Date: Mon, 02 Apr 2001 17:42:28 From: Ganymede Subject: Pandora's Box IV Pandora's Box IV, by Ganymede and Christopher. WARNING: This story contains a graphic description of sexual acts between a man and a MINOR boy. We do not condone child abuse, how- ever boy-love as described in this story is an entirely different matter. If the subject of man/boy sex offends you, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the legal age for such material, do not read further! You have been warned! Read at your own risk! The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. Feel free to post it to appropriate newsgroups or send it to your friends. The story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. It cannot be placed in archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed in any form that requires payment. THE NIFTY ARCHIVE: The Nifty Archive needs your support. If you enjoy reading this story, please remember that it is available only because of the Nifty Archive. Instructions are provided on the Nifty home page for how to provide support. FINAL WARNING: If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin! Pandora's Box IV: Saturday Morning. Usually, I got to sleep in on Saturday morning. Unless my mother had a prior arrangement at the salon, she would leave early to open the salon and she would not return home until after lunch. When I woke up, my mind registered that it was Saturday, but failed to grasp where I was, and that I was not sleeping in the alcove off the din- ing room in our Cambridge apartment. An eleven-year-old boy's urge to play with his penis is instinctive. It is a deep-down, entirely natural, totally inescapable need. There is absolutely nothing that he can do to stop, particularly when he is still half asleep. It is even worse when he wakes up with an erection. Lying in my bed, with my eyes closed because of the already intense glare of the desert sunrise, I did not realize that I was not alone in the room. I felt my erection before my fingers touched it. It was like touching silk! Skin so soft and warm that at first there was no sense of anything actually touching in my fingers. That other part, the grateful recipient of being touched, smoldered with awakening desire. A week ago, even a day ago, there had been nothing like the desire I experienced that morning. I needed to, had to, wanted to. I could feel it quivering beneath my fingers, flexing again and again, and each time it flexed it became harder. I breathed deeply, resisting the inevitable. For me it always began by trying to hold back, waiting until I could no longer stop myself. I inhaled, sighed, gave in to a boy's natural pleasure. Slowly at first, with just the tips of my fingers brushing lightly up and down. I began using the muscles within my abdomen, drawing up with the air I inhaled, pushing down as I exhaled. Always caressing that rigid spike between my legs. I used two fingers from each hand to manipulate it, finding the skin on the outside could move quite independently of the tubes inside. I used both little fingers to fondle underneath, teasing the loose folds of even softer skin as I pushed the tiny egg-shapes from side to side. On other mornings I would have been satisfied and stopped there. Not this morning. In the back of my sleep-imbued brain was a memory of something else. If I rubbed faster it felt better. Anatom- ical boy-fact number one. All boys know this detail of masturbation even if they have not studied biology. There are some things that can be done much better with one hand than two, and pleasuring the pre-teen penis is one of them. My right hand took over with intui- tive control of the arousal situation. Within seconds, and still less than half awake, I rocketed to `five' on the gratification scale. Instant, toe-wriggling delight at the same time as an image drifted into my mine for no reason at all other than I wanted it to be there. I think I groaned. I may have shuddered. It was probably when my mother realized that I was doing something besides looking out the window. However, my befuddled brain still had not put one and one together and figured out that we were sharing a room, if not the same bed. My feet stretched out into the diagonal corners of the bed, into fresh-sheet areas where it was still cool and stiff. My hand began to move rhythmically up and down, gaining speed and dis- tance as I became accustomed to the motion and the feelings that came from it. I was remarkably skilled for someone who was com- pletely inexperienced at real self-abuse. By the time I groaned again I was really beginning to get into it. Going faster meant breathing faster. I started to gasp, making a soft puppy-whimpering sound as my body approached some invisible barrier. As my thoughts dwelled on that ever-present image, there was a pressure building up inside me, although I could not even begin to describe its nature to a doctor. It was just there, like a dam holding everything back, a pressure everywhere, all through me. It was in my toes and in my legs, and my trembling knees lifted up to tent the sheet from my body. My toes escaped by curling over and gripping the sheet and mattress underneath me. The tension was in my hands, especially in my right hand, with two fingers pressing my maleness back against my thumb. My eyes clenched tightly, like my teeth, and my entire body lifted up off the bed. Not a levitation, but my thighs tensed, my back arched, my buttocks clamped. Impossi- ble as it might seem, my short penis became even harder, attaining that apogee of erection that all men strive for but only young boys can achieve. Of course, I did not know that at the time. Neither did I realize that my scrotum was no longer soft and loose, but had pulled up into a tiny wrinkled lump of the most sensitive flesh imaginable. It ended in a powerful rush that began within my jerking fist and my mind struggling to focus on the face within the image. I could feel the dam bursting, breaking loose sensations I that I have never experienced before. My head flung back into the pillow, and just as quickly lifted up again. I tried to breath but could not. All I could do was rub furiously. A spasm ripped through by body that came awfully close to being an electric shock. Then, without warning, the burning spike in my fist jerked with a spasm of its own. Its very first one ever, the one that a boy should never for- get. And then another, then three pulses in quick succession, then nothing for a few long seconds except an overwhelming need to keep on rubbing in the hopes of having yet another shuddering spasm, then an equally dismal realization that there would never be anything to follow to compare with what had just happened to me. It was all because of that image of him. I groaned and slumped back into the bed, barely aware that I was still shaking and not at all understanding what I just done. The face, the hazy image was gone and I could not recall it. I lay very still, my fingers resting over my throbbing penis. Although it was still hard, the incredible stiffness had vanished, returning to wherever it had come from. It tingled, sore but not sore. Even though I barely touched it, my penis was still agitated with linger- ing jerks that did not seem to want to end. I was undecided. Part of me was happy but the rest was very confused. You don't grow up Catholic and not have inhibitions, even if your mother has secretly confided that confession is more for the priest than any good it might do me. I suffered with the guilty knowledge that I had well and truly sinned, although I was still uncertain of exactly what I had done to myself. I knew what I had been thinking about and that was sufficient. If ever there was a sin, that was it. Exasperated and increasingly disheartened, I opened my eyes onto a new day. "It looks like my darling little boy has finally learned how to masturbate," my mother said quietly. Despite the softness in her voice and the calm way that she said it, there was still a hard tone, a critical edge. I wanted to turn over and die. I did not answer. I was more embarrassed than I had ever been. I could have walked down Brattle Street wearing only the thong and been less ashamed. I sniffed and swallowed as I tried not to cry. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, Chrissie. Don't cry about it." "'can't help it," I sniveled. "I can't!" "It's nothing to cry about. Just settle down for a while and then we'll talk about it, Honey." She did not say anything for a minute. I lay there in the uncomfortable silence, my heated body gradually cooling down, vainly trying to understand. I could not stop crying. I could not under- stand why I thought I was going to explode. It felt so good that it physically hurt. My mother could never understand. She was horrified and I was about to get a long lecture on the evils of what I had done to myself. `Now, Chrissie, I want you to turn over and face me." "Don't want to," I whimpered. "You and I need to have a little talk." I shook my head and considered holding the pillow over my head so I would not have to hear what she said. "Chrissie, you roll over and look at me," she said sternly. I did, pouting. "That's better, Sweetie." "What?" "Don't be so grumpy. The first thing I want you to know is I'm not angry." "You're not?" I asked nervously. "Of course not. Everyone masturbates, Chrissie. Both boys and girls,... and men do it,... and women too." "You do?" "Um,... yes, as a matter of fact. Girls do it a bit differently to boys, but it's the same basic principle." "Oh!" "So you see it's nothing to be ashamed about," she explained quietly. "It isn't the first time you've done that, is it Sweetie?" "Done what?" I mumbled. "Gone all the way, Silly?" "Gone all the way where?" I asked uncertainly. "It really was your first time, wasn't it? You really don't know what happened, do you Chrissie?" I shook my head. We watched each other for a few seconds, until she smiled reassuringly. "I was hoping that Bryce could talk to you about, well about boy things, but there simply wasn't the time before we left. I guess we could call him now, only he's at the salon and they're going to be busy at this time in the morning. It's so difficult remembering the time difference. Anyway, he couldn't talk from there. Hm,..." "Talk about what, Mom?" "Sex, Sweetie." "I know all about sex and how babies are made already," I said bravely. "From school, and I got a `B' in Health, remember?" She smiled warmly. "Well there are different things you need to learn, Chrissie. Other things you need to know besides how babies are made." "Like what?" I asked curiously. "Well, like what just happened to you. It's kind of hard for me to explain because I'm a woman. It would be easier if Bryce told you." "What did happen?" I asked awkwardly. "It felt,... It was really weird, Mom." "You had an orgasm, Sweetie. I wouldn't have thought you were anywhere near old enough for that to happen, at least not yet, but I'm sure you did." "I was just playing with my thing and it happened," I said guiltily. "I didn't mean for anything bad to happen." My mother laughed softly. "Oh, Chrissie, nothing bad did hap- pen. It's a wonderful feeling. It's something very special. It's part of why people have sex. I was so surprised to see you mastur- bating like that. It was just like you were suddenly all grown up. And when you climaxed, I couldn't believe how good it was for you." "Huh?" "Let me try to explain, Honey. It's difficult for me because my body is different to yours. Boys rub their penises to make them- selves feel good. It did feel good, didn't it Chrissie?" "Yes," I ventured warily. "I hope so because it certainly looked like it did to me. When it gets to feeling very good, your body loses control. It's just for a few seconds, but that's all it takes, Sweetie. For a boy, that's when he puts out his part of the baby." "You mean semen?" I asked expertly. "Yes. Well, you'll do that too eventually, but not for a few more years I expect. You have to have hair down there first. But that's why it feels so nice, and you strain so hard, because your body is trying hard to put out as much as possible, Honey. It's over so quickly, but it's the best part of having sex." "Oh? Isn't that bad, though Mom? They said at Youth-Church that we were supposed to abstain from having sex until we were married." "Abstain?" She smirked. "I don't this is quite the same thing. You're a little boy. And anyway, perhaps I'm wrong but, well, I don't think you're going to get married, Chrissie, so for you sex really isn't about making a baby. It should be about making yourself feel good inside. That's why people masturbate." "To make themselves feel good," I said thoughtfully. "Do you really masturbate, Mom?" She didn't answer for a while. "Yes, I do, but remember what I said, Chrissie. Masturbating is different for a boy. It's much eas- ier for one thing, so boys do it much more frequently. I expect you'll do it a lot now that you know how to. I'm glad that you've discovered how nice if feels by yourself. I think it's better that you found out about orgasms by yourself." I considered that although I did not understand why it could have happened with someone else if I wasn't married to them. "Easier how?" I asked curiously. "For goodness sakes, Chrissie. Haven't you noticed that your thing's on the outside of your body and mine's not?" "Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Do you think we should get up soon, Mom?" I asked. She gave me a dubious look and then she smiled. "There's already a lot of sun on our terrace, Sweetie. Why don't you go out and lie down for a while before it gets too hot? I'll come out and get you in a while. This is a holiday for me just as much as it is for you." I jumped out of bed with new appreciation of what it meant to be a boy. My penis had subsided and was nothing more than a short soft appendage dangling between my legs. It looked funny with its little nozzle end and pinkish, darkened appearance. I wondered whether it would be suntanned before we left Palm Springs. It would be nice if it was. "Mom?" I turned back to look at her. "I didn't tell you what Mr. Kaufman, I mean Uncle Steven, said to me last night." "Yes, Honey?" I giggled. "It was kind of weird, Mom. He whispered right in my ear. He said I was a very beautiful boy," I finished proudly. "Well, he's absolutely right, because you are beautiful, Sweetie." Mom,.... There's one more thing. When he said it, he called me Christopher Bryce Faran. I wonder how he knew my full name," I said inquisitively. My mother seemed surprised for a few moments. She sat up and rested her head on the back of the bed. "I really don't know. Is it that important? I expect he saw in on some papers I sent him." "What papers?" "Oh, just your birth certificate and a few other things, that's all. Don't bother yourself about it, Chrissie." "Mom, I hate it when you say that!" I complained. "Oh Chrissie. Don't carry on. You're so silly. Go on outside onto our terrace and get that beautiful body of yours tanned for this afternoon." I was outside for about two hours and beginning to get hungry and thirsty when the sliding glass door opened and I looked up to see my mother. She was dressed in her pool robe over her swim suit. She tossed my thong to me with a playful laugh. "You'd better get dressed now, Chrissie. They've almost fin- ished serving breakfast by the pool. You'll have to hurry if you want something to eat." I hurriedly put on the thong, brushed my teeth, tidied my hair as best I could at short notice, and followed my mother back out to the pool. David and Cynthia were at the far end of the pool. The Rollman children were just getting slathered in suntan lotion, and there was no sign of Uncle Steven. I ambled over to where breakfast had been laid out. An hour later, I would have been confronted by a feast. There were bowls of fresh fruit, with other fruit that had been sliced and mixed in with syrups and sauces. There were several platters of various delicacies, but they had been largely picked over so all that was left were a few remnants that no one wanted seconds of. Mrs. Beaton chuckled in her pleasant way while I surveyed the damage and tried to decide what I wanted. There was still a lot left. "Good morning, Christopher. I'm sorry there's not much left. I'll make you an omelette if you wish." "Huh? Oh, no thanks. There's plenty here. What's that?" I asked pointing to a white concoction in a bowl. "It's chicken that's been sautéed with white wine. It's deli- cious. You really should try some." She passed me a clean plate. "I can also recommend the eggs. I made them myself. And of course, you must try some of the fruit salads. This one is Mr. Kaufman's favor- ite." I nodded and ladled out some onto my plate. I was now very hun- gry. "Where is he? Uncle Steven I mean." "He had to go into town for a while. He'll be back by this afternoon. By the way, he was very impressed when I told him about how you recognized the paintings. Most children your age have no idea about things like that." I grinned and added some more of the favorite fruit salad to my plate. "He did ask whether you recognized the painting in the hall just down from the rooms where the Meiers are staying. I told him that your hadn't seen it." "I saw it last night when we went to the screening room. It's by Magritte," I said absently. "It's weird, but all of his stuff is. I like it a lot." Mrs. Beaton chuckled again. "I'll make sure that I tell Mr. Kaufman you recognized it. He'll be very pleased." I started to walk over to the same couch that I had occupied for that latter half of the previous day. "Christopher?" she called after me. I turned around. She smiled. "There will be more guests arriving today so it'll probably be rather crowded around the pool soon. If you want to sun bake in the nude again, I'd suggest going behind the hedge. It's very pri- vate and no one will know you're there." I gulped, realizing that she had probably seen me naked while I was asleep. And then I smiled shyly. If she had seen me, it did not appear to bother her. In fact, she was encouraging me to do it again. I found myself liking her more and more as I walked to the lounge that I had adopted as mine. My mother and Aunt Sue looked up when I approached. "Good morning. My, you're already turning brown. I'm so jeal- ous. You were so pale yesterday and already you look like a little native, don't you Christopher," Aunt Sue teased. I gave her a sour look and received an immediate, yet silent reprimand from my mother. I turned around right in front of Aunt Sue, letting her see my barely covered body. I even paused as I pre- tended to straighten the lounge. "Hello, Auntie Sue," I said saucily over my shoulder. "Isn't it a nice view?" Was that me? Had I said that? Had I actually done what I thought I did? I heard her laugh as I eased down into the seat. I was being very careful not to spill anything. "You'll never guess what Chrissie did this morning when he woke up?" my mother said in an annoying voice. "Mom!" I said heatedly, disbelieving my ears. It was impossible that she would talk about THAT! "What?" "He masturbated. All the way, too." Aunt Sue snickered. `It wasn't his first time, was it? It was!" she exclaimed as my mother nodded. " Oh that is so cute," she said with exaggerated enthusiasm. "And he went all the way? Nothing came out I hope?" "No!" "Oh, I am so excited for him. He's finally starting to grow up. David does it all the time, now that he produces. It's such a messy habit, but they do seem to like to do it. I'm constantly finding his tissues scattered around the house. I'm surprised boys don't pull them off." "And David's mature already?" my mother inquired. "Oh yes, but only for a month or so. It's still watery and there isn't very much at a time. I expect it won't be long before I'm finding tissues that are all stiff and starchy," Aunt Sue said offhandedly. "Once they start, it's all downhill. Most boys start at about twelve. We can only hope that Christopher can last until he's a teenager." They started talking about Hillary Clinton and I tuned out. After breakfast, I returned my plate and glass to the table, picked up a fresh towel and the bottle of oil and walked down to the far end of the pool. At first it was difficult to see how to get past the precisely clipped hedge. However, there was a narrow gap at the end, only two feet wide and nearly undetectable until I was right next to it. I pushed past some branches that had been allowed to grow longer. On the other side of the hedge, invisible from the pool side, was a square-shaped area of grass that was bigger than most people's front yards in Cambridge. It was enclosed on an adjacent side by one of the long white planes that extended out from the main house and into the desert. The other two sides were formed by landscaping of large rounded boulders, cacti and other desert plants. There was a small fountain made of pieces of tile and a small bronze statue cov- ered with a patina of green and yellow streaks. The little boy, his hands holding his penis, provided a constant stream and a tinkling sound that filled the area. I placed my towel on the ground. No longer reticent, I boldly tugged the thong down, not even bothering to untie the cords. I stood there, offering myself to the morning sun, feeling secure and unconstrained. It was surprising what a dif- ferent that just one day could make in a person's life. For a few minutes I walked around naked, exploring the little paradise that only I knew about. I sat down on the side of the fountain and trailed my fingers in the water, then brushed them against the hot metal of the statue and watched the water evaporate in seconds. Some dull wrinkled plastic caught my I and I bent forward to pick it up. It was a creamy colored tube, of a material not unlike a disposable latex glove, but strange looking in that it was open at one end with a little rubbery band and closed at the other. It was stretchy, I realized as I pulled it between my fingers, and kind of slick too, although it was not oily. There even appeared to some- thing inside it, water perhaps. On my way back to my towel, I tossed it into the landscaping since it clearly did not belong there. With my body covered from head to toe with a glistening sheen of oil, I lay down on the towel and closed my eyes, breathing deeply as the rays scorched my skin. The possibility of getting skin cancer was the farthest thing from my mind as I fell asleep. I have a built-in alarm clock when I am sunbaking. It exists at no other time and it functions only when I am starting to burn. It took about an hour before I woke up. The sun was awfully hot on the front of my body, searing heat that penetrated into my skin. I came to groggily, smearing my still greasy hands in my eyes before I thought about it, and then blinking rapidly as the oil irritated them. I lay perfectly still, still dozing, absorbing energy for a time when I might need it. I slowly realized how quiet and peaceful it was in my private paradise. I breathed out, turning over and settling back down again on the towel, this time lying on my belly with my back exposed to the sun's rays. Once again, I closed my eyes, letting my thoughts wander aimlessly, imagining our apartment in Cambridge, the ever-present noise of traffic and people. Like the noise, the hub of my life was there, centered in Harvard Square only a few blocks away from where we lived. And then there was this paradise. This perfect desert paradise that had taken hold of me, seemed to be tugging at me, pulling me into its hot, dry embrace. Silent, yet there were sounds, the sounds of nature that a person heard only in absolute solitude. The sounds of birds, an animal scratching, the rustle of something moving cautiously through the grass. Every so often I was aware of people, their indistinct voices coming from the pool, the sound of splashes and children's raucous laughter, even Joel Stein's mouse-squeak when he was tormented by my cousins. I rubbed my hand over my back, itching at some undefined region that always seemed to move from wherever I was scratching. First on one side, then on another, then higher, then lower. Was it an insect? I slapped at the itch. Relief at last. No, it was back. Lower now. Gone again. I wriggled against the towel, cradled my head on my arm, sighed, completely obvious to the world around me. I imagined what it would be like to be so hot that my body melted, that I drained away into the grass so that there was no so much as a puddle, or even a droplet left of Christopher Faran. Disappearing forever. I would never be seen again. What would my mother do without me around? What would I do without her? I rubbed my hand over my lower back, massaging the last few vertabrae before my spine ended. I had been sore there for a week now, ever since I had fallen on the hardwood floor in the hallway outside our apartment. Sometimes, that time, I went out there to practice my TaeKwondo form. For some reason I was wearing socks, and on the varnished floor I slipped when I performed my reverse back kick. I came down hard. Not hard enough to warrant a trip to the doctor, but hard enough that it hurt for a few days, and was still sore. Rubbing my oily fingers over the skin made the bruised area feel better. My hand stayed there, stroking my skin, barely aware of any sensation except that it was nice. I could feel the start of my butt right where my spine ended. The line of vertabrae, so pronounced higher up my back, became smaller and smaller until the line became a ridge, and the ridge became a valley. My finger cautiously probed into the entrance to the valley. It was a chasm really. A crevasse. A crevice. A crack. I grinned, musing as my finger slipped between the firmness of my cheeks, keeping a safe distance from where it should not go, but silently accepting that I would investigate there as well. Without knowing why, I moved my legs apart, all the way to the far corners of the towel, but still keeping them on the towel just in case there were ants creeping through the grass underneath me. My crack was slippery and my finger progressed into it without any thought of intruding on my most private region. Private region? I had a vague memory that my mother had touched me there the day before, and even more distressing, she had done it in front of Aunt Sue no less. Why had I remembered that? Had it really happened? It was something I had imagined, it had to be, didn't it? Still, my finger kept rubbing in the slippery groove between my cheeks. It tickled, but it didn't tickle. No one would ever know what I did. It was definitely enjoyable, but it was more than that. A shiver ran through me, an over-powering urge to touch the most private place of all. I stroked my fingernail against the puckered skin that surrounded it. That felt even nicer. It was so nice that my finger was lured closer, like a bee to nectar. I circled my finger, not daring to actually touch that place where I pooped from. Yet, my juvenile inhibitions to the contrary, part of me wanted to touch that tiny opening so much that my hand actually trembled as I fought against the impulse. My finger eased closer, discovering a little lip, the very rim before the hole began, Did I dare? It was dirty there, where I never touched except with a wad of toilet paper or the end of a bar of soap. Just circling the rim was wonderful, exciting, relieving. My hand was shaking. Then, holding my breath, I did it. I touched the dimple right in the center, dead center. My anus closed like the anenome in Paul's acquarium. He kept it as a host for his clown fish, a purple-tip sebea anenome. However, my lingering aversion aside, I could not deny how good it felt. I left my finger there, ever so slightly embedded, my anus nibbling at the tip as it tried to eject it, or pull it deeper inside. I heard a man's deep voice. It was a voice I did not recognize, then a woman's voice. I heard them coming closer as they walked beside the pool. They stopped adjacent to me, but unseen on the other side of the thick hedge. "Well, I must say that he's quite something." That was the man speaking. "Isn't he though," the woman answered. "You're surprised?" "No. Not really. From the photographs she sent me, I rather expected it." "And?" she prompted. "It's much too soon to tell. I'm certainly hopeful. He's looks very interesting," the man ventured. "Yes, he does. I noticed it myself as soon as I saw him last summer. The way he acts is a sure sign I would imagine." "It is." The man paused. "With his looks, I'm surprised someone has gotten their hands on him already." The woman laughed. "I asked her about that, just to make sure. He's such a wimpy little thing, but I expect anything is possible. She was quite certain that he hasn't shown any interest yet. And if anyone knows, she should. She's very close to him." "Any close friends?" "No, not like that, but you can never be sure can you. Surely it doesn't matter. It's not like there's a hymen or anything." "He's definitely a pretty little thing. One can only hope that he's appropriately inclined." She laughed again, a laugh that was becoming depressing in its familiarity. "I'm sure he is. He can be quite charming when he wants to be. I hoped you'd like him," she said. "My, but it is hot, isn't it?" The man chuckled. "You're turning into quite the Jewish mother, aren't you Sue?" Had he said Sue? My Aunt Sue? Yes, it was her voice, her laughter. I did not like her very much. I wondered who she was talking with, who they were talking about. "How so?" "You're almost always all the same. Manipulative. Cunning. Quick to take advantage of a situation. Always pushing their children into the forefront," he answered abruptly. The woman laughed. "Now, I resent that. I'm not pushing my David at all, am I?" "No, but you would if you thought it was even remotely possible you would." "Well, you know Richard as well as I do. He's adamant! He can be such a boor at times. It makes such good sense.... In my opinion David would be much better." "I'll grant you that he certainly is good looking, Sue, but against him? I think not. Besides, you've already told me where his interest lies. I don't plan on competing with a girl for affection." They started walking, continuing on their circuit around the pool. Their voices faded and I returned to my silent exploration, as confused by what I had heard as by the curious glow that flowed over me when my finger probed deeper into my anus. Just leaving it there while they had been talking had produced a strange looseness in that part of my body. It was a peculiar feeling, one that took away my sense that I was engaged in some aberrant activity. It felt natural to push deeper, wriggling my finger to ease the joint inside. The heat alone was astonishing. It was like there was a little oven inside me. I trembled with the intimate thrill of what I was doing, silently daring myself to see just how far I could insert my finger into that taut passage that opened into my body. It seemed to go in very easily, sliding on the glistening film of palm oil. Deeper and deeper, beyond the second joint, finding the void behind the tightness. At that point, instinct took over. My finger moved without any purpose other than to do what it needed to do. I twisted and curled my finger, touching softness, probing around until I squirmed. The sensation was nothing short of incredible. My entire body appeared to be pushing back, no longer trying to dislodge my finger, but trying to accommodate it, to increase the pressure against something inside me. I gave a deep sigh, realizing that what I had done earlier in the morning when I was playing with my penis paled in comparison to the awesome sensations that my finger could produce. It was frightening in its intensity, so strong that I shuddered and jerked my finger out from the hot tube in which it had been for at least ten minutes. Ten guilty minutes later, I was asleep again.