Slap Shot

This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts between a man and an adolescent boy. The story is not true; the sexual acts described herein derive solely from imagination. It is not intended to promote illegal acts with/to/by underage boys, nor does it condone child abuse of any sort. If you object to the subject matter, stop reading. If your reading of this material violates laws in your place of residence or where you are currently located, stop reading.

This story may not be reproduced in anyway without the consent of the author.
Thank you.

I offer this story as a bit of entertainment, but perhaps a particular young neighbor will read it, and if he does, maybe there will be a knock on my door. 🙂

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It started out as a bit of a mystery. A ball, about the size of a tennis ball but made of a colorful, dense plastic material appeared in my back yard. And the mystery? Where had it come from? My yard is surrounded by a six-foot high (1.8m) privacy fence. I know my neighbors on either side of me, and it could have come from either side. The occupants of the house behind me had only recently moved in, and our paths hadn’t crossed. The neighbors to the right had two boys who were often playing out in their yard, and the family on the left, while older, often had outdoor parties. Had I known whose ball it was, I would have dumped the ball over the fence, but I didn’t know, so I decided to hold onto it. Maybe the owner would come claim it.

But that didn’t happen—not right away, anyway. What did happen, was another ball appeared a few days later. It was the same type of ball, and it landed about ten feet (3m) from where the first one dropped. Still, no one appeared to claim them. A week went by, and a third ball appeared. A few months passed, and by the time June hit, I’d accumulated a half-dozen balls. The only clue: one of the balls had a Flyers winged-P logo on it, not all that unusual since Philly was a quick 40-minute drive if you jumped on I-95 (at the right time of day). With a little searching online, I discovered these were street hockey balls. But I still had no clue where they were coming from.

One day, as I was getting out of my car, my neighbor and her two sons were heading for theirs. After some small talk, I asked the boys if they’d lost any balls over my fence. “Nope” was the terse response after the 13-year-old and the 11-year-old both got giddy grins. Having once been a pubescent boy myself, I immediately understood their reaction. As a recently retired a counselor in private practice with a specialty in teens, I knew any mention of “balls” would likely get an instant smirk from young boys. Nonetheless, there was no reason for the neighbor kids to lie about the accumulating balls in my backyard.

So, the mystery remained until, that is, a warm day in mid-June. The local school district was on summer break. It was Pride month, of course, and I had the progress flag hanging on my front door. I had just gotten back from my favorite deli with one of the city’s best hoagies (in my opinion) and was pouring myself a glass of iced tea when the doorbell range. When I opened the front door, there was a woman I didn’t recognize. On the street at the end of the walk was a boy, probably about fourteen or fifteen. He was on rollerblades and wore a T-shirt with that same Philadelphia Flyers logo. “I’m Lisa McMasters,” the woman said by way of introduction. “Ours is the house behind yours.” While she spoke, I glanced down at her son. Tall and slim with muscled legs. While his loose-fitting shorts only hinted at what might be underneath, his short sleeves revealed nice biceps. Perfectly proportioned. He was tanned, and from what I could tell from that distance, smooth-skinned and blemish-free. His eyes were a dark chocolate to complement his curly chestnut hair. Those eyes conveyed a thoughtfulness, a kindness, a softness. To my way of thinking, he was a real cutie.

His gaze darted from me to my progress flag and back again. He moved back and forth on his rollerblades—a few inches or so forward, then back again, like a player in a face-off, waiting for the puck to drop. His movement conveyed either a desire to get on with things or uncertainty. “Sorry to bother you,” the woman continued as her son gazed up at me, “but I think my son has lost his balls over your fence.” Predictably, with his mother’s careless phrasing, the boy’s eyes locked onto mine for an instant and then snapped downward. Even at my distance, I thought I could see some reddening to the rich tone of his face.

Oh, mom, I thought, way to make your boy squirm. The boy, well into puberty, looked so uncomfortable, but somehow that only made him cuter in my eyes. (Oh, yes, mom, thank you!)

“Ah,” I said, “of course. Mystery solved.” He lifted his head at those words and saw me grinning back at him. I wanted him to know that I knew he was embarrassed. And I hoped my grin would also tell him I understood the source of his embarrassment. “There’s quite a collection of balls in my back yard,” I added deliberately, making sure to broaden my grin even more. His quick glance away from me told me he was like most other boys: any talk of ‘balls’ always drew a response. His mom’s expression told me she was totally clueless. “Come around to the back,” I said gesturing to the driveway. “I’ll meet you back there.”

I stepped out the back door and opened the gate. The boy was even cuter up close. Some might even say he was beautiful. In his rollerblades, he was close to my six feet (1.8m) in height, so we stood almost eye-to-eye. I stole a quick glance downward and with him this close, detected a hint of a nice package hidden in his shorts. I extended my hand to his mother. “Lisa, I’m Will Spear.” She smiled, as I turned my attention to her son. I thrust my hand out. “Hi,” I said, “I’m Mr. Spear. Will.” It’s always a thrill to grasp the hand of a sweet young man for the first time, and this was no exception. I realized now—probably should have realized earlier—that he was basically a shy boy. His handshake only reinforced that awareness. He placed his hand in mine. It wasn’t a loose, dead-fish grip, but neither was it a painful macho grip. Rather, it was firm…like the rest of him as best I could tell. His mother now prompted him: “Introduce yourself, Quinton.”

“Quinton? Great name!” I replied. I squeezed his hand a bit more firmly, and he swallowed. “Nice to meet you, Quinton.”

He made no move to withdraw his hand, so, hoping to ease any discomfort on his part, I slowly eased my hand from his soft, delicious warmth. “Let me get your balls,” I said as I felt my cock begin to grow. With another flash of a smile, I turned and headed for the pile of balls in the corner of the yard.

When I returned, I handed him as many as he could juggle and gave his mom the rest. We chit-chatted a bit more. Quin paid attention but had nothing to say. Mom did the talking. “Well, again,” she summed up, “sorry to bother you. And nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too. Both of you,” I responded. “Oh, and by the way, Quin, anytime you want to grab some balls, come right over. Anytime. The gate is never locked.” His cheeks pinked up again. He gave a slight nod and offered a soft, “Thanks.” And then he and his mom headed back down the driveway.

That was the start of a wonderful relationship. Well…a wonderful relationship if you consider a relationship to be my picking up a few stray street hockey balls every few months and taking them halfway around the block and handing them off to Quinton as he practiced his slap shots on the net on the other side of my fence. Although…maybe it really was the start of a relationship because we did exchange a few sentences during every “handoff.” We talked about hockey (especially the Flyers), the pandemic, school, movies, music, etc.

As the months went by, I noticed he wore a smile whenever I appeared. And a strange thing began to happen. He must have been getting much better at shots-on-net. Far viewer balls appeared in my yard. A ball would appear, and then nothing for weeks. Finally, I’d hear the sound of a hockey stick slapping a ball, and I’d take the one I’d held for weeks over to him. I suppose I could have just called out to him over the fence, and thrown the ball to him, but I couldn’t really see where he was, and besides, I so enjoyed gazing upon this gorgeous teen boy. Yes, he was cute. But it was more. He was a genuinely nice boy. In our brief conversations, I learned about his thoughtfulness, his desire to understand the world, his kindness.

And then, after one such encounter, like a fog lifting, I recognized the truth. I saw the pattern: I’d take a ball over to Quin, and then within 24 hours, another ball would appear in my yard, and then nothing—until, that is, I took that ball over to him. When the fog had lifted, the truth was right there to see: This was intentional. He was doing this on purpose. He was tossing the ball into my yard. At this point, Quin was 16 and would be entering his Junior year in August, and he wanted contact with me? And strange as it may be, there was something connecting us, there was something drawing us together.

I didn’t want to risk being direct with Quin—that is, asking him outright if he was doing this on purpose, or worse, if he was attracted to me in some way, so I hatched a plan, though one admittedly with a slim chance of success. I sat down and began writing. And once I’d gotten that done, I posted my story, “Slap Shot,” in the AY section of Nifty. Once it appeared on the Nifty site, I listened for the tell-tale sounds of a slap-shot coming from over my fence. A few days later when it came, I got the ball and headed around the corner with it. I handed it to the boy, we chit-chatted, and before leaving, I offered, “Hey, Quin, you know you can come over to my house anytime, and grab your balls. Seriously.” By now, with each visit, we both had come to expect at least one double entendre involving “balls.” Neither of us ever said anything more on the subject, but grins on both of our faces said we’d been waiting for it.

We were in the hottest days of summer, and his skin glistened with moisture. I fought an urge to get closer and breathe in his scent. “Heck, if you stop by, I might even be able to come up with some iced tea or lemonade.”

I was busy in my workshop a few days later, when I heard the doorbell—the one at the back door. I felt my pulse quicken. As I stepped into the kitchen, there he was, waiting at the door, looking more self-conscious, more uncertain than even on that first day all those years ago. Wearing a big smile, I opened the door. “Quin? Well, this is a surprise? Would you like to come in?”

The boy shifted uneasily. Finally, he glanced up at me. He’d come to an important decision. “Uhm…Yeah…I guess. Yes.” And so, he did.

“Something to drink?” I opened the refrigerator and showed him what I had to offer.

He swallowed once. “How about that one?” He pointed to a can of berry-flavored hard seltzer. Cheeky boy, I thought. I was seeing a side of him that was surprising.

I gave him a look. “Sure,” I said with a grin. “But I’m gonna haf’ta card you.”

“Two minutes in the penalty box, bud.” I grinned and pulled out the raspberry-lime non-alcoholic seltzer. “This one okay?”

“Why don’t you head into the den—end of the hall. More comfortable.” I pulled out the jug of iced tea. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

When I stepped into the den, he was back to, studying the books on my bookshelf, more specifically, some of my gay-themed books. He was so focused he didn’t hear me come in. He reached up to pull out one of the larger books, a beautifully produced collection of male homoerotic photography, but before he did, I guess he realized he might want to see if he was alone. He wasn’t, and he dropped his hand so fast I might have thought that book was 1,000 degrees. (It was hot, for sure, but not to the touch!) He blushed.

“Wait,” the boy said in a halting voice. “The seltzer was a no, but porn is okay?”

I smiled. “Well…the alcohol could dull your senses, impair your judgement, affect your behavior. As for the ‘porn,’ as you call it, I suspect it might sharpen your senses.” My grin stretched wider. “And…I know porn, and that, my friend, isn’t porn. What it is is a sensitive, thoughtful, glorious exploration of the male human form.”

“I’ve come to believe ‘porn’ is in the eye of the beholder,” I explained. “What one person might view as porn, someone else might not. And yes, I look at stuff online—what some people might define as porn.” I studied him, as his eyes seemed to search nervously for something—other than me—to focus on. “And how about you, young padawan, do you watch porn?”

He blushed a deep red and looked up at me only long enough to ask, “You’re a Star Wars fan?”

“Hey, I asked you first!” I snapped with a grin. “Trying to change the subject, are we?” He finally looked up at me. “Busted!” I huffed. “And, by the way, I’ll be nice, and not ask you what kind you look at.”

“You didn’t have to. Your blushing cheeks, told me all I needed to know.” He swallowed hard. “Quin, you’re safe. It’s no big deal. And, if you want to, feel free to check it out. But seriously, the images in that book are in a totally different class from most of what you find on the internet.”

He ran is fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf. “Seriously,” I pressed, “take a peek. If you’re a healthy, hot-blooded, teenaged boy—and I’m pretty sure you are—I know you want to. I’ve got a couple of emails I have to respond to, so just ignore me. You’ve got as much time as you want. So, pick a book, sit down, get comfy, and prepare to be amazed!” With that I sat down, pulled out my phone, and began poking at the screen.

I tried to split my focus between my email and young Mr. McMasters, but it was a battle to give the email any attention at all. I think for quite a while, the boy just stood there, frozen by indecision. Finally, I heard the soft rustle of a book being pulled from its spot on a shelf. Eventually, I sensed movement, and Quin plunked himself down on the love seat—a piece of furniture aptly named, I hoped.

I so wanted to study him (and the book), to see the images that held his attention, but I squelched that desire, in hopes of sparing him any further embarrassment (at least for the moment). Instead, I stole glimpses when I heard a page being turned maybe every fifteen or twenty seconds or so. And then that stopped. He seemed focused on one page for a minute or more. I glanced over at him, wondering exactly what image he had found that kept his interest. With his left hand, he held the book above his waist, the bottom of the book nestled against his stomach. His right hand was draped over his shorts, resting on the area that marked the boundary between his belly and his leg. With barely perceptible movement, he slowly traced over a healthy swelling in his shorts. For the first time, I was getting a hint at what he was packing under those shorts—and I wasn’t disappointed. I’m certain he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing. Because of this slightest of stroking through the thin material, the right side of his shorts had ridden up slightly. His leg, nicely tanned, had a soft covering of hair that thinned out and seemed to disappear above his knee. The raised pantleg revealed a smoother, lighter skin.

I smiled at the sight. And at the knowledge that this boy was being aroused by the black and white image of a nude man. (Ahh, yes. My suspicions about this sweet boy were about to be confirmed!) He would have been mortified had he known I was watching him. And then, in a flash, he focused off the image. First, he moved the book away and his gaze dropped down onto his crotch. Then, in a sudden moment of lucidness, he shot a look in my direction, and in that instant, froze, knowing that I had seen him so engrossed in the nudes that he had begun to pleasure himself. “I…I…I…” he muttered and stood, holding the book in front of his shorts. “I have to go,” he breathed.

“Like I said, you’re a healthy guy. You see something…ahm…‘interesting,’ and your body responds, demands attention. I get it. I’m nearly four times your age, and I still do the same thing when I turn those pages.” I paused, deciding whether or not I wanted to say what was in my head. What the hell, I thought. “On more than one of those pages—if you look closely—you might even see a whitish stain or two, if you know what I mean. So, believe me, I do get it.” I figured I should be the one whose cheeks were pinking up, but the reality was it was his cheeks that tinted pink, then red.

“But you’re gay,” he mumbled. The implication was that getting aroused by those images was okay for me, but not for him, and by extension, he was saying he wasn’t gay.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m gay.” And yes, I enjoy all that goes with that.” I offered him a smile. “You’ve got your own story, and I’m not asking you to share it. But what I am going to ask—to suggest—is that you just be comfortable with yourself. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you over these months. I think you’re a great guy. I know when you play hockey, you have a wonderful confidence that lets you do great things. That’s all I want for you in other parts of your life.”

Quin stood, unmoving, the book still covering the front of his shorts. He studied me, and I saw the uncertainty flood back into his face. “I gotta go,” he muttered. There was a hint of desperation in his words.

“Okay, Quin, no problem. Just think about what I said.” He started to turn. “Ahh…Quin,” I said with a grin. “I’m not a lending library, and I’m not sure you want to be taking that book home anyway.” I reached out, and he slipped the book into my hand and quickly turned away from me. I followed him out to the back door, and when he got down off the steps, he made a beeline to the gate. “Hey, aren’t you gonna get the ball? I mean, it is what you came here for, isn’t it?”

Well, I thought, that didn’t go the way I was expecting. Or hoping. I was sorry to realize how uncomfortable I’d made him. Perhaps I misjudged him. If I had, I was doubly sorry.

I waited to see if another ball would appear. None did. A day passed, then two, and finally a week. No balls. I made a point of listening for the sounds of street hockey coming from beyond the fence. I heard it on a few occasions, but still no ball appeared. I worried I’d done irreversible damage to whatever relationship had developed, and I spent a fair amount of time trying to figure out what to do to heal the rift I’d created. I wasn’t coming up with any really good options. And none of this helped the funk I found myself in.

A full week had passed, and along about 3:30 in the afternoon, I heard a thud. It sounded like something had hit the back of my house. I headed for the back door. As I stepped out onto the deck, I saw a ball close to the foundation. I went down and picked it up, and as I was turning, I heard the gate open. There stood the boy on whom I’d been fixated for the past week. Hell, for the past couple of years, more like it.

An awkward pause followed. To end it, we both started to speak at exactly the same moment:

“In Nifty. ‘Slap Shot.’” He studied me before adding, “You wrote it, didn’t you.”

I nodded, but my focus was elsewhere. I was trying to process his words along with all the non-verbal cues I was also getting from him. And if that wasn’t enough to keep my brain humming, there was also something I needed to say. “Quin, I put you in an awkward position the other day. I am sorry I did that. I guess I was feeling after all our months of ‘balls’ talk, it was okay to…ah…push the envelope a bit more. But I shouldn’t have done that. I misread things, and I would never want to make you so uncomfortable that we couldn’t see each other.”

The boy nodded. “That’s cool,” he said softly, “but you didn’t misread anything. When I knocked on your door last week, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but I wanted to find out. Would it be…you know…like what it was in your story, would you want do stuff with me?” He chewed on his bottom lip, and then picked up where he left off. “When I read the story—I gotta be honest—it sort of freaked me out, but it was also kind’a exciting…umm, you know, it got me…aroused. I guess that’s the sex ed word.”

I smiled. “Yeah, that’s the word, the perfect word to describe what happens when you’re thinking about sexy stuff.”

He looked at me. “Weird. You know, to be freaked and excited—aroused—at the same time.”

“Well, Quin, seems like that’s what most Nifty stories are meant to do: ‘arouse’ you.”

He nodded. “For sure. The ones I read anyway,” he said with a smirk. He swallowed once and asked haltingly, “Did it, you know, get you aroused when you’re writing it?”

I blushed when he asked that, and so did he. “If you have to know, yes, it did.”

“Like when you were doing stuff with me? I mean when Winn did stuff with Jason?” (Winn was the adult character in the story, and Jason was the younger character.)

Quin grinned at the thought. “Part of me I wanted that stuff to happen in real life, but part of me didn’t. It was confusing. I think maybe I wanted to, but like I said, it freaked me out. Still, I had to know. I decided whatever happened would maybe help me figure some things out. You know…figure things out…about me.”

“Well, I embarrassed you. I shouldn’t have done that. I regret that,” I said. “To be honest, I’m not even sure I should have posted the story. I should have thought more about how you might—could—react. I didn’t think enough about that, and I should have.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I guess you could tell I was embarrassed…or something. Maybe not embarrassed so much as unsure, or maybe I was embarrassed but not because of what you were saying or story, or the nude book. I think if I was embarrassed, it was because of how those pictures were making me feel, but mostly because of how I should know what I am and what I like, but I didn’t know—at least last week, anyway.” He looked over at me then.

I could see the wheels turning, and then he was blushing. “Yeah, those pictures.” His eyes locked onto mine. “That last one especially. I guess I was embarrassed because I got…hard an’ all, and you saw.” His blush spread down his neck. “But Will, I'm glad you wrote that story. I’m glad I got to see those pictures in the book.” He looked like he was about to say something more, but then in a flash, practically leapt up the stairs, wrapped his arms around me, and leaned his head against my chest. “Will,” he breathed, “would it be okay if we went inside?” I wasn’t prepared for that. Hell, I wasn’t prepared for any of this.

Once inside, he asked for some water (Well, being a good Philadelphian, he asked for some “wooder”), and then, as if he’d been living in my house all his life, made his way down the hall to the den, and I followed. He settled on one side of the loveseat. I sat in a chair facing him. I thought I detected a bit of a frown as I sat in a chair opposite him.

“So, Mr. Quinton McMasters, what changed?” I asked with a grin. “Why’d you come back, today?”

The boy sighed, slowly shaking his head a few times. “After I left last week, I got mad. Not at you, at myself. I’d read your story, and I thought, okay, I’m really going to do it, I’m gonna be like Jason in the story. I mean, the story was sort of like an invitation, you know, to do stuff—sex stuff. And if that happened, then I’d know, I’d know who, what I am. Just thinking about it got me excited, Will, aroused.” He hesitated, and the blush returned. He shifted on the loveseat and tugged at the pantlegs of his shorts. Then he looked back up at me. “I…even…jacked off thinking about it—about Winn and Jason. About us, together. But—I dunno—once I got here last week, once things actually started to happen, I got confused. I got scared, so I ran.” He studied me for a long while. “Then I got mad because I looked at what I already knew about myself. Like, that very first day, my mom rang your doorbell, and I saw you. And your progress flag. I figured you were gay, and when we shook hands that day, I started to get hard. I thought that’s gotta mean something, but I still wasn’t sure. Even that got me confused. And mad. I felt like I was some stupid little kid who was afraid to look in the mirror and see who was looking back at him. Then I got an idea. That handshake told me you felt something, too. I could tell you were nice, not creepy like some dirty old man.”

“Now there’s a real vote of confidence. Thank you for that,” I smirked. We both laughed at that, but all the while, I was feeling, maybe that’s not too far from the truth.

Quin grinned. “And the stuff you said, like telling me I could come back, and then all the balls talk, I thought you wanted to do stuff with me. Or, if you didn’t, maybe I could get you to.” He swallowed hard, drew in a breath, and slowly let it out. “The one thing that might connect us, was the balls coming into your yard. So, yeah, like you said in the story: I was throwing them over the fence, hoping you’d bring them back, and you did. And all the time I was wanting something to happen, but you never—you know—made a move.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’m here now.” He cast his eyes downward, and dropping his voice just above a whisper, “And so are you.”

I nodded. “I am.” A strange thing happened as he talked. His words caused my heart to pound, but at the same time, I sensed a boy who was struggling to come to terms with his sexuality. That needed to be on his terms, not mine. And his thinking didn’t need to be cluttered with ideas that were meant to manipulate him—to lead him to a place where I wanted him to be. It seemed clear that I was only adding to his confusion. I was not helping him figure things out; I was complicating things.

I didn’t want him to make some determination about his sexuality simply because I wanted to have some fun with him. (Though I always wanted more than that with Quin.) I knew I could get him off, and in pleasuring him, I knew I could get him to provide me with a bit of pleasure myself.

Hell, in the right circumstances, I could probably get any hormone-driven 16-year-old boy to drain his balls. But it wouldn’t prove anything about his sexuality. All it would prove is what we already know: with just a little bit of stimulation, like all teenaged boys, whether gay, straight or somewhere in between, Quinton McMasters could go from the sweetest, most innocent boy to one major, lust-filled horndog desperate for anyone to make him cum hard. And while that would satisfy my lust, the more I got to know this boy, the more I came to care about him. I loved him, and you don’t treat someone you love, the way I was treating him. This boy deserved better.

“Quin,” I began, “I’ve listened very carefully to everything you’ve just said. I understand. But listening to you made me reconsider how I’ve behaved—or misbehaved. I should have been asking what’s best for you. Instead, I was really thinking about myself. I’m sorry I did that. You’re an awesome boy, and I should be helping to make things easier, not more complicated.”

I watched as his eyes narrowed. A slight frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. A hint of a furrowed brow appeared. He slumped almost imperceptibly, hollowing out his chest. The glow that seemed ever-present with him was gone. He turned from me and gazed out the window at the fence and his house beyond. With the back of his hand, he swiped at this eye.

He lifted his head, and looked in my direction, but not really at me. “I know what I want—at least I thought I did. Now I’m getting confused again.” He shook his head and wrapped his arms around his chest. “I thought we wanted the same thing.” He looked away. “I guess I messed up. Again.”

Now I was confused. I thought finally I was doing right by this boy. But…not according to him. I didn’t even need to hear his words; all it took was a glance at his body language. In my attempt to fix something, I’d only succeeded in making it worse.

Quin stood up and turned to leave. Just like last time. But that wasn’t going to happen, not again, not now. I stood and quickly stepped up behind him, and with my hand on his shoulder, turned him to me. I wrapped my arms around him and held him. I could feel him trembling, so I pulled him closer, closing my embrace. I felt his chest heave out sobs, and slowly he extricated his arms from my grips and wrapped them around me. He turned his head, leaning his cheek against my shoulder. I placed my hand on the soft curls of his head and held him there.

We stayed like that for a long time, just feeling our bodies pressed against the other. Finally, when the boy’s breathing had returned to normal, I spoke. “Tell me what you want, Quin.”

“Well, maybe the problem wasn’t what you were saying. Maybe it was what I was hearing.”

“Our brains are like a processor, a translation device with built-in filters. I heard your words, but they came through my processor, and my own expectations and what I know already—or think I know—filters that change what you say. So be patient with me, and try again, And I’ll try harder to listen without all the filters.”

“And I’ll try, too,” Quin murmured. He took a breath. “I…I’m not sure, but I think I’m gay.”

“Quinton,” I interrupted. “I really do like your name, by the way. Let’s sit. I have a feeling this conversation may take a while, so let’s get comfortable.”

“Okay,” he murmured and reluctantly (it seemed to me) he eased himself away from my embrace and we sat on the love seat. He moved closer to me and pulled his right leg up onto the small space between him and me. Only his foot hung off the seat, and much of his lower leg pressed against my thigh. I could feel his heat. I almost opened my mouth to suggest he move back, but this was his moment. I wasn’t going to screw up again. When we got settled, he continued.

“Yeah, so I’m pretty sure I’m gay. I’ve known—or thought I knew for a while. At first, I told myself maybe I was bi, but was in seventh grade when I was trying to figure out why my friends spent all their time talking about girls. I even went to a couple of dances with girls, well, actually with my friends, but the dance was sort of a meetup place, and at lunch some girls came over to us, and we’d all agreed to meet at the dance.

“For me, being with a girl was a disaster. I watched my friends, and they were awkward at first, but they warmed up, and I could tell they were really into it.” His gaze bore into me. “But it wasn’t like that for me. After those painful ‘dates’—for both me and the girl—I knew I was just kidding myself that I like both boys and girls.” I watched as his cheeks filled with a rosy hue. “I looked at porn, straight porn and gay porn, and the girls, the women, did nothing for me, but the men…” His face turned redder. “They were hot! They got me…well…you know.”

I grinned. “I think I know, Quin, but let’s let this be kind of a practice for other things. Tell me exactly what you want me to know.”

The boy swallowed hard, looked away, and then sighed. He looked back and me, and I could see his discomfort. “Those porn guys, especially in the gay porn, got my heart pumping like crazy. My whole body was vibrating, and it got me…” He ran his tongue over his lips. “It got me rock hard. “My cock…penis…was so hard it ached. So, I guess I knew—or should have known.”

I wanted to push him a little, but I didn’t want to threaten him, so using the gentlest tone I could, I said, “And so I ask again, Quin, why did you come here last week. And the today, for that matter.”

“It’s hard.” He looked up at me, blushing more than ever. “Not easy, I mean.” He grinned a nervous grin. “The truth. Last week and today are different. Last week, I guess I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted, and when stuff began happening, I got scared. I’m not even sure why. I think maybe I just needed some time to think. And I panicked.” He stopped and looked momentarily unsure. Then, holding me in his gaze, tentatively he reached out and took my hand in his, and held it. I can’t recall ever feeling such a soft hand as the one that now held mine. “Will, you are the first person I’ve ever said that to. You’re the only person I’ve ever told that I am gay.”

At those words, I opened my arms and he launched himself into them. I pulled him against me. “How’s it feel?” I whispered.

“It takes some getting used to, Quin. But letting people know—people who care about you—makes a difference. At least it did in my life. Not everyone was accepting, so be prepared for that. But it’s better when you can be who you are.”

“Yeah, but that’s just it,” Quin said, shifting slightly, leaning his head against my shoulder. “I’m gay, but…” He exhaled a long breath. “…there’s no one…the guys at school are all talking about what they’ve done with their girlfriends. And I’m still by myself…and there’s no one. I just want the same…chance to, you know…”

“Yeah,” he responded and lifted away so he could see my reactions. “I want…” He shook his head. “Last week, I thought if I was reading the clues right, I could get you to do stuff with me, to—you know—do sex stuff with me. But then everything in my head got all confused, and I left. And all week I’ve been thinking about it, what I really want. And I figured out I want something more. I don’t just want someone do stuff with me. I’ve seen a lot of porn, and sure, you can get the mechanics from it, but that’s just it. It’s mechanical. Most of those guys don’t even look…don’t sound like they’re enjoying it. That’s not what I want. That’s why I came back, Will. I want to care about someone, and I want that someone to care about me.” He leaned into me again. “That’s why I thought maybe—

I felt him nodding his head against my chest. “Yeah,” he said. “But maybe I am wrong.” I heard a trembling in his voice.

“Quin, wouldn’t you be happier with someone your own age?” Even as I was saying it, I realized how I would have responded if someone had said that to me when I was Quin’s age. “Sorry, Quin. Don’t even respond to that. It was stupid. If someone your age was out and around, and who you could trust and you were attracted to, we wouldn’t need to be having this conversation.”

I heard him snicker at that. “Yeah, there are gay guys at school, but they’re really out. They’re making a statement, you know? In what they wear, how they talk. I know they’re being incredibly brave, but I can’t do that. It’s not who I am. And I know it sounds shitty to say it but if I started hanging out with them, I’d start getting as much grief from everyone else as they do. I know it’s wrong. They shouldn’t have to deal with all that shit, but you know…I know that’s what would happen.” Quin lifted away from me again. “Does that make me a bad person?” He was deadly serious. He deserved a serious answer.

“In the times we’re living in, it makes you a realistic person, Quin. And just so you know, you are not a bad person. You are a good person. An amazing person. You are someone I am proud to know. Quin, I am so glad you are part of my life.”

He leaned into me again, and we sat there in silence for several minutes. Eventually, I felt movement. He stretched upward and lifted away just enough for him to draw his lips drift across my cheek. And then I felt those warm, soft lips on mine. I felt his body trembling. He wasn’t a great kisser, but he was determined. He pressed his lips into me more firmly. I could hear his shallow breathing. I reached up and cupped the back of his head with my hand (luxuriating in his soft curls) and moved him closer to me. I nibbled lightly on his lower lip, and then fitted my lips to his, exerting a gentle suction. A soft moan escaped from him, and he responded to me by echoing my action. The boy was a fast learner.

We broke our kiss, and he lifted away from me, panting like a young puppy. “Wow,” he exhaled. “That was…” He shook his head, sighing. “That was amazing.”

I smiled. “Yeah, Quin, it was.” I was happy for him, but I still wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Talk to me, Quinton McMasters. Give me an idea of what you are hoping for.”

He opened his mouth to speak but halted. This happened three times. Finally he drew in a sharp, quick breath. “Everything, Will. Just everything. I want everything.” He thrust himself on me again, this time with such force that I was pushed backward, my head coming to rest on the loveseat’s arm. I felt him aligning his body with mine.

I ran my hands lightly up and down the T that covered his back. “You want to experience everything?”

He stretched up and kissed me again. “Well, maybe not everything.” He slipped off me to the side, so his back was against the back of the loveseat. “Switch places,” he commanded, grasping my arms and urging me to get on top of him. So, I did exactly that. “It feels…different—your weight on me.”

“No…no, not really. It’s just…It’s like I’m pinned, you know, like in wrestling. It’s like you’re in control.”

He nodded slowly. “Like I said, it’s different. I gotta figure it out. It’s like I’m submitting to you.” He blushed, which I had come to recognize was a signal. A blush was an alert to maybe a couple of things. First, something I had done, or he had done, had aroused him. Or, second, it could mean there was some sexy thought he was about to share, so I waited to see what might be coming out of that sweet head. I didn’t have to wait long. “Yeah, submitting…like you control my body. It’s got my mind running wild with…stuff.” He dropped his voice like someone else might hear. “It’s kind’a getting me horny, like really horny. It’s…so hot.”

“It is,” I agreed, and leaned in and kissed him again. I let my lips explore his. I ventured beyond those two full, red lips to explore his whole face, kissing his cheeks, first one, then the other,” his forehead, his eyelids, and his adorable button nose. Then I returned to those sweet lips. I trapped his upper lip between my two, then opening my mouth, nibbled lightly on this tasty morsel. “Mmmm,” I hummed, and he responded in kind. Thrusting my tongue out between my lips and his, I slowly ran it back and forth over his lips, gently trying to suggest that he open his mouth. He seemed slow on the uptake, or perhaps he was simply overwhelmed by the sensations.

“Let me in, Quinton McMasters,” I breathed and pressed my tongue more firmly, deeper in past his lips, running from side-to-side, feeling his teeth, and then deeper still, and encountering his tongue. At first contact, he quickly pulled back, but I was having none of that, and extended my tongue further, moving it to entwine with his. A soft, murmuring sigh—not quite a moan—escaped from his throat, and tentatively he pressed his tongue against mine. The most amazing, sensual tongue dance followed. With each move, each twist of his tongue, he seemed to grow in confidence. His breathing quickened. And those soft sighs turned into actual moans.

Our hands were not idle through this process. Both of us explored the other’s arms and backs as we were able. His body was so firm, so lithe. And then I became aware something else. He was slowly humping me, barely lifting, grinding his rock-hard cock into me. This boy is desperate, I thought. Fully clothed as he was, it was hard to tell exactly what he had there between his legs, but he was definitely all boy, no question about that. And the thought occurred to me that if he kept that up, he could cum at almost any moment. Time for another check-in. I broke our tongue play. “You doin’ okay?

His grinned stretched from ear to ear.” Another blush, another revelation: “Your tongue is driving me wild.”

“Fuck yeah…and more!” He stopped, eyes wide, holding his breath, looking shocked. It was the first time either of us had dropped the f-bomb, and I think he feared he’d overstepped some boundary. I smiled, understanding how much more we had to learn about each other, about being together.

“It’s okay, Quin. When we’re in the throes of passion, the limits of what’s ‘permissible’ get stretched. I think I’ve muttered a ’fuck’ or two in my life, so no worries, okay?”

“Potty mouth,” he smirked. I laughed out loud, pulled him tighter to me, and playfully kissed his cute nose. “You know how I said I was kind’a horny?” he asked.

I lifted myself away from him and studied the boy who lay beneath me. “We can do something about hotter,” I grinned and, reaching down, began to pull his T-shirt over his head. After a glimpse of initial uncertainty, Quin threw himself into the task, lifting torso, and then his arms at just the right time. The T turned inside out, making the neck the last to be pulled over his head, pulling his curly top up off his forehead. With the T gone, I gazed at a gorgeous specimen of “boyness.” He was smooth and pure without the slightest hint of hair save under each arm, which was only visible as he lifted his arms, so I could remove his T.

The tan lines around his neck and both biceps gave proof that he rarely sunbathed, but clearly, he spent much of his day outside. His biceps weren’t huge—I doubt that he worked out—but the muscle was solid. There was not an ounce of fat on him. His belly was taut, with maybe just a hint of an emerging six-pack. His coppery areolas were as pure and hairless as the rest of him. They were each about the size of penny. He was—at least what had been revealed to me—beautiful. I studied every inch of his body that was uncovered. I was mesmerized, much as I’d be if I were staring at any of a number of Henry Scott Tuke’s extraordinary works. Under me was a boy who was his own work of art—a work he had chosen to share with me.

His eyes looked into mine and then dropped down to scan his body as he tried to determine what so held my interest.

I looked at him and realized he truly didn’t know. He revealed a sort of naivete with respect to his own beauty, to my thinking equal in every way to Michelangelo’s David.

“Okay!” I drew in a breath, and then exhaled. “Quin, you are…incredible. Absolutely beautiful.” I quickly added, “We tend to say boys are handsome, but handsome fails to express what I see when I survey your awesome body. It is nature’s purest form of beauty.”

His response was predictable: He blushed as fully as I’d yet seen. The red spread down below those tweakable nipples, and I knew he was about to say something earthshaking. “Ahm…you haven’t seen all of me yet.”

“No…no, I haven’t.” The boy thrust himself against my thigh. “I think it’s safe to say I’m feeling more of you than I’m seeing.” He looked up at me and grinned. “Is that what you want, Quin? Do you want me to see all of you?”

He nodded and offered a choked “yes.” He paused, and added, “Just like in your story.”

“Well, then, Quin, I think at this point in the story, they headed off to the bedroom. Maybe we should imitate them. I think we might be more comfortable there. What do you think?”

“Alright, then,” I moved up off him, and then taking his hand in mine, he lifted off the loveseat, and we headed down the hall to my bedroom.

Standing beside my bed, it was clear he really was a novice. “What now,” he murmured. “Do I just get….um…naked?”

“You could,” I replied. “But I think I’d like to help.” I stepped to him and kissed him, something he’d become quite proficient at in just this relatively short time. Now he was the one extending his tongue past my lips and finding mine. Mmmm. He was such a sweet boy. While we kissed, I reached down and loosened the tie on his shorts. I slowly ran my fingers around his waistband, which drew a gasp from him. It served to remind us both that everything was new for him—despite the internet porn he’d watched. As I slipped my fingers just inside the elasticized waistband, he withdrew his tongue from my mouth, and I heard a soft, “Wait.” When I looked, the uncertainty had returned to his face. Second thoughts, I wondered.

He glanced up and down my body, lingering on the swelling in the front of my pants. “Umm, Will, are you going to get naked, too?”

“It is,” he whispered, his shyness returning. “If that’s what you want,” he added.

“It is,” I echoed. With that, his hand grabbed my shirt and started tugging it out of my pants. “Well,” I muttered in a playful tone, “someone’s in a hurry.”

“Guilty as charged,” he grinned back as he lifted my shirt off over my head and tossed it onto a chair beside the bed. For a moment he stood looking at me up and down. I’m not an especially hairy guy, just a few tuffs of hair around my nipples, with a hint of a “treasure trail” (maybe more like a treasure path) from my navel downward. His eyes flashed from my chest up to capture my gaze, then down again. “Is it…would it be okay if…um…”

“Quin, we’re co-captains of this voyage. Carpe Diem.” A scowl told me he hadn’t seen Dead Poet’s Society. “It’s Latin. It means ‘seize the day.’”

I smiled. “Something like that, I guess. Life has given you an opportunity. It’s yours to take…so…take it before the opportunity is gone.”

“Nothing on my schedule except spending some ‘quality time’ with you,” I responded. He smiled at that, then cast his eyes downward, studying my chest. I could see the wheels turning in his head. I waited. I thought I knew what he wanted, but I wanted him to learn he could be the initiator of things. I wasn’t going to prompt him this time.

Quin ran his tongue across his lips while he still stared at my chest. Then placing his hands on my arms, he slowly lowered himself, and like a young child who’d been encouraged to taste a new food, he extended his tongue and with the very tip, explored my left nipple. His movements were tentative at first, then he seemed to grow bolder, like that little child tasting a sweet berry for the first time and deciding he liked it. At the same time, he somehow contorted himself so that his rigid boyhood, still covered by his shorts, pressed onto my thigh, where he began that same barely perceptible humping movement.

His tonguing action advanced to the lightest nibbling, and he felt my nipples become erect. At the same time, I decided to continue toward his desired goal of my seeing “all of him.” I again drew my hands—just the lightest tracing of the tips of my fingernails, really—down the sides of his torso, eliciting little moans and shivers in the process. Then I slipped my fingers in under his waistband. But even as I was grasping the top of his shorts, I felt his hands tugging at my belt. “Great minds,” I murmured.

“Yeah,” he breathed with a hint of desperation in his voice—whether a desperation due to what was about to be revealed to him or the sensations of my hands approaching his virginal private places, I couldn’t tell. I smiled. Maybe it’s both, I told myself. I slipped my hands in under his loose-fitting shorts, and extending my fingers discovered, much to my surprise, that rather than wearing underwear beneath those shorts, he was wearing a jockstrap. My hands stretched over the two firm globes of baby-smooth, warm skin and muscle. I felt a tremble move through my body, and I felt his body doing the same when my fingers rested. He gasped aloud at my touch. “Mmmm” I hummed, then spreading my fingers and angling my wrists, I slowly pushed the material of his shorts down until they fell to the floor gathering around his ankles.

I lifted him off me and stepped back to gaze upon him. Perfectly proportioned. Flawless skin. His legs, like his arms showing the boundary between skin exposed to the sun and that which had been covered. In that moment I fantasized about taking him with me to a nude beach and providing him with a fully tanned body. There was just one skimpy piece of clothing impeding my view of him. The offending article of clothing was nicely filled. In fact, the pouch was barely able to contain its swollen contents. I wanted to see what the jock hid, and I began to reach out to address that problem, when he stopped me.

“Pants first,” he muttered, and glancing up for my approval (and getting it) reached out and loosened my belt. With unhurried determination, he unclasped and unzipped my Dockers. Then he carefully lowered them and himself. Placing his hand on my calf, he issued a command: “Lift.” I did, and he pulled one pantleg off my leg and the sock off my foot. He repeated the process and then carefully laid my pants on the chair. Meanwhile, his shorts were still in a tangle around his ankles. But it wasn’t his shorts that held his interest; it was the bulge hidden under my CK trunks.

“Oh, my gawd,” I heard him breathe, and he seemed paralyzed by the sight. As I looked down at him crouching in front of me, I felt my cheeks warming up.

“You’re so…” He was blushing and had gotten me blushing as well. “No, I’m not going to say it,” he muttered. “You know. What the boy always says to the man in Nifty stories. About size.”

I offered a soft, “Ha,” and, with a chuckle, added, “I do know. It’s sort of a standard AY line.”

He grinned, and more red flooded his cheeks. “But in your case, it’s true,” he murmured with a grin. Then he grew more serious. “I’m glad there is a Nifty. It’s sure helped me figure out who I am and what makes sense to me. And what doesn’t.”

“Both equally important, I'd say,” I said. “Nifty is just a great place for a little fun.”

“Well, I hope you contribute to Nifty like all the authors ask you to!” Quin grinned. “You told people to support Nifty in ‘Slap Shot.’ I hope you’re following your own advice.”

I promised I did. “And for the record, Mr. McMasters,” I added, “I’m really just about average in size.”

“Yeah,” the boy said, “That’s what the man says in Nifty stories, too.” We had a good laugh about that. And in the midst of that, I reached down and lightly brushed over the seriously tented pouch of his jock. He gasped loudly and pulled back. An immediate look of alarm spread across his face. “Sorry. Sorry. I…I…just wasn’t prepared.” He settled himself some. “I wasn’t expecting that.” He grinned, “Duh. I guess I should have, right?” He drew in a slow breath. “It’s just that…um…no one’s ever touched me there. You’re the first.”

“Quin,” I whispered, and pulled him into a firm hug. “No need to apologize or explain. I understand.” I kissed him on the cheek. “I have a tendency to overthink things sometimes. When you’re having sex, try to avoid that—overthinking, I mean. Try to let your feelings take over, and I’ll try to do the same. And I'm honored to be the first.” I gave him another kiss, reached back down, and lightly grasped his jock-covered cock. He didn’t flinch this time.

I grasped his hard, cloth-covered cock more firmly. “Yes, you are.” We chuckled at that, and then he grew more somber, sensing that his wish was about to be granted. I moved my hands so I could grasp the jockstrap.

“Well…we’re sure getting close to having sex. You’re making me feel good, and I’m making you feel good. At least I hope I am,” I said with a grin.

“Oh, man, you are, you sure fucking are!” Another deep blush flowed down onto his chest.

We were both grinning now. He seemed to have relaxed some. “Well, glad we’ve gotten that cleared up.” My eyes sparkled and my grin stretched. Glancing up at him, I asked, “So, you ready?” He nodded. “Okay, then. Breathe.” And I slowly lowered the jock down, lifting it away from his penis. Oh, what a beauty he is. When it was freed of entrapment, his penis slapped up against his belly and nestled in the thick nest of tightly curled, almost black hair above his boyhood. He was uncut, and about 5-1/2 inches (14cm). Clearly, he had more growing to look forward to. His foreskin extended probably a quarter inch or more over his head, which was clearly outlined under his skin. His cock was as straight as an arrow and thumping to the beat of his heart.

I smiled, thinking what an awesome way to measure one’s pulse. I could not fail to notice the gossamer string of crystalline precum that ran from his foreskin to his belly. With each beat of his cock, the residue of the clear syrup on his stomach seemed to build. Had he been lying down, it might have pooled in his “in-y” belly button. Oh, how I would have loved to dip my tongue into that reserve. Below his penis hung an equally impressive scrotum, filled with two hefty testicles. They were many times larger than the jelly beans of a little boy, but they, too, would grow larger still over the next few years. “Oh, Quin. Quin, my sweet boy, you are just perfect.” He had to have heard the awe in my voice. He beamed with a predictable blush.

“Now you, Will.” He lowered himself down, so he was kneeling in front of me. I smiled, because his face, more particularly, his mouth, seemed perfectly aligned for some possible future activity. Then I felt his hands on my waist, and he pulled at the sides of my underwear. He tried to keep my cock from painful bends, but wasn’t entirely successful. At one point I slipped my hand into my trunks to make an adjustment. “Oh, sorry.” he muttered with some alarm.

“Just a minor hang-up,” I soothed. “Actually, the British have an expression that fits, too. When something goes wrong, I think they refer to it as a cock-up.” I chuckled, and so did he. “Really, Mr. Quinton McMasters, you’re doing great!” And then I was as naked as he was, which was to say completely. His eyes seemed locked onto my cock. Being older than he was, my penis didn’t point up at my chin as his did, but I was as harder than I’d been in a long time, so it pointed almost straight out, like a missile aimed at his mouth. “Thick,” I heard him murmur, more like he was talking to himself than to me. “Cut. Nice. So big,” he whispered. Then he twisted and tucked himself down. At first, that threw me, but I realized he was simply trying to get a better view of my balls. “Bigger than mine,” he murmured.

“Not much bigger, Quin,” I said. “In the testicles department for sure. And just under 7 (17cm) in the penis department—if I’m really aroused like I am now. And, by the way, thank you for that, young man.” My smile was met with his own grin when he looked up.

Quin ran his fingers across the lower part of my belly. “You don’t have much hair,” he stated. “I think I have more.”

“That’s kind’a weird isn’t it, you know, that I’d have more. It's like...” He stopped and leaned in for a closer look. “Wait! Oh, wow! You shave down there, don’t you!”

“Just a little trim,” I said. “I’m not very hairy anyway, so I just make it a little neater.”

“I like it,” he said, and I saw those wheels turning again. “What if I trimmed mine?”

“That’s up to you, Quin. I think it looks cool now...so thick and dark, but I think it would look pretty cool, trimmed, too.”

He giggled at that, and apparently satisfied, he quickly turned his attention back to my cock, but not before he cupped my balls, and gently compressed them. It was electrifying to feel his hand there. I could feel my sac pull up at his touch, and I’m sure he felt it, too. And then my cock leaked out a drop of precum that fell onto his wrist. He looked up at me, lifted his hand to his mouth, and licked the precum from his wrist. “Oh, gawd, Quin! Damn, that was hot!” I gasped.

“Yummy,” he offered with a grin. “Sweeter than mine.” Again, his face turned red. I had to smile at that. I was finding out a lot more about Quin, some of which seemed surprisingly out of character. I had it on the tip of my tongue to lecture him about safe sex, but there’d be time for that later. Right now, I had something else on my mind. But so did he. He reached out and took my cock in his hand. Again, it was electric.

He gently stroked my cock as if he were getting used to some new piece of equipment. (A new hockey stick?) “It feels so different from mine,” he murmured. “It’s…I dunno…neater maybe, without all that loose skin.”

“Yeah, but your foreskin is pretty awesome, too. People tell me it makes your head a lot more sensitive to…ah…stimulation.” I ran my fingers through his hair. “I’m looking forward to experimenting with you.”

“Come up here,” I said, and he rose up, and we kissed again. I guided him backward, sitting him down on the edge of the queen-sized bed. I pulled his socks off and let them fall onto his shorts and jockstrap. I grabbed a couple of pillows and piled them up behind him and eased him down so he could be comfortable and still watch. I knelt down, and lightly drew my hands back and forth over his firm, muscled thighs. I gently blew a warm breath over his thighs and his torso. Just those lightest of caresses seemed to electrify him. I folded his knees, and spread his legs, letting his feet rest on my shoulders, but before they landed, I kissed each foot, and each toe on each foot. My boy was clearly close to being over-stimulated at all the new sensations assaulting his body.

“You liked that?” He nodded vigorously. I grinned. “Just wait,” I said softly. I pressed his legs wider, making it easier to access what I wanted. It also exposed his sweet, tight pucker. I leaned in and slowly breathed in his scent. In coming months, I would come to know those scents so well. “Relax,” I urged. I reached up and ran my hands over as much of his body I could reach. I reached up to his nipples and tweaked them both, and he sucked in a sharp breath. I continued to play with them, pinching them until they both became erect. Then I stretched up, and sucked down hard on first one, then the other, running my tongue around each one, nibbling on each one. The boy’s whole body had become, in effect, erect, hard, stiff. He held his breath, then exhaled, only to desperately pull in more air in the next instant.

If he was this alive with what little I’d done, I could only imagine how he’d react to even more intense stimulation, which would be happening before he took his next breath. I lowered my hand, and wrapped it around his throbbing, dripping cock. He slammed his head back into the pillow, with eyes shut tight, and moaning every time I worked his rigid tool.

I was desperate to stay in the moment, to keep myself under control, just so I could focus on pleasuring him to the fullest. I tested his foreskin, easing it down his shaft. Millimeter by millimeter his head was revealed. It was perfectly shaped, a beautiful helmet, precum oozing out of his open meatus. Using every bit of his foreskin, I slowly stroked him. With each upstroke, I’d draw the skin up over the rim of his head, eliciting loud moans and breathy, “Ohmygawds.”

“Remember to breathe,” I urged with a grin. I kissed/licked my way down his chest, down his belly, pausing at his navel long enough to poke it a few times with my tongue, and then I moved further down. I glanced up at Quin’s face. He was now watching my every move. As my mouth got closer to his penis, his stomach muscles tightened, and his chest expanded. I kissed my way lower, breathing in his scent, still with my hand on his cock. When I was sure he thought I was finally going to land on his penis, I drifted to the side, my chin running across the tip of his glans. He gasped. I then leaned in and licked the shallow valley formed where his leg joined his torso. I planted a kiss right at that spot. I felt the curly hair of his pubes on my cheek, I was that close. I felt his hands on my head, desperately directing me to his cock. Instead, I dropped down and tongued his balls. Immediately, his sac tightened up, pulling his balls closer to his body, so close, they almost disappeared. He gasped, and his grip on my head tightened.

Now I eased his foreskin up over his head, and I let my tongue travel up the underside of his throbbing cock. If his grip on my head was any indication, my ministrations, minimal though they were, were driving him to levels of arousal he had rarely, if ever, experienced. When my tongue reached the tip of his cock, I opened my mouth more, and in one move, took all of him into my mouth. It’d been a while—years—since I’d gone down on someone, but even with a rigid cock poking into my throat, I managed a smile. The image that came into my head was riding a bike: I guess once you get good at it, you never forget how.

To say it was different for Quin had to be the ultimate in understatement. Never in his young life had he experienced anything like this, and with my lips sealed around his pulsing boyhood and swallowing him until my lips were nestled in his thick bush, his whole body went rigid. He lifted his butt off the bed, trying to thrust deeper into me. The sounds that tore from his throat seemed like a cross between groans of torture and cries of utter ecstasy. I pulled back until I felt the rim of his head caught between my lips. Sucking him hard, I swirled my tongue around his foreskin-covered head.

He was so hard that I feared bending his penis might actually injure him, so I turned his lithe, naked body 90 degrees. He was now lying completely stretched out on the bed. That let me sort of lay the side of my head on his belly as I took him into my mouth again. This time, after I’d taken him deep and pulled back off, I used the tip of my tongue to poke at the end of his foreskin, but it was tight enough that I had to use my hand to help ease it down off his head. With his smooth, silky helmet exposed, I moved the tip of my tongue around the rim and then flattening my tongue, swirled it over and around his whole head. His hands locked tightly onto my head. He was actually whimpering now, and every time I’d pull back and then move back down to swallow him again, he’d gasp a breathy, “Oh gawd, oh gawd.”

I settled into a satisfying rhythm, and the noisy boy’s grunts, moans, and squeals were telling me I was doing a pretty good job. With one hand, I found his balls, and fondled them lovingly. I rolled them around, and applied gentle pressure, just enough to remind him in these moments, I was in control.

It didn’t take him long to begin thrusting into my mouth, and I when his butt lifted a little off the bed, I was inspired. I quickly found his mouth with my hand and poked a finger inside. I’m sure my intent confused him at first, but he finally opened his mouth for me, and I slipped a finger in, getting it good and wet. The next time his hips lifted off the bed, I had my hand ready, and I slipped it under him, drawing my fingers along his crack, affording him a new sensation. When I found his tight little pucker, I diddled it for a while then in time with his thrusting, I eased my finger into him. What escaped from his mouth in that moment was a hissy, “Fuck, Will! Oh, fuck!”

I knew his stimulation was so great that it wouldn’t take long for him to hit his orgasm, and I wanted to draw it out, at least a little. I sensed he was close—and so did he. “Ohh…oh…I’m gonna cum…gonna cum!” I took him as near to the edge as I dared, and just stopped everything. I blew the whistle, and the game clock stopped at 00:02. “What the…” he exhaled, and then he froze, and a loud groan tore from his throat. When he had quieted a bit, we reset the clock to 01:00. I slowly began again. Twice, three times I brought him to the edge, then more. His entire body was glistening with sweat (except for his aching cock, which was glistening with my saliva). Exquisite torture. Sublime agony. His fingers squeezed tightly onto my head.

I’d brought him to a moment where he would experience the most mind-blowing orgasm of his young life. And this time, when he moaned a desperate, breathy, “gonna cum,” I quickened my pace, felt his cock grow impossibly more rigid, felt his balls pulled up so they almost disappeared into his body, and his sphincter tighten down on my finger. I thrust my finger as deep into his tight hole as I could. Then I pulled back, curling my finger to find his prostate. And I did. I know the instant my finger pressed against it: It was when his eyes practically popped out of his head!

That simple act flipped the switch, and all the energy that had been building up in his beautiful body surged into his incredible cock, and the siren sounded the end of the game. I quickly pulled back keeping just his head inside my mouth while he shot his first spurt of cum. He froze. He grunted like a weightlifter struggling to set a new record. The first frothy shot was quickly followed by another, bigger burst, and another. As he pumped every bit of his essence out of his body, he also pumped my finger out his hole.

I lost count how many times he shot—it seemed to go on forever—and I’d never held so much hot, creamy cum in my mouth. Tangy, sweet syrup. Amazing! I swallowed most of it, but then lifted completely off him, and eased myself up over his exhausted body. I extended my tongue to open his lips, and when, in his blissful daze of orgasm, he opened his mouth, I kissed him, letting the remains of his own cum flow into his hot mouth.

I carefully rolled off him, pulling him onto me. It took some effort, but I pulled a sheet up over us. He had worked so hard that his body was covered with sweat, and I worried as he recovered, he might get chilled. And so, we lay there, my hand slowly playing over his sleek body, listening to his breathing return to normal, feeling his cock lose its hardness. I smiled, knowing my boy was worn out by all this stimulation. I watched him drift off to sleep. As I lay there, feeling all his weight on top of me, I thought about our journey together—at least to this point. I pondered where it would take us next.

I would be forever grateful that his slap shot needed work—and that his balls landed within my reach.