WARNING: This story contains sexually explicit parts involving sex between minors and adults. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.


Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.


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A small sermon. Nothing in life is free. Everything costs, and Nifty is no different, so please send them a couple of $'s/'s to cover costs and stuff. They're very discreet, and you won't get your name in lights if you do.



The Angel of Pie Jesu.


Book one Star in the Hood.


Part 4.


I hear Gareth say, "Hello, Star in the Hood. Are you nicely tucked up in bed?"


I giggle. "Yes. With your scarf."


"And where is it?"


"I'm not telling you."


I hear Gareth chuckle, and then he says, "I want something of yours before you leave."


I'm feeling naughty, and I say, "You can have my stretched underpants."


More chuckles. "No thanks. I'll have the white t-shirt you were wearing under your hoody."


"I'll post it to you."


"No need to do that. I'll be seeing you tomorrow before you leave. You've all been invited to go to Kurt's shop."


"Yes, I know. Herr Biermaier has just told me."


Gareth's voice is slightly harsh when he says, "Herr Biermaier wasn't supposed to have told you! I told him it was to be a surprise!" Then his voice becomes gentle again. "I'll be waiting in the shop for you. I want you to choose whatever you want, and I want to choose some things for you. Apart from me, is there anything else you want? My underpants?"


That makes me laugh. "No. I'll just have that shirt you were wearing last night. And that beautiful suit."


"But no underpants."


"No underpants. They're probably smelly."


I hear Gareth chuckle. "They probably are. I'll throw them in the wash when I go to bed."


I don't know why, but I'd supposed Gareth was in bed when he was speaking to me, and I ask, "Haven't you gone to bed yet?!"


"No. I've been having a couple of drinks while I was waiting for you."


"Where are you?"


"In my apartment."


My Apartment. I'm intrigued. "Describe it to me. I want to be able to picture you."


"I can do better than that. I'll break the call and send you a picture message. Go and take a pee if you need one."


"I don't need one. I had one earlier. And a poo."


Gareth giggles. "I don't want to know all the sordid details of your toilet habits, thank you!"


The phone goes dead. I'm really excited now. We've been talking as if we've known each other for ages. It's so easy to talk to Gareth. I can be cheeky in my talk if I want to, and it seems as though Gareth can, too. It's not just the words he's saying; it's the hidden meanings behind them. I already know he isn't into dirty underpants, but he does want the closest thing to them; my t-shirt. He wants it for the same reason I want his shirt rather than the scarf I've got. It's been on his body, right next to his skin, and the same applies to my shirt. When he gets it, he'll smell at it, and it will remind him of me; of my body. He wants my body, but he's not mentioned my pinkler, or my bum... yet. But I expect that to come.


By now, I've already worked out that he has to be one of those men who like boys. He's not gay. He's one of those men who Herr Biermaier has warned us about. I know all about them. Well, I would, wouldn't I? Herr Direktor is one. What Herr Direktor didn't figure was that we boys might like men. I didn't figure I ever would either. I like girls, and I've been infatuated with a couple in the past. But that would also apply to boys. I've had a crush on a few, but they were about my age; millions of miles away from the almost twenty year age difference between me and Gareth, and only one of those boys was having sexual feelings towards him. With the others, the thoughts of having sex with them never entered my head. But Gareth is different. I would never have thought it possible to love a man the way I do Gareth. I'm not even sure about the sexy side myself, although, when I'm feeling sexy, he's been in my mind. But that was more thinking about anything other than Herr Biermaier when he was doing stuff to me. I like Gareth's body. I want to be in his arms without any clothes on; feeling secure in the warmth of what he is. I want to kiss him and stroke his body, so I suppose I am attracted to him that way. So, if that's what I have to do to keep Gareth's love, I'll do it. In fact, I'll do anything.


I've got the phone on silent - to vibrate - and just to make sure I don't miss Gareth's picture message, after making sure I had a signal down there, I've put it on my pinkler. When it does vibrate, I look under the bedclothes and watch my semi-hard pinkler rise to its full length. Maybe I should tell Gareth what I've done? That would make him giggle. But I'm the one who giggles when I open the picture message. Gareth's place is magnificent; all modern furniture and stuff, but the thing that's making me giggle is that he's put a pair of white boxer underpants on the glass occasional table. The table is fabulous; a single sheet of glass with the ends bent over to form legs. And the rest of the place is glass and silver and black furniture, and a bright blue, three or four seater minimalistic sofa, and two matching armchairs. I know all about minimalist, because the last time we were in Berlin, Herr Biermaier took us to the Bauhaus Art Museum, and Gareth's place reminds me of some of the stuff in there. I'm still looking at the picture when the phone vibrates again. It's another picture message, this time one of Gareth smiling at me, and behind him is a massive window, and I can see the lights of Berlin through the window. Wherever he is, he's high up. A thought comes into my head, and I begin to chuckle. I throw off the duvet, place the scarf on my belly over my blue pyjamas just high enough to hide my hard pinkler, and take a picture of it, and then I send it to him. And then a text comes in on my phone. That is supposed to be around your neck!


I reply: It's keeping my tummy warm.


Gareth's reply: That's ok then. I thought it was somewhere else.


I'm really giggling now! Where did you think it was?


On your cassock.


After I've stopped laughing, I try to think of a witty answer. One comes to me. Is that what they call it in England?


No. It's what they call it in POLE land.


Now I'm almost pissing myself laughing. I'm about to ask him if he would like it to be on POLE land when another text from him comes in. It's 2 o' clock. You should get some sleep. I won't ring you again now. I'll speak to you at Kurt's place. Sleep tight. ILY.


I text Gareth back. ILY?


Work it out. It isn't difficult, and I mean it. I have since the first time I saw you.


I think about ILY, and then it hits me. I love you! I'm crying when I text him back. Worked it out. ILY. I have done since the first time I saw you. Say it again.


ILY. ILY. ILY. Now go to sleep.


Not yet. I have one more thing to do. I'm sending you another picture and then we can go to sleep.


My heart is pounding when I sit up in bed and strip off my pyjama top. It may be the wrong thing to do, but I want to do it. I straighten my hair, and then push the hem of my pyjama trousers down so they're well below my navel, showing the hollows that lead down from my hips to my pinkler, which I stuff between my legs so he can't see that it's stiff. This is going to be really sexy. If Gareth does like boys, he can save this and think about me whenever he wants to do stuff with himself. That thought makes me even braver, so I push my pyjamas down some more until just about one centimetre of the base of my pinkler is showing. He'll be able to see then that I've got six small hairs growing just above my pinkler. I try to look as sexy as I can, and send my love to him through my eyes; take the picture, and attach the text: ILY. ILY. ILY. XXX. I think about not sending it, but then I press the send button. Too late now, and I'm panicking.


A text comes in. You are beautiful beyond words. ILY. XXX


I let out a massive sigh of relief, and let my head relax on the pillow as I think about Gareth's reply. I was right. He does want me that way. I'm certain of that now, and I'm finding the thought really sexy, so I throw off the duvet, take off my pyjamas, and look down at my body: the body that Gareth wants. My swollen pinkler, which curves slightly upwards from the base and the six small hairs I count religiously every time I play with it, is about ten centimetres long, and it matches the rest of me; slim and shapely. My foreskin is back just enough to reveal my pee slit, and my pinkler is throbbing. Very slowly, I roll the foreskin down to reveal my deep pink knob, and then I pull it back up again. I repeat it a number of times, and then I start to do it properly with three fingers and a thumb. I get the picture up on my phone of Gareth smiling at me, place it by my head on the pillow, and pretend he's with me, and the free hand that is caressing all my curves and stroking my inner thighs and balls, I pretend is his hand. I look deep into his beautiful eyes as he feels at me, and I rub my face on the stubble of his chin. His lips find mine, and we kiss. He wanks me faster. They begin; the feelings surging from my balls, and I pant madly. Yesssssss! Oh Gareth! I love you Gareth! I love you! And then I kiss him, a long, loving kiss as I reach the very peak of my climax.




The picture is soooo provocative. He's kneeling on the bed, sitting on his haunches, and his pyjama bottoms have been pushed right down. There's no ambiguity that he's done it on purpose. The hem of his pyjama bottoms is pushed down too far for it to be natural, and I can see most of his lower abdomen, and also the base of his cock with a sprinkling of budding pubic hair. This is suggestive, and he knows it. Is that why he's sent it to me? If so, he couldn't have done a better job, because it's almost pornographic. But this boy is still thirteen; almost fourteen. Before tonight, because I have a very low sex drive, although I knew he was stirring sexual feelings in me, I hadn't given a lot of thought about wanting him that way. In fact, I've placed him on a pedestal: a boy God with the most beautiful voice in the world. It's my spirit that's been smitten with him, not my sexuality. Or so I thought. Now it's as if he's pushing his sexuality at me, and I can't deny that I find his body extremely sensual. Is this what some boys do? I've met those who sell their bodies, but I've never met a boy who actually wanted sex with a man because it was part of their makeup. Perhaps behind the veneer I've been looking at, there's a sexy creature inside who actually wants me? The thought, despite it being disturbing, is also exciting, because, since our innuendo and the few moments in the passage when we kissed before we parted, I'm discovering another side to the emotions he's created in me.


But is that what I want? Am I to blame? Did I go too far when I was ribbing him? It was me who started it. No it wasn't. He was the first to mention underpants, and he's the one who has taken suggestive pictures of himself and sent them to me. Am I nave? Am I so fucking nave that I've forgotten that a boy his age might be suffering from rampant hormones?  Oh my God! He might even be gay! Oh fuck, no! Kurt told me he knew he was gay when he was a small child. Please, no, Aleric! I don't want you to have a life like Kurt. I've seen the shit he gets from bigots. It isn't nice. I don't want anybody sniggering at you, Aleric. Never! Never!




Strangely, despite it being 2 am, I'm not tired, and despite having been sucked off by Herr Biermaier and having wanked myself off over Gareth, my pinkler is still hard. It's nothing new. I've known for a while that I'm a horny little sod. Many is the time I've seen men ogling me in the audience, and I sometimes get a hard on under my cassock, thinking they'll wank over me when they go to bed. Herr Biermaier's ministrations have taught me that a man sucking your pinkler and your bum can be really sexy. I know about these things the men think about, because it's a standing joke between the boys just who has been ogling us during a performance. The older boys, especially, know about it, and they make jokes about being as sexy as they can if they spot a potential `victim'. But I've gone one step further. I've sent Gareth a picture of me in a suggestive pose.


I'd switched the phone off after I wanked, and then put it on charge. It's by the bedside. I pick it up and bring up the picture of me. Gareth was right... I am beautiful. In fact, I'm really sexy. I wish I'd had the courage to strip completely naked with my pinkler hard, and sent that picture to Gareth. I think he would have been angry with me, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have deleted it. Maybe he's wanking over me now while he's looking at the picture. Maybe we can do it together. I switch on the bedside lamp, take off my pyjamas again, lie naked with my legs spread wide open, and pretend I'm Gareth. This time as I wank, I rub my cock over the picture of myself. It's really sexy doing this, and it doesn't take long before I feel myself beginning to climax. Right at the last moment, I hump at the picture of myself, imagining I'm Gareth doing it, and I have one of the best climaxes I've had for ages as I imagine Gareth's sperm shooting all over my body, and even onto my face and in my mouth.




I'm glad I bought him a good phone, because the picture quality is super. Like most young boys, he's worked out how to use it in double quick time, and the result is that I now have a picture of Aleric, that, if he hadn't made it so sexy, is angelic. He's slim, but not slim enough that his ribs are sticking out. He's probably just finished a growth spurt and his gorgeous body is taking shape for the next stage of his development. He'll put on a bit of puppy fat, and then another surge in height. That's how it works. I can only see one arm, because he's taking the picture with his other hand stretched away from himself. His gorgeous, elongated, but wide-open, brown-with-a-tint-of-green eyes are staring at me, and I can tell he's thinking of me. His mouth is slightly open, as if he wants to kiss me. His long, slim neck melts into equally slim shoulders, and his butterfly collar bones are delicate, as is the whole of his shapely body. His nipples are small, but in keeping with the rest of him, but the most attractive thing about his body is his waist. It's like a model's; curvaceous, and leading to wider hips. He has a lovely deep navel and a flat lower abdomen, and the two V grooves that go all the way down to his privates are well revealed. It doesn't take much imagination to picture a cock as slim and beautiful as the rest of him.


I go to the office, switch on the printer and transfer the image from the phone to it. Then I work on it for half an hour, and the result is an A4 image of him. I have an artist friend who has a place in Birkenstein. I'll ask him to do me a large painting of it, although I'll ask him to make it less provocative, and more artistic.


I look over the city at the lights. I love this place. I love it even more knowing that somewhere out there, fast asleep by now, is a beautiful boy I've fallen in love with, and who says he loves me. I wish I was by his bed, looking down at him and stroking his hair while he slumbers. I could kiss his forehead, tuck his duvet a little tighter to keep him warm, and leave him to his boyish dreams. I wonder what he dreams about? Probably being a sailor or a racing driver.


To be continued...

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