Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2014 10:52:17 +0800
From: ES
Subject: Spinola

The author does not claim to be a kid.


SPINOLA

ICE CREAM ON THE BEACH

  In my early years, my family had lived in Lisbon, my father being some
kind of diplomat there. So Portugal had a special place in my heart and I
spoke the language like a native. Ever so often, I'd spend the summer in
the Lisbon region, and this year I'd rented a small flat in a small town on
the coast, south of Lisbon. To get to the beach, I needed only to cross two
small roads, and I'd go every morning early. I found a collection of blue
and white striped beach huts, and the proprietor at a stall, making
coffee. I got a hut out in front, overlooking the beach and sea. She locked
my valuables in a locker, and gave me a tag. I left my towel and clothes on
a chair inside the hut, and had a good long swim. Back to the hut, I went
inside and out of view, and changed into dry trunks. The wet trunks went
onto the roof of the hut to dry, and I sat down in my deck chair outside.
  As the morning progressed, more people arrived, especially youth. Every
day, in town and on the beach, I would see boys so stunning in features and
grace they almost defied description. Tanned skin, shiny dark hair and
eyebrows (often jet black), long eyelashes, brown gazelle eyes, and so full
of their own beauty. Tight jeans would show off their luscious bums and the
bulge in front carefully arranged as to be the most evident. On the beach,
they were naked except for skintight swimming trunks of various
designs. And none of the American girl's monopoly on skimpiness. No board
shorts nonsense. Some boys wore small bikini type trunks, there was the
occasional tanga, but mostly the traditional Speedo type trunks reaching to
the hips, others reaching the waist; most with no legs, some with short
legs. The phallus was carefully placed to one side, so one could savour its
length and girth, and the two balls in their silken sac below. The fabric
hugged the tight buttocks and was creased into the groove. The boys would
every now and then adjust their bulge, even put their hand inside, and pull
at the leg hole of their trunks, so innocently unselfconscious it was a
perpetual delight.
  At about ten, as the sun was heating up, one such petit boy appeared. His
skintight trunks were old, a dirty brownish green with darker stripes. He
was svelte with boyish thighs that met only at his ankles. Shiny black hair
reached his shoulders and was largely concealed by a worn baseball cap back
to front. Long thick eyelashes that only boys have (and girls counterfeit
with mascara), and gazelle eyes that gazed at you lazily. A snub nose with
a gold stud in the crease, and a small mouth with full lips half-open,
ready to smile with creases and flashing teeth. Little ears sticking out a
bit with silver ear-rings and studs. A slight silver chain about his
slender neck, with a cross of Portuguese filigree, and the standard
bracelet about his wrist, with his name engraved. He was so luscious, I
became timid and embarrassed, certain my desire was written all over my
face.
  He carried a large red icebox over his naked shoulder, and asked me if I
wanted an ice-cream. Of course I did, anything. Flavour? What the boy
wishes. He smiled, and expertly he put one ball of vanilla and another ball
of chocolate onto a small cone and handed it to me. I paid and asked him
his name. It was Spinola, after the famous general of the Revolution of the
Carnations. He grinned when I asked him his age. He had the body and size
of a well-developed twelve year-old, but the tufts in his armpits and the
generous bulge in his trunks suggested he was closer to adulthood.
  `I am fifteen, Sir. Soon sixteen.' And he gave me the date. He accepted a
cigarette, held my hand as I proffered a light, and those gazelle eyes
gazed at me as he inhaled. Could he see my desire? With smoke pouring out
of his nose, he smiled and left. I watched those shapely buttocks rock as
he walked. He didn't turn round and leer.
  Less than two hours later, he stopped by and told me he'd sold out. `The
gentleman has brought me luck.' I offered him a cigarette and he sat on his
icebox and we chatted. His aunt ran the beach huts, and she said I was
LINDO, beautiful. I told him Portuguese women always fall for the blue eyes
and blond hair. I wanted to tell him I'd always fall for the gazelle eyes
and olive skin of Portuguese boys on the beach, and their narrow hips and
snug buttocks; I wanted to ask him to marry me, but I kept quiet. Instead,
I explained why I spoke such good Portuguese, and that I had rented a flat.
  When he'd finished his cigarette, he went off to refill his ice-box. He
returned and insisted on giving me an ice-cream for free. Then he ran off
again, and, oh, those buttocks. Later, he waved as he walked past in the
distance, his lovely buttocks rocking.
  At lunch time, he walked past again and I beckoned him. Asked where I
could get a prego, the Portuguese steak sandwich. He said he could get it
for me, and that began a daily routine of his bringing me a steak sandwich
and a ham sandwich and a beer for lunch. He refused a fee at first, but
eventually agreed to buy two beers and take one for himself. Later he'd
bring a coffee from his aunt's. Then he took to taking his nap on my spare
deck chair. I'd sit and study him, falling in love. As with all beautiful
boys, every part of him was beautiful, even down to his feet. He had to
begin selling ice-cream again at three, so I'd stroke his cheek at 2:45. He
grinned and thanked me politely. Stretched his lovely limbs and then went
off, waving as he later passed in the distance.
  At five, he returned, saying the beach was emptying, and people usually
didn't buy ice-cream at that time. I bought one more ice-cream, and he
accepted a cigarette. He sat beside me, his thighs touching mine, and his
hip. I was becoming intensely aware of his presence. It bothered me,
because I was no longer free as before. One welcomes desire for such a
lovely boy and one is strained, by the restraining of that desire. I barely
knew him, but he was so friendly and natural with me, I felt as if he was
an old chum.
  When he had finished his smoke, he left, having to clear up with his
aunt. After about a week, however, he first asked me if I wanted to go for
a swim. I nodded, and he got up and bent over to pick up his ice-box. His
buttocks spread right there before me, beckoning, and his inner thighs, and
I trembled. I needed merely to tilt my head to rub my face in his arse and
kiss those thighs, but I looked up as he turned at the lazy long-lashed
eyes and smiled, besotted. His tantalizing presence made it difficult for
me not to blush, as I had the impression he could see right through me:
`Yes, Sir, I know the gentleman wants me. I know the gentleman wants to
make love to me.'
  He put his ice-box into the hut, and we ran down to the water and swam
out to the diving platform. We climbed up onto the diving board and he
wanted to sit on my shoulders. I kneeled and speechless felt his smooth
thighs press against my jaws and his genitals press against my neck. His
feet went under my arms and round the back, he adjusted himself, and then I
stood up. I walked to the edge of the diving board, and then off into the
water with my feet crossed. Down we went, down to the bottom, and he still
held on. It was cold down there. I squatted on the sea bottom and pushed
with my feet so we shot up again. We surfaced and I struggled to stay
afloat with him on my shoulders. He slid down, his legs round my waist and
his arms about my neck, laughing boyishly.
  `Again! Again!' And he clung on as I swam back to the platform, his
genitals rubbing against my back. My trunks were shorts with inbuilt
briefs, so one could not see that I now had a semi-erection, what with a
beautiful boy rubbing his naked body against mine. Up we went again, and as
he adjusted himself about my neck, I could feel that he too had a
hard-on. Down we went again, and when we surfaced, he clung on, rubbing his
hard-on against my back. Was it innocent or? A third time, and then a man
and a woman had climbed up onto the platform.
  He swam up to me, flashing those gorgeous teeth. `I can't climb up
again. I've got a hard-on.'
  `I know.'
  `How does the gentleman know?'
  `I could feel the boy's hard-on on my neck and on my back.'
  And he laughed. `Ooooh. Is the gentleman angry with me?'
  `No, my dear, I too have a hard-on.'
  `Because of me?'
  `The boy has given me a hard-on.' And he laughed mock
disapproval. Perhaps he wasn't all that innocent.
  `What to do? I can't walk onto the beach like this.' And he looked down,
and I saw he had pulled out his erection. I couldn't see it clearly, only
that it was out. He grinned and began to masturbate. But after a while he
said it was too cold.
  `You can sit on my shoulders as we get out of the water.'
  `Ok, ok.' And so we emerged onto the beach, he on my shoulders, with his
erection pressing against my neck, and mine hidden in my shorts. I sat down
on my deck chair and he climbed down and into the hut. I wanted to look but
didn't want to. So I turned my back and began to dry off.
  `Look! Look!' and oh, so luscious, so ineffably luscious. Inside the hut,
stark naked, his trunks in his hand, pale about the loins, and a fine
phallus rising upright out of a patch of wavy pubes, and two even-sized
testicles in a hairless sac. The foreskin covered the glans, and the
phallus so hard, it curved inwards. I was enthralled. He pulled his trunks
on again, tucking the front under his scrotum. Then with a saucy grin and
lazy eyes gazing at me, he grasped his phallus in one hand and slowly
pulled back the foreskin, to reveal a rosy glans, shiny and smooth like a
delicate fruit or some exotic flower. I caught my breath. What to do? Get
down and please him, just watch, turn away, say something, say what?
  He grinned. `LINDO?'
  I chuckled. `Very. Very.' Was he going to offer it to me? Would I accept?
Smirking, he began to masturbate slowly. I grinned and turned away and sat
down, heart fluttering. I heard him gasp and then again louder. He came out
and sat beside me, grinning.
  I went to the beach every day, and every day, I'd buy his ice-cream, and
he'd smoke and chat and bring lunch and coffee and take a nap, and every
day, we'd swim together. But he never sat on my shoulders again, and never
wanked in my hut again.
  One day, it rained, and I didn't go to the beach. But taking breakfast in
my regular café, I saw him and waved, and he came up to my table. Blue
Converse sneakers, tight jeans and a T-shirt and denim jacket, the crotch
right in my face. Innocent or? The radio said it would rain all day, so he
had a day off. I invited him to eat with me, and rejoiced in his vast
appetite, and his attempts at grinning with his mouth full of food. Then
another coffee and milk. He patted his stomach and grinned. `Thank you,
Sir, that was excellent.'
  `A custard tart to finish off with?' He smiled and shook his head.
  `Sure?' He leaned over, his elbow on the table, and gazelle eyes smiled,
OK. And I ordered two, and he gobbled them down. Then he sat smoking, all
the time glancing at me, as I read the newspaper, all the time glancing at
him. How sweet it was! Almost as if we were lovers, except that he'd point
out girls to me. No lurid comment, just a raised eyebrow.
  What was I doing this morning? I was going to the market and then I was
going to the cinema. Did he want to come? A sweet sweet smile nodded
yes. And off we went. He was shy as he walked with gazelle grace beside
me. But in the market, he did all the talking, making sure I got a good
deal, and then we went back to my flat with all the goods. He explored the
flat and then into the lavatory and pissed with the door open. Came out
adjusting his fly and sat down at my desk. Picked up the framed picture of
the Vietnamese boy who'd seduced me in Paris, studied it, and looked at me.
  `How old?' Nineteen. He looked much younger. Yes, The Vietnamese often
do. Where was he? I didn't know anymore. His name? And I said his name. He
looked very nice, very loving. He was. And Spinola put the picture back. He
didn't want to go back to his aunt's. She was very good but she talked all
the time. Sometimes it drove him mad. He could stay here. Yes, please. And
he got up and sat on the sofa. Removed his shoes and lay down. I sat at the
desk and we chatted.
  He lived with his mother in Lisbon, but she wanted him to spend the
summer with his aunt. She was worried he'd get into trouble in Lisbon, and
she was probably right. Here, he knew no one. No one to lead him astray. I
put on fado music as we talked. He was very pleased and lay listening to
it. Then he fell asleep. Goodness, how sweet he looked! I longed to kiss
that pristine cheek. I worked, intoxicated with his presence. After a few
hours, I made coffee and then stroked his cheek. He looked at me unknowing
and then the smile. Stretched and accepted the coffee.
  `Hungry?' Yes. Again he pissed with the door open and again I resisted
looking in. And we walked out to a restaurant and had lunch. I couldn't
stop watching him eat. Is there anything sweeter than watching the one you
adore eat the food you're giving him? He wanted to pay something but I
refused.
  `The gentleman is too generous.'
  `It makes the gentleman happy. Don't stop his happiness.' And he
chuckled. Did he think I was expecting sex in return? Maybe. Did he realize
how I adored him much more now? It's not sex that makes us adore a boy,
it's doing ordinary things with him, seeing him do ordinary things. After
coffee and a smoke, we went for a walk. I pointed at a blue and white
striped T-shirt in a fancy shop window. It would suit him very well. He
stopped and we looked at the mannequin in the window. Royal blue cotton
trousers. Yes, it was very nice. No, he couldn't accept it. But he
shouldn't prevent my happiness, and we went inside. I told the shop keeper
Spinola wanted the shirt and the trousers. Having accepted that I would
give him the clothes, Spinola was obviously pleased as he tried on the
trousers. His white underpants were no longer white, and were worn, so I
got him a pair of white schoolboy briefs with a fly. He agreed to put on
all his new clothes, grinning with sparkling eyes. How handsome he was! So
different from the usual jeans and T-shirt. His old clothes went into a bag
and we walked out. He glowing with pleasure, looking at himself reflected
in the shop windows, his deportment more erect, more confident. And we went
to the cinema. Grinning, he studied himself in the mirrored wall. His
evident pleasure brought tears to my eyes. And we went in to watch a French
film about the friendship between a Gentile and a Jewish boy in occupied
France. Sitting in the dark with him beside me, his knee touching mine, and
his occasional shifting in his seat, was another delight. When one
witnesses the abnormally beautiful boy that one dotes on behave normally,
one is ecstatic. When the boy in the film inadvertently betrayed his Jewish
friend, Spinola touched my hand in protest. And he left his hand there for
a while. I felt I'd faint with love.

TIE THE CORD

  After our rainy day together, we not only chatted on the beach and went
swimming together, frequently we spent the evenings together. Spinola was a
bright and thoughtful boy, with a wicked sense of humour. He was obviously
not gay, for he'd point out girls to me. I wanted to ask him why he didn't
have a girlfriend but decided it was none of my business. One day, however,
he told me he had a girlfriend in Lisbon. But no sex. Perhaps he was a
cherry.
  I hugely enjoyed giving him presents, and he soon became quite
comfortable with it, perhaps because I made a point of never touching
him. Making a pass was something I would never do. On his sixteenth
birthday, when he came round with his ice box in the morning, I gave him
two wrapped and ribboned birthday presents. He blushed as he received them,
standing like a gazelle with one leg lifted slightly. One box contained a
heavy duty black Seiko watch with all the gadgetry, and he squealed with
delight. His eyes shone as I fastened it round his wrist, and he again like
a gazelle stepped about with pleasure. The waist-high scarlet trunks with a
black waistband produced squeaks of approval, as he held them up before
him.
  `The boy likes?'
  `I like, I like very much. Yes, I like the colour, Sir. Very good
quality.' And he held them to his breast. `The gentleman is too kind.'
  `It pleases me...Please put them on.'
  `Now?'
  `Yes, please.' He went inside the hut out of sight. Then he appeared in
the entrance, giving me a full frontal. He was holding the trunks in his
hands, fiddling with the waist cord.
  `It has slipped inside.'
  I went inside and pulled him to the side, out of sight. `The boy will get
me into trouble.' And saucily fluttering his eyebrows, he gave me the
trunks to retrieve the cord, and I sat down on the chair. He stood stark
naked before me, giving me an erection, and making it very difficult for me
to concentrate. Leering, he pulled back his foreskin, showing me his rosy
glans. Goodness, how naughty he was, and how I wanted to open my mouth and
please him. Frantically, I fiddled with the cord, and there, it was out and
I tied a knot. Still facing me, he put on the trunks, and stood gorgeous
before me. Again leering, he carefully arranged his genitalia inside,
pulling at the leg holes, and then came up to me, his crotch mere inches
away from my mouth, and asked me to tie the waist cord. Oh my God, what was
he up to?
  I smiled. `The boy can tie the cord himself.'
  He just stood there devastatingly lovely, and with gazelle eyes
pleaded. `Please. Let the gentleman do it.' One cord was inside, which was
a fine excuse for me to slip my hand inside and `accidentally' touch his
private parts. Instead, I gingerly folded back the edge of the waistband
and pulled the cord out. My hands touched his smooth and taut stomach and I
was getting more aroused. His head was bent as he watched, and his hair
touched my face. I could hear his breath, smell him, and knew his luscious
lips were mere inches away. I was tempted to tuck the knotted cords into
his trunks but let them remain hanging outside. I sat back, my phallus
hard, and because I was sitting down, it was visible in my loose shorts.
  He glanced at me and grinned. `The gentleman has a hard-on.'
  I looked up at him and blushed. He moved closer and looked down at me
with those lazy eyes, and smiled saucily. Gently, he touched my lips with
the tips of two fingers, pushed them in between my lips. Still keeping
contact with those gazelle eyes, I opened my mouth and he put his two
fingers inside. I closed my mouth and sucked them. Quietly, I sucked on his
fingers and he stroked my hair. Then he extracted his fingers, put his hand
on the back of my head, and pulled it towards his phallus. This mere
stripling was leading me. I could only follow and rubbed my face fervently
against the bulge in his scarlet trunks.
  He undid the cord and pulled down the front of his trunks, releasing his
swollen phallus and his scrotum. His phallus brushed against my face. I
looked up and again he smiled saucily. He grasped his phallus and pulled
back the foreskin, slowly. Mesmerized, I opened my mouth and he inserted
his glans penis. And I sucked, in disbelief sliding my hands inside his
trunks behind and caressing his bare buttocks, smooth, firm, and the skin
so soft. I dared not rub his anus. My mouth engulfed two thirds of his
phallus, and he sighed, his hand on the back of my head. Rapturous, I
fellated him. Then I pulled away and looked up at him adoring. He smiled
sweetly and guided my face back. I moved down and sucked his balls, and
then up again and fellated him, panting through my nose. All the while, he
was sighing lightly. Without increasing my speed, I sucked him till he
moaned quietly and spurted into my hot mouth. I suckled as he spurted, and
myself spurted in my trunks. And then he tittered: `No more! No more!' And
I stopped. I gulped and looked up at him. He looked down at me tenderly and
tousled my hair. As if I were the boy and he the man. Again I gulped.
  `I knew the gentleman wanted to make love to me. I knew it on the first
day.' He stroked my head. `But I didn't know the gentleman.' And he
grinned. `Now I know the gentleman. The gentleman is gracious and gallant,
and I am dear to him.' And he kissed me on the forehead.
  What to do now? I pressed my face adoringly against his inner thigh,
covering it with kisses. Then the other thigh and then up to suck his
balls. He caressed my hair. Fervently, I kissed the silken skin around the
base of his phallus. I wanted to suckle him again. And I did. He was still
hard and gave a deep sigh when again I ran my open mouth down his
phallus. It took a little longer this time, but soon he gasped and again I
suckled his sperm. I squeezed out the last drops, sucked them up, and
looked adoring at him.
  He smiled affectionately, stroking my cheek with his delicate hand, the
heavy wrist watch on his wrist. `The gentleman loves me.' And he kissed the
crown of my head. Then he picked up his trunks, shook them free of sand,
and put them on. He arranged his half-swollen phallus and his balls, all
the while grinning at me, and then he twirled round slowly, pulling at the
leg holes at the back. The high waist stretched the material around his
genitals and his buttocks, pulling both out a bit, making them more
prominent. Was he flirting with me?
  `It is good? Does the gentleman think I am LINDO?'
  `The boy will have all the girls running after him.' He cocked an eye and
winked, and I blushed. Did he know I wanted to say `all the boys running
after him'? Then he grinned and kissed me on the cheek.
  `Thank you.'
  `Wait, wait, there's more.' I had had a waistcoat made for him, black
with scarlet pockets. He put it on, and I told him to leave it open. `There
are pockets inside for your money. See? With zips. And here a pocket for
your cigarettes. And the shoulders have been padded with foam, to protect
your pretty shoulders from the shoulder-strap.' He slipped on his waist
coat and so sweet he looked. He grinned and then embraced me, and kissed me
softly on the cheek, brushing back my hair. I wanted to snog him and run my
hands down to caress his buttocks, rub his little anus, give him another
blowjob, give him ten, but I just smiled.
  He ran off to look at himself in the mirror in the public bathroom. Then
he returned with a huge grin and hugged me fiercely, his hair tickling my
face. Then he had to go. Picked up his ice box and strode off. I sat down
in my deck chair outside and watched him. His shapely buttocks rocking in
his scarlet trunks, the slender thighs. I went inside and found his old
trunks. I picked them up and pressed them to my face. He'd made the first
move. He'd let me suck him off. Would things change? Would our sweet
relationship now be strained?
  When he returned with sold out ice cream, he was very pleased and
chatty. Several girls had told him he was very LINDO, and he'd had his
photograph taken. People always took photographs of him but today many more
than usual. Maybe his new trunks were good for business! And he laughed a
boyish laugh, and I got tears in my eyes. He ran off and returned with an
ice cream for me, and smoked as I ate it, all the time looking at his new
watch, grinning at me. Then he went on his second round, waving as he
passed by.
  Usually, he'd stop his peripatetic sales at five, and help his aunt pack
up the site. They closed at six. Our routine had become that he'd come to
my hut last, bringing coffee, and we'd sit and chat. Having finished my
coffee and cigarette, I lay back, and today he straddled my chest. We
looked at each other in silence and he grinned saucily, tracing my lips
with the tips of two fingers.
  `Does the gentleman want to please me again?'
  `Not to please the boy, my dear, to please me. Me. It pleases me, my
dear.' And he chuckled.
  `Does the gentleman want to please himself again?'
  `Three times in one day?' And he blushed as he stuck two fingers into my
mouth. I sucked them and we both laughed. His phallus was visibly swollen
now.
  I smiled. `If I do it here, the police will come.' So he climbed off and
took my hand and rushed me inside. I sat on the chair and he stood right in
front of me.
  `Your aunt?' She'd already gone. There was no one. So I undid the waist
cord of his trunks, pulled them down as before, and dreamily I fellated
him, fondling that bum. He sighed and stroked my hair and whined as he
spurted into my mouth. I sucked him dry, he caressed my face, and then we
rewound until I had tied the waist cord of his trunks again. And that
became our new routine. Everything was as before, except that now he'd ask
me if I wanted to please myself, on the beach or in my flat. Usually it was
twice a day, sometimes three times. After a few days, I dared to rub his
anus, and there was no protest. The next day, I swivelled him round and
then rimmed him. Again no protest.
  `The gentleman wants to screw me?'
  `Yes, but I know the boy doesn't want me to, so I won't try.'
  `Does it hurt?'
  `Not if it one knows how to do it. Not if one does it with love.' And he
bent over, to allow me to slaver over his arse, to cover those buttocks
with kisses. After that first time, he'd himself turn round and offer me
his arse. When he then turned round again, his anus would be slippery with
my spit, and I'd rub it vigorously with my finger. I dared not slide in a
finger, however.
  This new development added intimacy to our relationship beyond the
sex. Spinola became cuddlesome and would sit on my lap with his arms about
my neck and talk. There'd be the occasional kiss on the cheek but never on
the mouth. After all, he wasn't gay, although now he'd point out pretty
boys to me.
  `Over there, to the left, look, the boy with the tattoo.' And I'd look
and nod. `The gentleman thinks he is LINDO?' And I'd always nod, for
Spinola knew what I liked: petit and slender, mid- to late teens.
  `Like Spinola?'
  `Not like Spinola. None is so LINDO as Spinola'. And now he no longer
blushed, instead he laughed.
  `The gentleman is in love.'

AND THE GENTLEMAN?

  Considering this unexpected holiday romance, I extended my stay until it
was time for him to return to Lisbon. And I told him so.
  `The gentleman is staying longer because of me?' And I nodded. He looked
at me thoughtfully. I told him not to worry. I expected nothing more. I was
very happy as it was. My gifts and extending my stay was to please myself;
it was not blackmail. I did not have a long term strategy to get him to
sleep with me. Spinola ran over and sat on my lap and hugged me. `I know, I
know. It's just so unusual, that's all. Usually men are very friendly
because they want to screw the boy. After a time, the boy relents because
he feels obliged to. He wants to please the man who's been so kind. It's
maybe not intentional blackmail but there is a pull, you understand?' I
insisted no pull. He said it's the same with girls. All the boys tried it
on their girlfriends. Did he? He grinned. He'd thought of it, but it was
just too shameful.
  Now too, Spinola would often walk back to my flat with me, and then he'd
bathe there instead of in the public shower on the beach. The first time he
came with me, I insisted he bathe first, and when he was done, he came up
to me in his white briefs, and wrist-watch. I told him he was LINDO, with
his shiny damp hair and his limber body all brown.
  He smirked. `The gentleman likes me in just my underpants?'
  `And your wristwatch. Please don't get dressed. The boy is very lovely.'
And playfully, he slapped my arm. But after that he'd strut about the flat
in just his briefs. Sometimes, he'd strut around in just his wristwatch,
but he said he'd too easily get an erection. I said I didn't mind, and
again he laughed and slapped my arm. If it got chilly, he'd put on the big
cherry jumper I had given him. And the sight of him in just white briefs,
big jumper, and wristwatch, accentuating his boyish body, was even more
titillating. A few times he was stark naked and only the big jumper and
wristwatch, and I felt I'd faint. As he went about his business, I couldn't
help glancing at him again and again, even gaping at him, and sometimes
he'd smirk. `The gentleman likes?' And I'd smile and apologize.
  Sometimes he'd ask: `The gentleman wants to please himself?' And I'd just
smile. And he'd come over with swollen crotch and rub my face in it. I'd
fellate him, he'd turn round and stick out his bum so I could rim him, and
then I'd suck him off, with a finger rubbing his anus. Sometimes I'd leave
his underpants on and pull his phallus out through the fly, sometimes, I'd
pull them down and he'd step out of them and be naked, bar the
jumper. Sometimes, he'd come up from behind and poke my ear with his
hard-on. And I'd turn my head with mouth open.
  One day, as we walked home in the dusk, he asked if he could take a tub
bath instead of a shower. Of course. He'd never had a tub bath in his
life. So I said I'd do it for him. I turned the water on and added bath
salts. He came in stark naked, and I told him to test the water before
climbing in. He said it was all right, but when he climbed in, it was too
hot. And after a lot of adjustment, he finally lay fully immersed in foamy
water. His pretty face smiling above the white foam was a treat. I told him
to soak well, and then wash. And I added more hot water, because now it
wasn't warm enough. I got up to leave and he said don't leave. `Please may
the gentleman wash me,' and he blushed, `like a baby.' Like a baby? And he
giggled.
  `To please me or to please the boy?' Again he giggled. Both. To please
both. All right, but he should soak in the hot water for at least five
minutes. And I went out and got things ready to make coffee.
  When I returned, his face was wet with sweat and he said he was
melting. Did he like it? He wasn't sure. Was I going to wash him now? If he
wanted me to. He did, please. He sat up and I applied shampoo to his hair
and worked up a lather with my fingers. I told him my Vietnamese boy had
had me wash him every day. He said my Vietnamese boy was very loving.
  `Mmmm, very nice.' He was smiling as I worked his beautiful hair, and
soon I had a full-fledged hard-on. The lather flowed down over his delicate
shoulders and his hairless chest. Afterwards, I took handsoap and washed
his face and his little ears and his antelope neck and
shoulders. Slowly. Then his delicate hands and boyish arms and armpits with
their little tuft of black hair. Slowly. His feet and his calves and
knees. Slowly. The rest of his body was under water.
  `Can the boy stand up? So I can wash the rest of the boy's body?'
  He glanced at me sideways. Then he grinned. `I have an erection.'
  `So do I.' He laughed boyishly. Supporting himself on the sides of the
tub, he stood up ithyphallic. Even now, after I'd seen him naked so many
times, I was enthralled at his lusciousness. And the way boys so often
stand, with one leg pushed forward and the heel raised, just like a
gazelle. I looked up at his grinning face. He winked and ruffled my hair.
  `Not now. May the gentleman first wash me, please.' And I began to wash
his back and his front, and then his thighs. Slowly. And with throbbing
heart and swelling crotch, I washed his arse, and then with both hands, his
genitals. Slowly. When I pulled back his foreskin and rubbed soapy hands
over his glans penis, he squirmed and giggled.
  Then I took the showerhead and rinsed him down. Down the white foam
flowed, like sperm on his brown skin, and I felt I could barely restrain
myself. When I rinsed his glans penis, he moaned dramatically. Then I
spread his buttocks and sprayed his arse.
  `More, more, please.' He stuck out his buttocks and spread them wide, and
I let the warm water play on his anus and his perinaeum, and the back of
his scrotum, up and down. Still spraying his arse with warm water, I leaned
round and fellated him. He puffed and panted and whined and ejaculated into
my mouth, his wet hands clasping my head. Then he laughed naughtily, and
ruffled my hair. `Very sexy, very sexy.'
  The next day, he took a shower as usual. I had my shower, and going into
the bedroom to get dressed, I found him in bed, under the covers,
smiling. I turned my back, removed my towel, and put on my underpants. He
pulled down the sheet and revealed that he was naked and aroused. `May the
gentleman please himself.' This was the first time in a bed. And I lingered
as I sucked and licked and kissed his entire groin. He folded his legs
round my neck, his feet resting on my back, his hands gently fingering my
hair and ears. Then I pushed his knees back to his shoulders and he held
them with his arms. And now I rimmed him hungrily. His sighs became moans
and he rolled his head from side to side. And then I lowered his legs
again, he folded them round my neck again, and I sucked him off. Holding my
head in his hands, he squealed and filled my mouth with fresh boy
sperm. Afterwards, we lay side by side, and he snuggled up against me,
stroking my stomach.
  `And the gentleman?'
  `What?'
  `What about the gentleman's pleasure?'
  `It IS my pleasure.'
  `The gentleman doesn't come.'
  `Sometimes I come.'
  He sat up and studied the bulge in my underpants. `I never saw the
gentleman come.'
  `When the boy comes, sometimes I come.'
  `Always?'
  `Sometimes.'
  `Today?'
  `Nearly.'
  `I want to masturbate the gentleman.'
  `No. The boy does not want to masturbate the gentleman.'
  `I do.'
  `The boy is not gay.'
  Spinola looked at me thoughtfully. Then he grinned and climbed over to
kneel over my chest, his back to me, his lovely buns just before my
face. And I felt him pull down my briefs.
  `No, Spinola, please. No need. It's not like that.'
  `I know, I know. The boy is pleasing himself.' And he grasped my
phallus. It was semi-hard, but as soon as he touched it, it grew completely
hard.
  `The gentleman's penis is very nice. Long and straight and smooth.'
Gently, he pulled my foreskin and fondled my balls. And he began to wank
me. I pulled him over so his bum was over my face, and then I rimmed him,
hungrily as he wanked me. It was a matter of seconds before I groaned into
his arse and ejaculated violently. I heard a splash.
  `Aaah! The gentleman hit me in the face!' And he giggled. `In the face!'
And he turned round. `Look! The gentleman hit me in the face.' I couldn't
see anything. He picked up the sheet and wiped his face, and giggled and
giggled. He wiped my sperm from my stomach and his hand, pulled up my
underpants, and then he turned round, still laughing.
  `The gentleman shoots like a gun. Poom!' And now I couldn't refrain from
laughing. What a glorious boy! And he fell onto me, his face resting on my
shoulder, the hair soft and ticklish. I dared to embrace him. And we lay
there quietly, his phallus pressing against my hip.
  `I feel so safe with you.' And he looked at me, stroking my hair
back. `The gentleman never wants anything from me.'
  `But I do. I want the boy's pleasure, I want the boy's smiles and
laughter.' He shook his head.
  `That's not wanting for himself. The gentleman doesn't take anything, I
give it. The gentleman never takes anything.' And he pressed his face into
the hollow in my shoulder. `Girls always want something. They always want
something. Have to control.'
  `It's their nature... but most men like it. They like handing over
control to the woman.'
  `Why?'
  `They're besotted with their woman. They want peace and love, so they
hand over control... A woman is very happy to make war in order to gain
control.'
  `I want a girl like the gentleman.'
  `Not easy, Spinola. But if you're ready to fight a bit in the beginning,
you can make it clear you will not hand over control. If the girl loves
you, she'll stop. And whenever she tries, you stop her before she's
begun. It's a rare girl who'll love you for what you are, and doesn't want
to change you.'
  And we lay there like lovers, which we were in a way and weren't in a
way. Spinola fell asleep and I lay in ecstasy with his warm boyish body
draped naked over me, my hands fingering his lovely hair.
  It was pitch dark when I woke up, and he lay beside me, his head on my
arm, a leg entwined with mine. I listened to his breath. What would I do
when it was time to leave? This was not my first holiday romance. Romantic
interludes, so sweet they were barely to be believed, but I was beginning
to believe it was precisely because they were short that they were
sweet. The first time, with the Vietnamese boy, it had been an impossible
situation, and I had wept a rain of sorrows, and ached for years. Since
then, I had accepted the impossible situation, and stopped seeking
romance. But occasionally it would come uninvited. I'd weep, but I didn't
ache for very long when it was over, although I always felt empty and
deprived.
  I very carefully disengaged myself and got up to piss, and when I
returned, Spinola was awake. His head buried in the pillow, one eye looking
at me, the crease of his smile. I sat on the bed.
  `Hungry?' And he nodded. He was shy. After all, he'd just slept with me,
and had given me a handjob. Something of a development. Maybe he felt out
of his depth. So I behaved as if it had never happened. We got dressed and
went out for dinner. Then coffee in a pavement café and then again a
French film. This time the love affair between a middle aged man and a
prostitute. Halfway into the film, Spinola took my hand and held it,
rubbing with his thumb. I didn't look at him and didn't get aroused, just
infatuated.

NO, SPINOLA

  His departure back to Lisbon was a week away. As always, he'd gone back
with me to bathe in my flat, and then I'd bathe. (There was never a repeat
of my washing him.) Sometimes, he'd wait for me in bed, sometimes
not. Today, he didn't. I got dressed and walked into the kitchen. He was
preparing dinner. He was a very good cook and today it was traditional
Portuguese boiled cod with all the trimmings, one of my favourites. There
was chocolate mousse from his aunt, and he'd nicked a bottle of wine in the
supermarket. (He said `You don't live in the streets of Lisbon without
learning some tricks.' And he'd nick treats every now and then.) Candles on
the table and fados in the background. Just like lovers. He wouldn't let me
do anything. As always, he was in a state of undress (for the gentleman's
pleasure), wearing only white briefs (I had bought him six pairs) and a new
jumper I'd bought for him, with broad blue and green stripes. In the
kitchen, he wore the apron, but when he brought in the wine, he'd removed
it and stood before me, gorgeous with schoolboy briefs and bare thighs.
  `The gentleman likes?' I bit my lip and tears rushed to my eyes. I
couldn't speak. He put the bottle on the table and sat on my lap and
embraced me, kissed my forehead and brushed back my hair. And I began to
weep. And he kissed my tears away. I embraced this darling boy and we sat
quietly as the woman sang plaintively. Typically, he didn't say anything
stupid, just kept sympathetically quiet. Again and again I stopped, and
again and again I started again.
  At last I stopped starting and stroked his pretty face. `The food will
get cold.' He kissed my cheek and jumped up and ran into the kitchen. After
a while he brought in the dishes and we had a prolonged and jolly meal. As
always, he made me giggle, and as so many times before, I had to leave the
room so as not to be sick with laughter. And then he cleared the table and
we had coffee. He'd nicked a box of cigars for us a while back, and we
puffed over coffee and Portuguese brandy.
  He snuggled up against me, his bare knees pressed against my thighs. And
I told him about my first love, a boy in school. He told me he had no such
experience, although he did have a best friend. They had wanked together a
few times, but that was all. He'd never done anything with anyone. I was
the first? Yes. Nice girls only kissed. Sex was after marriage. Then how
did he know I wanted to make love to him? I wasn't the first who wanted
to. Several men had fondled him. A German even stuck his hand inside his
trunks. Did the boy get angry? No, it wasn't nasty, just playful. And the
man said he'd pay if he could give the boy a blowjob. Did the boy accept?
Spinola laughed. There was something about the man he didn't like. As if
the boy was only as a sex object. The shoeshine boys in Lisbon had many
tales. Some made more as rent boys. Some were looking for a good man to
adopt them. They said the Portuguese were often nasty. They'd make love to
a boy and then feel bad about it, and take it out on the boy. Sometimes,
they didn't even pay up. The English were the nicest, and many Germans. The
biggest problem was neighbours and hotel staff. Most Portuguese were very
homophobic, especially the women. Then why wasn't he? Spinola smiled. He
had been like everyone else. But two years ago, when they were drunk, his
dearest friend slipped his hand into Spinola's trousers. Spinola protested,
and got his friend to confess to being homosexual, to having been in love
with Spinola since they were young boys. It was his dear friend, so he
wasn't angry, but he had to choose. Give up your dear friend or give up
your homophobia, and he decided to keep his friend, although he said `No
sex'. And in a way their friendship deepened. He became his friend's
confessor in a way. His friend told him everything, and he realized how
difficult it was to be gay in Portugal. And he developed sympathy for
gays. He never heard of a boy being raped but girls were being raped, and
when men made advances to him, it was always good natured. So he realized
homosexuals were not the monsters they were made out to be. He'd heard how
boys would talk about girls and it certainly wasn't pretty or respectful,
and he knew how they'd try to force themselves on a girl in a way no man
had ever tried to force himself on him. I said Spinola was very
thoughtful. He laughed. He hated being at home, having to listen to his
mother all the time, so he'd go about by himself a lot, and he'd read in
his room, rather than watch TV with his Mom. He loved her, but she was like
her sister, rattling on forever. The gentleman listened, his mother and
aunt listened only to themselves. His girlfriend? She listened too. She
adored him. Almost too much. He was afraid he dominated her. And Spinola
got up and went into the bedroom. Came back with a photograph. A very
pretty girl with light brown pageboy hair and fair skin, her arm about his
waist. They looked lovely and innocent. I told him. He blushed. He didn't
know whether they'd get married. It seemed so far off, and her love was so
intense, he felt she might run out of steam. And Spinola talked about
himself as he'd never talked before. I was quite sick with love for this
boy with his slender thighs and pert bum in his white briefs.
  We turned the lights out and sat on the balcony in the dark, so no one
could see us. He sat sideways on my lap and put my arm round his waist, and
we smoked and drank brandy. He asked me about the Vietnamese boy. And I
told him how I'd seen him in an outdoor café, looking like a young
school boy, with cute tortoiseshell glasses, and his black hair parted at
the side, with a big lock covering one eye; a tight rosy T-shirt, tiny
light blue shorts with baggy legs, and what had really charmed me, rosy
socks and black leather sandals, and even a school bag. I'd caught his doe
eyes gazing at me, and we'd both smiled. Then we kept glancing at each
other across the tables and smiling. He spread his toffee-coloured thighs
and slipped a hand surreptitiously down inside the leg of his shorts, his
mouth half-open. We both grinned and then he called for his bill, and
looking at me, he rubbed his half-open lips with a finger. He got up to go,
all the time glancing at me, saucily adjusting the legs of his tiny
shorts. He walked off, looking back over his shoulder again and again,
stroking his pert little bum with a hand, and I followed like a dog, with
my tongue hanging out. I'd never done this sort of thing in my life, but
then again, no such voluptuous lad had ever come on to me so. He glanced
back with a grin as he turned off into a park and sat down on the grass
under a tree. I followed and sat down. His thighs were spread wide, with
one leg pulled up, allowing me to look into the leg of his shorts, where I
could see his little phallus straining inside a yellow thong, a bare
toffee-coloured buttock, and almost his anus. He was an unbelievable twenty
years old, only four years younger than I, and on a two-year visit to the
Sorbonne, studying engineering. Soon we were in a taxi on our way to his
digs. Into his little room, he pushed me down onto his little bed, and
jumped on me, one hand wriggling into my trousers. We made passionate love
all afternoon, broken by coffee breaks and cigarettes, and snoozing and
spooning. He was infatuated with my hair, so blond and soft, he said, and
my eyes like the clear blue sky. I in turn was infatuated with his thick
black hair, his smooth toffee-coloured skin, and long-lashed gazelle
eyes. Like an elf from a book of fairytales. When I brought him to my
little hotel, I didn't really know what might happen. The proprietor asked
me if I wanted the boy to stay with me, and blushing I said yes. He turned
and called into the next room. Out came a younger man, and with a smile the
proprietor told him I had found a pretty boy in the streets of
Paris. `Isn't he pretty?' And everyone beamed. They said they needed to
check his ID card, and then both smiled and said how enchanting we looked
together. And very friendly they were after that, always telling us how
enchanting we looked. There was no charge for the extra occupant of my big
bed, although the breakfast now had two cups and more croissants. Sometimes
I insisted we stay in his little room. His little bed with two huge teddy
bears; the Japanese comics with inconceivably angelic boys making love; his
array of vibrators, dildoes, and butt plugs of various colours; on his
walls posters of boy bands; his collection of tiny shorts and thongs and
g-strings; and the tiny fridge-freezer that contained nothing except
ice-cream and fancy cakes, made it his fantastic domain entirely, and I
felt privileged and thrilled to enter it.
  This was my first romance with a boy, and ineffably sweet. So I extended
my stay in Paris till the beginning of term. But it was doomed. He had to
go back to Vietnam when the year was out, he had to get married, and with
his Vietnamese passport, there was just no changing things. For Christmas
and Easter, he visited me in London, and again and again I visited him in
Paris. But eventually we had to end it. We were both deeply in love, and
many were the tears as we parted. He said I could never visit him in
Vietnam, it was simply too dangerous, if his parents found out. He had to
get married, and after his first son was born, his lovesick letters became
less so, and after his second son was born, I heard no more.
  Spinola's head was resting on my shoulder. `It's a very sweet and very
sad story.' I said I knew it was.
  `Has the gentleman ever found another boy like that?' No, never. It was
inconceivable. One could not repeat such a thing. A couple of times I had
encountered charming boys on my travels who had befriended me, two of them
had turned into romance, but again, they were doomed.
  `Am I one of those charming boys?' I chuckled and said in a way yes,
although we weren't really lovers.
  There was a lull in our conversation and Spinola sighed, pressing his
head against my neck. There was the sound of traffic and the smell of the
sea. He took my hand quietly and placed it on his crotch, and I fondled the
bulge. As I grew hard so did he grow hard, and then he pulled down the
front of his underpants, and I fondled his bare genitals. There was pre-cum
on the glans and I rubbed it round, and he giggled. And then I wanked him
gently. He tucked up his jumper so his stomach was bare and then very
quietly he ejaculated, mostly onto my hand. I squeezed out the last drops
onto my fingers and then licked myself clean. Scooped up the gobs from his
stomach with my fingers and sucked them clean. He let down his jumper, I
pulled up his briefs, and then we just sat quietly.
  `I'll miss the gentleman.' I stroked his head. There was still a week to
go. Yes, but it would pass quickly. He kissed my cheek and giggled. Who
would toss him off? Giggle. Suck him off? And he sighed. Who would love him
and listen to him? His girlfriend. No, it wasn't the same. He got up and
went out to piss and returned. Sat on my knee facing me and put his hand on
my crotch. I couldn't see his face.
  `The gentleman has a hard-on.' Of course, I'd just wanked a pretty boy on
my lap. He unzipped my fly and pulled out my phallus. I no longer
objected. And he rubbed the pre-cum round my glans.
  `That's my trick!' And he giggled and squeezed out more and rubbed it
round till I wriggled. I saw a movement and felt his soft warm mouth
envelop my glans. I gasped with pleasure and then pulled his head away.
  `No, my dear, please!' His dark outline brushed his hair away. Why not? I
didn't know. He wanted to. No, my sweet, please no. And he rubbed my glans
with his thumb.
  `I want to. I want to please you.' No, it didn't please me. And he began
to wank me.
  `Can I do this?' Yes, that was OK, nothing else. And he leaned his head
against my shoulder and wanked me off. I ejaculated onto the parapet of the
balcony and he laughed boyishly. `Poom!' I gave him my hanky and he wiped
his hand clean, and I tucked my phallus back in and zipped up.
  `It's so big.'
  `Not very. The boy's may grow bigger.' But he was petit. Ah, I'd seen
petit young men with large phalli.
  `The Vietnamese boy?' No. His was smaller than Spinola's.
  `Did the gentleman ever screw him?' He'd never asked me such a
question. Maybe it was the brandy and our sitting in the dark.
  `Many times. He was keen on being screwed.'
  `Keen?' Yes. He liked impaling himself. And he'd be completely hard as he
slid up and down. Sometimes he'd come. He was older than Spinola but more
petit. I had always marvelled at how my big phallus so easily slid into his
tight little arse. And it kept on being tight.
  `Does the gentleman think I would like being screwed?' And I laughed.
  `The boy has had too much brandy.' And he giggled. Why so? And he clasped
me about the neck and we both giggled.
  The next day, on the beach, he told me he had a hangover. In the quiet
hour after lunch, we went for a swim and then into my hut for a session. He
pulled off his scarlet trunks and I fellated him. Then he turned round,
parted his buttocks, and I rimmed him.
  `Does the gentleman want to screw me?'
  I raised my face from between his buttocks. `No, my dear, thank you.'
Given other circumstances, screwing him could have been a passionate
consummation; given these circumstances, it would be more like a violation.
  `To please me. I want to try. Like the Vietnamese boy.' To shut him up, I
twirled him round and fellated him. He grasped my head and moaning spurted
into my slurping mouth. After he'd put on his trunks, he slipped his hand
inside my trunks. But I told him to go and get his ice-cream ready. He
smiled. `Is the gentleman angry with me?'
  `My dear Spinola, I think it is impossible for me to get angry with you.'
  `Then why must I go?'
  `Because I love you.'
  And he sat on my lap and hugged me hard. `Please may the gentleman
forgive me.'
  And again I wept in his arms. He slipped his hand inside my shorts and
fondled my swollen phallus. That stopped my tears, and I nuzzled my face in
his hair. Then he kneeled beside me and extricated my swollen phallus from
my shorts and wanked me, one arm round my neck. I shot onto the striped
canvas of the hut. `Poom! And he grinned, wiping his hand on the canvas. I
tucked my phallus back in, and he sat on my lap in silence, with his head
resting on my shoulder. I dared not speak and we sat for about ten
minutes. Then he looked at me with tender eyes and said he wanted to sleep
a bit. And we lay down on our separate deck chairs. He slept, I watched,
full of admiration.
  The following Easter, I paid for him to visit me at home, and spent a
glorious ten days, overjoyed at his enthusiasm and interest, and above all
his tenderness towards me.
  On the first night, he slipped into my bed and `May the gentleman please
himself.' As he had told me in his letters, he had had no `intimacies' with
anyone since our summer of love. He had thought of his best friend, but he
had found a boyfriend. I fellated Spinola till he ejaculated copiously into
my mouth, wailing almost with desire. He squatted over my face so I could
rim him, and wanked me. `Poom!' But against his cheerful protests, I forbad
anything further. Then again I fellated him, and we lay and snuggled. For
the whole visit, he slept naked in my bed, snuggled up against me, and as
before, he strutted about the flat in white underpants, a jumper, and his
wrist-watch. `The gentleman likes?' and frequently `The gentleman wants to
please himself?' rubbing my face in his swollen crotch.
  The next summer I again went to Portugal and again he worked at his
aunt's, turning seventeen, and again we had sweet times together. But
returning to Lisbon, his interest became a new girl, and as is inevitably
the case, our association declined to birthday and Christmas letters. I
received a wedding invite two years later, but declined, although I sent
them a set of exquisite Italian espresso cups with sugar bowl and silver
spoons. A year later came the baby picture, and he wrote that he now
realized why I had refused `increased intimacies', and he thanked me for my
`delicacy'.
  Ever thoughtful, ever the gentleman, my Portuguese boy.