide of the mark. In fact, most of the time Oscar led the life of a fairly typical seven, then eight-year-old boy, though it might strike some as odd that Oscar spent as much time with me as he did with his mother. Amy went happily along with the fiction that I was Oscar's uncle and hence her older brother. She took some pride in introducing me as "my elder brother, Tom, Oscar's uncle, the deputy headteacher." Do I think she knew about our 'extra curricular' activities? The answer is a categorical 'no'. Amy loved her son, but accepted he was getting a better deal with me than he ever could if he'd continued to be raised by her alone. We did have several heart-to-hearts; she did worry whether or not she was spending enough time with Oscar, but he was 'as happy as I've ever seen him' and so the arrangement suited everyone, including Nigel, her beau, the assistant bank manager. And Oscar? He struck me as a very happy boy, especially as I'd widened the parameters of our relationship. Not only did Oscar have his own key, but he was permitted to bring friends home with him as long as (a) his friend's parents knew where their son/s was/were, (b) I was home, and (c) the boy/s was/were collected by at least one parent. Surely some parents were suspicious? About what? They usually knew Oscar's mother, they knew I was a senior teacher of some sort, and Oscar was on his most solemn word never, but never, to mention or allude to anything sexual. Which raises a very interesting question? To what extent did Oscar regard what we did as 'sexual'? Did he have a genuine understanding of what 'sex' is? I'm inclined to think not. I'm inclined to believe that sex was something that gave him pleasure, gave me pleasure, and brought tangible rewards - usually more than a £5 note! But I'm pretty sure he put it on the level of his Playstation. In fact, I'm inclined to believe he got more lasting, and certainly longer pleasure from an hour on his Playstation, particularly when playing with school friends, than he did playing with me. Oscar, it is true, loved having an orgasm, but after a couple of them his dick got sore and he got bored, which to my mind is exactly as it should have been. I'm sure I got almost all the pleasure when Oscar was playing with me, though his natural curiosity made him more adventurous than most. As when... "Does it hurt now, Uncle Tom?" I grit my teeth and whisper, "No, not yet. Push harder... but go slow." Of course it fucking hurt. I defy you to take a boy's hand and wrist up your arse and not feel any pain. Of course it fucking hurt. At the same time it was so erotic that pain and pleasure became inseparable, indistinguishable, the one fading into the other until they became part of the same sensation coursing through my body. "Flex your fingers," I grunt. "What's 'flex' mean?" comes the unbroken voice. "It means open your fingers up, but slowly. Fuck it, Oscar. I said 'slowly'. Yes, that's it. Right there. Further. Push up further, far as you can go." I'd fitted a mirror. I could see Oscar was in me up to his elbow. Thank God, for Vaseline. "Now fuck me... but not too hard... not at first... then, when I tell you, really hard." You might legitimately ask what a Deputy Headteacher was doing, on the bed, on all fours, his arse jutting out, as he watched the slender arm of an eight-year-old boy pumping in and out of his bowels. Fucked if you'll get an answer from me. I saw it on a clip from a movie called 'Mysterious Skin', and I couldn't relax until I'd tried it. I had an arsehole, I had an eight-year-boy, he had a small fist, long fingers, a slender wrist and arm. That was the mountain. It was there. I had to climb it. That's a very imperfect analogy. In truth, I was an alcoholic, but it wasn't alcohol that hooked me; it was sex - sex with small boys, or perhaps sex with one small boy, with Oscar. Don't think I wasn't ashamed - I was. But I was like the alcoholic who swears off liquor but stashes one last bottle, just in case. I loved watching Oscar play with his school friends, especially with Charlie and Evan, both blonds, both long-haired, both cute, and both with happy, well-balanced personalities. Both were wary of me at first; after all I was a deputy head, I could silence a school assembly with a look, but as they realised I was just something in the background, just Oscar's uncle, they let their hair down, so to speak, sprawled across the carpet, and squabbled like blackbirds over a worm. Me, I was just someone who supplied the cold pizza slices and plastic cups of cold juice, with ice! And I never asked about school, never asked about their hobbies, the movies they liked, or any of that stuff which may be of great interest to kids, but should be of no interest to adults. I became so accepted that occasionally, just occasionally, I was invited to make up a two-versus-two teams as we battled alongside Captain America, swept through Ultra Mini Golf in 3D, or blasted an unbelievable assortment of aliens into oblivion. Make no mistake. Oscar was not spoiled. He had three Playstation 3 games, but his friends had a seemingly inexhaustible supply and were at their happiest when Oscar allowed them on his set up. Oscar was a natural leader, but he didn't need to assert himself, and often seemed happier when he was letting others take the lead. Me? I was content to sit on the couch, doing marking (not much), completing forms (endless), scanning the evening paper... and rejoicing in the pairs of bottoms presented before my uninterrupted gaze. God bless the Age of the Saggers, when boys of all ages are only content when their jeans or trousers are hanging halfway down their arses. And God bless mothers who do not cover up the beauty of their boys' bums with those tedious boxers that so frustratingly conceal so many charms. Of course, in an ideal world, I'd be able to sit on the carpet between the legs of each boy in turn, slip down his trousers and underpants, part his buttocks and slide my tongue up and down the tiny, unblemished slit. No doubt each boy would wriggle a bit, but it's amazing how much concentration a boy has when engaged on a Playstation. I'd masturbate happily, and as I felt myself coming, I'd prise open the tiny mouth to make sure I could squirt at least a spurt or two into his pink hole. There would be the problem of ejaculating three times within the time available, but I'm sure I could improvise if I had to. Dream on! Dreams came partly true when the central heating went wonky and the temperature soared. Charlie, the more aggressive of the boys, decided these were ideal conditions for a wrestling contest. My apartment leans towards minimalism in style. The salon, in particular, hasn't much more than the couch, one armchair, bookcase, computer area, TV screen, and a huge biscuit-coloured carpet. Off came the school shirts, socks, and before I could stop them, school flannels, all flung haphazardly onto the couch. I, naturally, was designated referee, and as such was able to lay down pretty strict rules. I hardly wanted a parent to arrive and find a sweaty, semi-naked boy with a broken limb. It still amazes me how unself-conscious younger boys are about their bodies; it's only when the teen years strike that embarrassment about shape, size and colour come into play. So there I sat observing three semi-naked eight-year-old boys, striking poses across the carpet. It was difficult to decide who I wanted to fuck most at that moment. No doubt Evan was slightly over-weight but his bum was so large, so round, so perfectly curved, the thin white fabric so tightly stretched across the cheeks, the crack so blatant, that it was all I could do not to grab him then and there, pull down his underpants, pull his buttocks apart and jam my already- throbbing seven inches into his guts. Down, boy, down! Then there was Charlie who gave the appearance of being frail but who turned out to be wiry, cunning and indefatigable in the clinch. The bulge in Charlie's briefs also promised that his 'frailty' was more than balanced by a cock he'd already moved up his tummy. Or was this an incipient hard-on? The prospect of battle will do that to a boy. Then there was Oscar, my Oscar, so elegant, so serene, so untroubled you might have suspected the contest was fixed in his favour before it began. The contest was not fixed. Before I'd counted out the mandatory 1 - 2 - 3, Charlie was on Oscar like a ferret on a rabbit, both then flattened beneath Evan who straddled Charlie's back pressing down his arse onto the boy's spine. Oscar wriggles free and throws himself sideways at Evan, dislodging him onto the carpet. Down Oscar goes, determined to pin Evan in a quick fall, only to find Charlie is riding him, sitting across his back, careless that his underpants have ridden down his skinny hips to his knees. Charlie makes a desultory attempt to pull his underpants up, but almost immediately abandons the attempt in favour of flattening Oscar who... This could not go on long. Within ten minutes, all three boys were sprawled on their backs, sweaty, slippy, panting, trying to laugh but breathless. And yet everyone demanded Round 2, which I denied them. Quit while you're ahead, I decided, and declared the contest an honourable draw, and silencing protests by mention of frozen lollipops in the freezer. A scamper of bare feet. Banging of the freezer drawers. Squabble over flavours. And joyful screams as each boy tried to push his lolly down the front of each other's underpants. But soon I had them on their fronts again, arms on huge pillows, lapping up the great battle scenes in 'Lord Of The Rings', and licking their ice lollies with a lasciviousness that would put a Parisian whore to shame. I confess I had to retreat to the bathroom for a while where my imagination played riotously on what I'd like to do with these boys and their lollies. As I wiped the semen from the bathroom tiles, I reflected on how wonderful life was. O, dear reader, never tempt Fate. It is true that all was well in our world... until I discovered by chance that Oscar was breaking not one but several of our 'man-stuff' rules. God bless the boy. It is Friday around 5 o'clock when I get home from school. The meeting went more quickly than I'd anticipated, probably because it was a Friday and everyone wanted home and into the weekend rather than spend time on duties, schedules, time-tables, and the ever-present threat of an OFSTED inspection. I wound up the meeting early and hurried home, not because I'd any worries about Oscar. He was nine now and perfectly capable of entertaining himself till I got home at the expected hour of six o'clock. I turn the key in the lock and step inside. It's the silence I notice first. It doesn't surprise me. Oscar sometimes takes a nap after school. Quietly I slip off my jacket, tie, shoes, slip into slippers, and pad across the salon. Quietly I peek into Oscar's room. Nothing. Nobody. Quietly I open my bedroom door and peek in. There are two boys on my double bed. Both are naked. Though I see him only from behind, I recognise Oscar immediately. How often have I kissed these shoulder blades, nuzzled the nape of his neck beneath the thick tumble of chestnut hair? The other boy I don't recognise until Oscar half turns to me, puts a finger to his lips, and goes 'Shhhh...' The other boy is Evan. Evan is lying on his back, his hands folded on the pillow beneath his head. His eyes are closed. Oscar sits facing Evan. Oscar has placed his legs under Evan's bottom and pulled himself forward so that his legs, one on each side, are stretched alongside his friend's naked body so that his feet rest on the pillow, one white-socked foot on either side of his friend's head. I step forward and with a shock see that Oscar's penis is half-buried up Evan's anus. Oscar beckons me, and, as if in a trance, I move forwards to sit on the edge of the bed. Oscar's hard-on, at least two inches of it, is embedded inside Evan. Evan's skin from the bottom of his ball sac is a creamy ivory, divided by the thin red seam that runs round to his anus. His out-stretched legs are the same creamy ivory, not a flaw, not a blemish, faultless. His ball sac, ever so slightly wrinkled, looks as if it's planted as an after-thought, and above it, his little cock, still sheathed in its foreskin leans away at an angle. I look up Evan's body, see his strong little chest, his slender arms, his armpits like freshly-polished chalices, his tiny lips red rather than pink, his cheeks blushed, and his thick eyelashes highlighting the curve of the lids. A small gold earring winks at me from his right earlobe. Oscar jerks his hips forward a little to drive a little more of his cock into Evan. "Ooof," I hear; then, "Not so hard. That bit always hurts." I can't help myself. I reach out and stroke Evan's tummy. It flutters under my fingers. Oscar jerks his hips again, and I see another inch disappear into Evan, stretching the gap on either side of his hole. The boy's eyes fly open. "Fuck... that really hurts." He sees me. I expect him to panic or at least show signs of distress, but Evan smiles weakly and says, "It really does hurt when he does that." I make soothing noises and continue to stroke his tummy, his chest, his nipples, his lips. The boy open his mouth. I slip in a finger and he sucks on it. Oscar begins to fuck his friend, jerking his hips gently back and forward, penetrating just a little more each time until bottom meets bottom, and he can get no deeper unless he changes positions. I lower my face and begin to such Evan's three-inch prick to full erection, pushing back his foreskin with my tightened lips. My nephew and I are a team. As Oscar speeds his fucking up, I speed up my sucking, matching my rhythms to his. Evan's body begins to turn, twist and wriggle in time with Oscar's thrusts and trembling body. The boys cum together; it is a dry cum but it shakes them just as hard as spurting semen would. As Oscar collapses over Evan's body, Evan thrashes from side to side, and I gently release his hot, hard, swollen penis. It collapses almost immediately. I look up to see Evan is shielding his eyes as if he is ashamed of the amount of pleasure he has given and taken. Oscar slides up alongside Evan and whispers in his ear. There's an almost imperceptible nod and Evan rolls forward onto his front. No words are required. I slide onto the bed, part Evan's gorgeous cheeks and inspect his freshly-fucked hole. There's a distinct redness around it, but no real signs of bruising, and no signs of damage, though the rosebud of his hole is larger and browner than Oscar's. I lower my face and lick the brownish skin tenderly. The skin is a deeper shade of brown immediately around this entrance to the boy's body. I raise his legs onto my shoulders - ah, the flexibility! - part them as wide as is comfortable for the boy, and fasten my lips against his hole. The tip of my tongue pushes and probes, and I'm almost immediately awarded by its opening to admit a fairly large part of the tip. I can, for the first time, really tongue-fuck a prepubescent boy. The smells are intoxicating. Shit, yes, but it's so mild it seems to be swallowed by the other smells. I could almost swear I can taste Oscar. He isn't old enough to cum, but has he begun to produce pre-cum, or some such bodily fluid. I don't really care what makes up these tastes. I want them whatever they are. Satisfied, but unsatisfied, I eventually stand up and consider ejaculating into Evan's bowels. He is so open I'm sure he could take a considerable amount, but a glance at the bedroom clock brings me to reality. How can half an hour passed so quickly? Abruptly, I change from crazed boy lover to sensible teacher. "Right, boys," I say, "into the jacuzzi with you. You've got fifteen minutes in there. First out gets double ice-cream." Squeals of delight from the boys. There are times when boys don't need men, and this is one of them. (to be continued)