(If you're reading this section of Nifty, which consists entirely of fantasies spun by pervs for other pervs, you know what to expect -- so the whole idea of affixing a "warning notice" is totally absurd. This story is public domain -- not copyrighted -- and may be used however you want in addition to the way you usually use stories from Nifty. Fan mail and/or passwords to inspirational usenet groups may be sent to: billy_budz@hush.ai )

Randall and his Candle

Chapter 2

So there I was, a beautiful 12-year-old gay boy in my lap, and his stiff little wiener sticking up out of his pants. I was totally hot for him, and he'd admitted he was doing his best to make me horny. He'd even admitted he was dying to have a cock up his ass, and had prepared the way with a candle. So how did I feel?

I was terrified.

That kind of thing may happen all the time in stories from the Nifty Archive, but you sure never expect them in real life. You expect to spend weeks navigating the shoals of suspicious mothers and social workers just to spend a little time with a boy who might be moderately attractive, and who turns out to be not only straight, but positively homophobic. Maybe you cop a feel from time to time when doing your manly man wrestling bullshit, but never try anything else because you know he's really not interested. That's real life.

Or maybe you meet a boy who is gay, but he's pining over some kid on his soccer team. He loves you, but you're more like that friendly gay uncle who provides the advice he needs to figure out if the kid on the soccer team conceivably could be interested; how to keep from getting a boner in the boys' locker room; and generally how to survive the trials of growing up gay. He has no interest in your gnarly old body.

Admit it. If you found yourself actually living a Nifty fantasy, you'd be terrified too. Fortunately, there is a cure for that, and I had a bottle of it in my kitchen. Randall had dissolved his inhibitions in a glass of white wine. I would need something quite a bit stronger.

Anyway, you will recall how he asked if he made me horny, and said he was trying his best. We've finally reached the point when I answer him. Sort of.

"Sweetie, you're a little drunk on that wine. I'm afraid when you sober up, you'll decide that fooling around with an old guy like me was a bad idea."

He looked me right in the eyes. "Every time I put that stupid candle up my ass, I'm thinking about a guy just like you. I won't be sorry. I promise."

"In that case," I said, "I'd better have a couple of drinks myself."

Reluctantly, he slid off my lap. "Not enough so you can't get it up," he called after me as I headed for the kitchen. I was still terrified, but it was beginning to look like horniness would ultimately triumph over fear.

I was most of the way through my second super-size scotch and trying hard not to think of vice cops and prison cells -- and you know what it's like when you try not to think of something -- when he peeked around the door of the kitchen. He looked impossibly cute, and I had to smile at him. He smiled back, and came in.

"You feeling better yet?"

He'd lost the boxers, and his stiffie had softened enough so that his yellow tank top could hang down far enough to partly cover his package. Although his dick still was small and totally hairless, his balls were developing nicely.

"Much better," I lied. "Come over here so I can give you a hug."

I was sitting in a kitchen chair, which put my hands at a perfect level to grab his wonderful, wonderful ass, so that's what I did, pulling him to stand between my legs. He put his arms around my neck and pulled my head against his chest. I inhaled his aroma, which was a little sweet and a little sour, and wondered how long it had been since he'd bathed. Boys aren't especially good at that, and my mother taught me that you're supposed to wash things before you eat them.

Mostly, though, I was enjoying the feel of his skin as I ran my hands up under his tank top onto his back, then down past those globes of delight to the long smooth expanse of his legs. I felt his muscles contract around my finger as I slid it between those sweet, perky buttocks, and he breathed out tiny moaning sounds.

Then I pushed up his tank top so I could put my face directly against his chest. He let go of my neck long enough to flip the shirt the rest of the way over his head, and let it drop to the floor before pulling my head back against his chest. He had those little puffy nipples some boys get, and which drive me so wild. My tongue darted out to tease one, and his entire body jerked and twisted away.

"Hey! That tickles!"

"Oops," I said, "sorry. It just looked so delicious."

"Well, I didn't know you were gonna do it, so it surprised me." He leaned back a little, his arms still around my neck, and puffed out his chest. "Try the other one -- but you have to stop if I say so!"

"No matter what we're doing," I assured him, "I'll always stop if you say so."

The nipple on my left -- the one I'd licked -- was standing up hard. I moved toward the one on my right to make him symmetrical again. Circling my tongue around it, I slowly moved in closer. His body stiffened, and he started to giggle as I made my final approach. When my tongue reached it's target, he yanked it away, yelling, "Stop!" and giggling even harder.

"Just too tickley," I said, pulling down his giggly face so I could kiss it. "Okay, no more of that."

"Well," he replied, "maybe if I got used to it. Maybe we can try again later."

He was standing back six inches or so as he recovered his breath, and I observed that his pricklet was totally stiff again. He also looked down, and noticed just how hard I was. Hell, my boxers were tented out high enough to hold a three-ring circus.

"Oh, wow! Can I see?" he asked.

"Yes, you can," I replied, "but come with me. I have an idea." I knocked back the rest of the scotch in my glass and led him to the bathroom.

As you can tell, I'd mellowed out quite a bit by that point. Apart from the booze, I felt better because I'd decided that his ass was not going to be fucked that night. My cock is not impressively large. From what I've seen in places like locker rooms, where men who are not porn stars are naked together, it's pretty much average. Nevertheless, an average cock is still somewhat thicker than an average candle, and I didn't want to risk hurting him.

Anyway, you're really not supposed to fuck on a first date -- are you?

When we got into the bathroom and I dropped my boxers, his eyes bugged out -- a dead giveaway that he'd never seen a grown-up hardon before because, as I said, mine is nothing special. Well, on the other hand, It might be just the kind of dick a boy would like -- nice shape, no ugly veins, not so big it's scary. Also, I like to keep it buzzed, so my pubes are less like a bush than a lawn. Anyway, Randall certainly seemed to like it.

"Can I touch it?"

"In the shower," I said.

I've never been a great fan of bathroom sex, but with Randall I figured it was worth a try. Having been to his house and met his mother, I was pretty sure that cleanliness wasn't likely to be one of his greater virtues -- and having had my hands all over his ass, I was sure I couldn't resist getting my nose in there too. Soap smells better than fart.

I got the water going at the right temperature, we stepped into the tub, and Randall grabbed my cock instantly, looking up and giving me a big smile for a second before returning his entire attention to what was in his hand. I tried to pretend I wasn't feeling electric shocks all up and down my body, grabbed the liquid soap, and squirted copious amounts all over both of us.

I worked up a lather in his hair, which really needed a wash, and moved down to his neck and shoulders. He just stood there, transfixed, staring at his hand holding my cock.

"Don't just hold it," I said, squirting on a little extra soap, "wash it."

His hand started moving up and down, and those electric shocks I was feeling became a lot more intense until I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror over the sink, across from the tub. "Jesus Christ," I thought, "what am I doing?" Then it occurred to me that what already had happened could put me in jail for twenty years -- roughly a life sentence, at my age -- so that anything else that happened afterwards was just pure gravy. Still, I wished I'd brought another glass of scotch along to the bathroom.

Randall did not share my concerns. He moved his other hand to my balls and began to rub them, sliding his fingers up between my legs. I was ready to come right then, but I didn't want to blow my load within two minutes of getting naked, so I stopped his hands and pushed them away from my stuff. Then I knelt in front of him and started lathering the rest of his body.

He closed his eyes when I washed his face, and I left the soap there so his eyes would stay closed. I'm not sure why I did that. I think, maybe, I wanted to free his imagination -- let him make believe my hands were those of his dream lover. I'm in pretty good shape for a guy my age, but I haven't felt like anybody's dream lover for a long time.

His nipples firmed right up again when I rubbed them -- my hands apparently didn't tickle the way my tongue had. I spent some time on his arms, which were firm although not skinny, enjoying even the bony elbows, and delighting in his hands, and the supple fingers that so recently had been giving me pleasure.

He squirmed a little as I moved down to his rib cage and belly, but I was careful not to tickle him. Tickling could wait for later, when I took him into bed. I moved down to those long legs, soaping them up and down, careful not to touch his crack nor his dicklet -- which was hard to do, since it was twitching with anticipation and straining towards my face. It was such a marvelous little thing, all pink and perfect and glistening with water and soap. It was then I decided it would have a name, and that that name would be Mr. Pinky, even though, as I already mentioned, it was more the size of my thumb.

He braced himself on my shoulders as, one by one, I lathered his feet. I apologize to the foot fetishists for not lingering on this detail, but since I'm not a foot fetishist, I didn't linger. I was ready for his naughty bits -- so ready, in fact, that I scarcely could swallow all the saliva forming in my mouth. I moved his feet to opposite sides of the tub when I put them down, and reached up between his legs.

My hand moved from the bottom of his tight ball sac back toward the cleft of his ass, and my fingers found that rosy pucker up between his cheeks. Even though I'd decided he wouldn't be fucked that night, I figured candle boy might not mind a little fingering. First I massaged his hole with soapsuds, which brought a pleasured gasp, then gently probed with my middle finger. Bending forward a little and grabbing the top of my head, he opened up to me.

I pushed in. "Feel good?"

"Deeper," he groaned. "You didn't hit my happy spot yet."

I pushed in further, and found what I forever afterward would think of as the "happy spot." That won me a gasp, and a muscular contraction. I moved my other hand to his dick, and began to stroke it, which brought cries of "Oh! Oh! Oh!" culminating in a very intense boy orgasm. Given the size of his balls, I thought he might produce a squirt or two, but he didn't. That trick probably would have to wait a few months.

He didn't squirt but, unfortunately, I did. My dick wasn't even touching anything, but the sensation of having Randall orgasm between my hands was enough to set me off. "What a waste," I thought, even though it had felt, really, very good.

"You know," said Randall, as I quickly finished my own wash and we both rinsed off, "that felt a whole lot better than when I do it to myself. Want me to do you now?"

"Later," I said, shutting off the water and grabbing us a couple of towels from the shelf. "Old Billy needs a little rest."