Date: Tue, 14 Nov 2006 16:30:39 -0600 From: Timothy Stillman Subject: Timmy's Been a Bad Boy "Timmy's Been a Bad Boy" by Timothy Stillman (for S. and M., fine writers, kind friends, who never fail to help me raise a smile, this story is warmly dedicated) "Timmy's been a bad boy," he told me, eyes downcast. His chin poked down into his neck. His blonde hair was askew, forelocks fallen over his eyes. He stood inside my door, and traced the toes of his Keds around the carpeting in a semi-circle. He was wearing a light gray jacket, blue jeans, and red cambric winter shirt. He had snow on his shoulders. He was like a limp coat hanger. He breathed heavily. Then sighed. "I'm here to take my medicine." And he tried to look up, brushed the hair out of his eyes that were dark brown. He was the most beautiful entity in a world of fools who could not see how wonderful and rare a boy he was. He was the day inside himself. He was not aware of his beauty. The crystal face. The dagger shaped chin. The full mouth that looked especially kissable on a boy his age. I put my hands on his little shoulders. I felt his warmth. I looked at the snow through the glass door. It was really coming down now. Soft and thick flaked. Later today, we would go out into the gray/blue day and make a snowman. But now, Timmy needed me. My name is Clare. I am eighteen. Timmy is 13. And younger looking than that. He has a kind of milk taste to him. He looks as always forlorn. He has not had a happy life. Till, he says, he found me. He is British and I am Australian. I love him and he loves me. So I say, in mocking terminology, "And just what has little Timmy done today? Thrown a snowball at the preacher? Built a snow penis in the lawn of the class prude? What, Timmy?" "Just^×" and he sighed again, and he rubbed his hand over his crotch. I took that as a sign he wanted the front door closed. After closing it, I turned to him, and said, "I guess we need a spanking, don't we?" "I guess^×so^× sir" he said, and his lower lip was a trembleo. And the music was little Timmy. I knelt to him and looked up at his face. His eyes were closed. He took this far too seriously, though I would have him happier soon. There was a tear coming from his left eye. I held it on my hand and touched it to my tongue. It tasted pure and cold and Timmy. "So, Mister Peep-Eye," I said, brushing the hair further back from his forehead, "I guess you need some discipline." And he nodded ever so slightly. So I took his big cowboy belt buckle with the steer being roped by a cowboy on it, and unbuckled it from his thin waist. I did this slowly, and turned my hands into the very tip of his jeans. I felt the warm boy. The flat stomach. The promise of warm pulsing boy throb down below him. Down in the Venus of Timmy. He stood backward, leaning backward, as I opened his jeans, and he put his hands on my shoulders, which were also slight, but larger in comparison, as I unzipped him. He was wearing his Superman underoos. I smiled. He was always too big for them, that Christmas gift last year from me, and would only, giggling, wear them when he came to see me. He could be a real minx for me. Dancing in them. Slowly slipping them down, just for a second and then dancing away, then back to me, and slipping them slowly down again, for more seconds, and then^Å I was slowly bringing the zipper down and seeing his little penis growing hard, a few inches, and magic time, as I eased the Underoos of blue and red down and his little hard on popped up and stared me in the face with its foreskin bulging with boy. How could anyone not be turned on by that extraordinary boy device? Warm and pulsing. Veiny and tender and delicious to touch or to mouth entering. "Would you like me to touch it, Timmy?" I asked, with some mischief in my eyes. "Could you pleasesir?" The last two words ran together. He was a shy boy. And an inventive boy. "First you have to tell me what you did bad today." He shook his head, no. So I backed up on my heels from him. His pink conch shell penis and BB ball testicles now away from my touch. Reaching forth for my touch again. "Wait^×" he said. Looking at me. Now I was on eye level with him. "Don't you want to^×" "Want to what, Master Timothy Esquire?" I said, pretending I was his schoolmaster. "You know---" And he brushed his eyes, opened them a little more, and moved his hard on a bit, jiggling it without touching it. "Paddle you?" "Please, sir, if you don't--mind?" He said, doing a perfect imitation of Mark Lester as Oliver Twist. I stroked my chin. Considering. Hmmm^ÅWell all right. "I think you better take off all your clothes, Timothy. I think you better take them off right now. I am going to sit on the couch and watch you." "Yes^×yes sir." And he began doing just that, as I moved to the couch, and watched. The house was warm. The fireplace was crackling with a good fire. He walked to the fire, to warm himself, especially his cup cake buttocks, as he took off his jacket and his shirt, stripping slowly, knowingly. His boyflesh was soft and girlish. His birdcage thin ribs shown through. His nipples were so pale it was hard to see them. He stuck out his crotch for me, and smiled, guiltily. I maintained a stern look on my face. Inside, I was happy and laughing. As he knew I was. And he wanted to make me that way. My hard on was raging in my jeans. He was against the fires of red, a pale boy, tilting to blonde body, and he moved his tiny hands to his penis and he massaged it for me; oh god, how I wanted to touch him, and everything of him, but that could wait for later. He bent over and took off the socks and his Keds, pulled his jeans down. His thin legs and his slight calves were trembling from the cold, and from excitement. And, sad to say, guilt. I told him to turn round, to let me see his rosy butt. And he smiled a coy smile. He turned, as if in a pirouette, placing his gold pale hands above his head, long arms straight up, his hands palms together as if praying, for he knew I wanted him to be a dancer. He turned totally around with agonizing slowness. Then there he was with his rosy rear, hot from the fireplace glow, and I knew now he was ready; God knows I was. So I said, with as much forcefulness as I could muster, "Timothy, what did you do to be a bad boy today?" "I can't say." His voice low and muffled. "What, Timothy? Was it something horrible?" He nodded. His back was a swan's back. I could not wait to feel its smoothness as my hand roved up and down it as I swatted him. I told him to turn round and watch me as I stripped. As I did, he said, "It's very large, sir." And amazed. Of course it wasn't, the reg. Six inches, but he said it to make me feel big. I sat down on the couch, naked; excited that he had yet again watched me become bare, as I had watched him become bare. I said, "Timothy J. young rogue, come here now. And I mean business." He walked his needy forlorn nakedness so delicately toward me, as if presenting jewels of great cost on a flying carpet of himself. I thought he was compounded of a dream or it would all blow away like smoke from the chimney into the gray dark winter and thus gone forever. It would, one day, probably soon, but this I dared not think about, because of how it hurt my heart. I heard a few cars mushing through the thick snow outside. It was silent otherwise. Quiet. Like we were inside an aspirin bottle full of cotton. Safe and protected. In gentle pretend. I patted his left flank. I said, "You know the drill, mister." He said, "Yessir." And I made my lap, my hard on sticking straight out, as he lay his naked stomach on my legs and his abdomen, and his groin, and he was hot, as if with a fever. I watched his back that somehow on this small boy seemed longer than it should, his dimpled buttocks were creamy and dreamy and ready for my hand. They were rosy from the fire. They looked good enough to eat. Butter, please, for these rolls? He rested his head on his arms and covered his face with his hands. As if it were truly going to hurt. His long hair hanging down again. He squirmed his body onto me, my penis against his groin and his stomach, as I started to paddle his butt with my hand, gently, and he said, "Please sir, harder. I deserve the business." And I tapped a bit harder. He moved his whole body forward and backward. I watched his back, his shoulders, his spine, his buttocks as they squirmed, then all of a piece, moved forward and back, at the tempo of my hand. His tiny hard on, on me, moving, his balls tight, moving. A sea of sexuality in my lap. I tapped him again. He opened his mouth, he breathed hard, his body swayed, his swan back moved like he was having sex, flowing boy sex, in a merboy body that was somehow still partially under the sea, coming in a way, out of himself, flowering in a very real way, about his hip area, this image for some reason. He said, "Whip me, so I will know you love me." I hit him a bit harder, not to hurt, his buttocks were a little fleshy and beautifully round, and he sighed and moved all of himself on my legs and on my groin, his hairless body against my pubic hair, my penis moving when he did. Our penises touching. Fire. The room was patchy cold, patchy hot. We were as fevers. "It looks like I'm being fucked, doesn't it, sir?" This was a new one. I had thought it of course, but never said it. I remembered I had been taught as a boy that masturbation would send me to hell. So I thought I would escape the punishment if I masturbated without touching my penis. I had a fluffy rug in my room. I had a mirror I would place beside me, and rub myself to dry orgasm on it, looking at myself, thus learning unwittingly how to fuck. The devil is in the details. And indeed it seemed that way. The fish gasping out and in O of his mouth. The pushing of his body that was not of his doing, back and forth, like a sea of little boy flesh, the waves, the tides in and him, him the sea, and I the moon, controlling him, mirroring him. The way he rubbed his eyes. The way he loved to cry sometimes, he said, because it made him feel better, and knowing what he faced out there and at home, I understood he had much to cry about. "Yes, Timmy, it looks like you are being fucked. It feels like you are being fucked by another boy as you lie bare on my lap, and he is pushing it in and you are loving it and you are lost in Heaven because it feels so good; being controlled; being counterbalanced by another boy's cock in you, as he holds your hips, now." Like I was doing. Like I was pressing down now on his left buttock, as I stroked his right one. "Is it rosy, now, sir?" "Yes, Timmy, it is." From the fire alone. I could never hurt Timmy. He had been hurt a lot in his life. This was the only way he could grant himself expiation to make love with me. It was also much fun for both of us. I wished sometime he would ask if he could spank me. I never had been spanked as a boy. I now wish I had been. "Will you forgive me, now, sir?" "Depends on what you did to be such a bad boy." I rubbed the cool cream from the jar I had on the lamp table, into his buttocks, round and round with my hands. He always loved that because it was so cool and soothing "after my beating." He was rubbing now in earnest his little cock on my leg, as I held him with both arms, bent over deeply to hold him as he masturbated on me, hard and growing, as I pushed on his bare buttocks, " whispering, "come, baby, come for me, come for me hard hard hard" as I held him to my legs and my groin and abdomen, feeling the all of him as I could, as he rubbed a few more times, and then gave a huge relieved sigh, and a great dry cum. I had to get off, and soon. He trembled into a shudder on me. I held him in my arms. I said, after some time, while he had begun lying still again, "What did you do to be such a bad boy, young sir Twist?" "Well," he said, sleepily. And a long pause, as his left hand reached for my cock and started to tickle the tip of it. "Well, sir?" I prompted, stretching out my legs as he crawled off me and to the couch and lay with my cock in his face as he stroked it and I looked at his buttocks as he moved his rosy ass up and down for he knew that turned me on so. "Well, Timothy J. Bartheleme?" My words slipped as he tickled me. "You know that boy who's been giving me the business?" "Yes. Tommy." I paused. He drew away from me a bit. This was serious. Tommy was the school bully. And he loved to make treds on Timothy the most, because Timothy was the frailest and most scared of all the boys in school. "I---I^×hit him this morning. He threw a^×snowball---with a rock in it at me^×he clipped me^×and it made me so damned^×sorry, sir^×mad that I chased him down, threw him in the snow. I hit him," and Timothy said it in almost hectic antic terms, also terrible fear underneath, "right in the mouth and knocked a tooth out and his mother saw it and she called my mother and it's going to be awful--- don't make me go home." And he cried in my arms as I hugged him deeply and truly and felt his entire body tremble. I put my chin on the top of his warm hair. We would get through this somehow. We would get through this. He raised his face to me, as I kissed his eyes, one, two, then again. He was crying really hard now. "Timothy," I said, "listen to me. I am your friend now and forever. We'll run away if it gets bad, if you can't take it anymore. I'll protect you. I'll never let anyone hurt you." And he did something he had never done before. He raised up on his slender arms, with his thick black banded clock watch on his left wrist, lifted up on his arm and elbows and I saw his bony chest so tender, and he kissed me on the lips. First time ever. And I kissed him back. For a long time. He asked later if I would like to fuck him. He said he knew the position. That he had figured it out for himself. I thought, then, he has indeed been practicing. So he told me to get off the couch. I did, as he lay on his stomach on it and spraddled his legs and smiled bravely aside at me. Seeing his gentle body in silhouette in the dim orange light of the living room, in the crackle red gold of the fire, in the blue gray of the day coming through the thick curtains, I knelt to him, kissed the dimples above his hips, and then lay my face next to his. And said, "Now, let's just dream. That's for later. `K?" And Timothy, somewhat relieved, proving with me yet again, that he did not have to do any favors to keep a friend, said sleepily, "Can we build a snowman?" Drifting to sleep..I was sleepy too, and said "sure, Timmy, sure." He closed his eyes, and my arms were around him. I was groggy, but stayed awake. Him safe bundle boy within my arms. I protected him. And would. For as long as I could. And as long as I knew how.