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. Thank you.
This story is protected by the copyright conventions of the United States.
My stories are pure fantasy. In this case, a young, online friend made an observation during a recent conversation. In "real life", he said, a boy and a man could see each other daily and long to be with each other, but chances are, they'd never share those desires and almost certainly never act on them. This story asks a simple question: "What if they did?"
Those who wish to comment may email me at firstname.lastname@example.org
"Here's your mail, Mr. Spear," the young boy said. What a sweet voice. It reminded me of another voice―one that I'd first heard forty-two years ago. I smiled at the boy, a neighbor's son. His parents had urged him to take on the daily obligation of retrieving my mail for me, and he performed the task dutifully. As his reward, I held out an opened box of chocolates. He smiled up at me as he made his selection. At 90 years old, my heart can still stir at the sight of a cute boy. He held out the packet of mail. On the top was an odd-sized, colorful envelope. "Is it your birthday?" the boy asked. "Happy birthday!" He gave me a smile and then was on his way. I closed the door, set the mail in the tray of my walker, inched it around, and headed back into the living room.
I poked at the bits of mail, my fear building because I wasn't finding the one I longed to see. At first, I thought it was an idle fear, for in 29 years, it had always been in the pile. But this, the thirtieth one was missing. I trembled, and fell back into my chair. I leafed through the envelopes again. The clear, bold handwriting was missing. The stack of mail in my hands grew blurry in my glistening eyes. I squeezed them shut. It's just delayed, I told myself. He hasn't forgotten. He wouldn't... My mind drifted back to another time―a time when another, sweet, pure tenor voice had brought such joy to my life.
I put my phone to my ear. "Hey, Mr. Spear, it's Tyler," the voice said, "would you like me to shovel your driveway?"
"Sure, Tyler," I replied. "Come by anytime. I'll be looking for you." I smiled. Just the sound of his voice sent butterflies fluttering through me.
Tyler Brightman was four years old when I'd moved into my house twelve years ago. He wasn't a next door neighbor, but early on I'd caught sight of him playing with neighborhood boys. He wasn't the biggest boy of his age, but he was always a favorite to watch. He was all boy―no doubt about that: in the warm weather, he'd be on the ball field everyday; in the winter, he and his buds would clear off the ice on a little pond at the edge of the park and play hockey for hours. But what really kept him on my radar―aside from dimples to die for―was the sweet, innocent quality about him, even from the time he was four years old. It gave Ty a kind of purity that sets a boy apart from most kids. (And oh, yes, have I said he was cute as a button! His purity and innocence only added to that.) The truth was back in those first years, I didn't pay a lot of attention to him; he was decidedly younger than my interests, but I sometimes found myself fantasizing about the boy when he reached his teenage years. If his good looks held―and he seemed the sort of boy where that would be true―then I was sure he'd receive the attentions of every girl in the school (and, no doubt, a few furtive glances from a couple of boys as well).
When he was eight or nine, he came by the house one snowy afternoon. The doorbell rang, and there he stood, covered toe to head: heavy boots, dark blue snow pants, matching down jacket, hood pulled tight around his face so barely any features showed. One mittened hand hung at his side, the other held a snow shovel that was bigger than he was. What a vision! After a moment of awkwardness, he managed to get a question out: "Would you like your driveway shoveled?"
I chuckled, and was about to say, come back in four or five years, but something in those barely-visible, earnest, hazel eyes made me pause. I could see uncertainty in his look; I think he wasn't sure he was up to the task, but his unblinking gaze told me I couldn't give him the answer that had been on the tip of my tongue. "Tell you what, young man, how `bout we work at it together." He beamed, and it's a wonder that smile didn't melt every flake of snow for 20 miles! Instantly, I was in love. Oh my god, what a sweet boy, and though I'd seen him around the neighborhood for years, I realized it had mostly been from a distance. I didn't even know his name.
"So...partner," I said as he grinned at the thought, "perhaps we should introduce ourselves―since we're going to be a team." His wide eyes crinkled a bit, and his big, toothy grin told me I'd hit a chord.
"Tyler, sir," he answered like a little soldier. "Tyler Brightman. I live in that house down there." He jabbed his hand out, pointing to a house I couldn't see from my doorway, but I knew the house already.
"Well, Tyler," I said, extending my hand. He was so earnest, I had to work to keep my smile from becoming a gentle chuckle. "Nice to meet you. I'm Will Spear. And, by the way, I think I know exactly where you live."
His eyes widened. "You do!" He stuck out his soggy, snowy, mittened hand and grasped mine. Almost instantly, he realized what he'd done. "Sorry," he muttered, and quickly retracted his hand. I think his cheeks, rosy with the cold, pinked up even more as he struggled to yank off his mitten; then he reached out to me again. I smiled as a warmth flowed from his soft hand to mine. That such a touch could affect a body so. I was suddenly alive and tingling with expectation. He left his hand in mine as we shook, looking into each other's eyes. Eventually both of us seemed to sense if we kept shaking hands, this special moment we shared would instead become strange and awkward, and so we simultaneously―if reluctantly―broke our contact. I sighed; I couldn't help it. "And, by the way, this partnership?" I added, "How much is it going to cost me?" It's a question that can chill any relationship, especially if one of the partners is a child.
"Um...is five dollars okay?" he asked, and then quickly continued, "Like...an hour, I mean."
My smile stretched a bit more. I didn't know what the going rate for shoveling was, but I figured he was woefully undercharging for his services. "Tell you what," I said. "I think any partner of mine ought to be getting ten dollars an hour―pro rated."
A look of consternation flooded over his face. I watched as he tried to figure out that new phrase.
"Um...what's pro rated mean?"
"Well, if you work a full hour, it's ten dollars; if you work half an hour, then it'd be five dollars, fifteen minutes..."
"Two-fifty!" he beamed.
I smiled. Young Mr. Brightman, it seemed, was indeed a bright boy! "Exactly."
Then his eyes widened. "And two hours, twenty dollars!"
I nodded. Very bright, indeed.
That day seven years ago, I think my new buddy, Tyler, lasted just a little over an hour. That he could stick to it that long amazed me. I still gave him the twenty dollars. "We'll just put it on the account," I said when he protested.
We've shoveled a lot of snow since then―Tyler and I―and mowed a lot of grass, too. He was quite the businessman; over the years, his rate had increased to twenty-five dollars an hour, but truthfully, I was the one who pushed him to boost his fee. Though his other customers might not have appreciated it, Ty was worth every penny of it to me. Indeed, in those "negotiating sessions", I hope he learned something about the value of work, fairness, and his own sense of worth.
I smiled as I thought about the ritual that had evolved around that moment when I handed him the cash. Even now, the sixteen-year-old would protest the payment. "Remember, Mr. Spear," he'd say, "There's still that money on account." (Try as I might, I couldn't seem to get him to call me Will.)
And I'd say, "Let's just leave it there―'til next time."
He beams, a fine young man now, with smooth, clear skin, those hypnotic hazel eyes, that still cute button nose flanked by a few faint freckles and that always incredible, dimpled smile. (You could get lost in those dimples!) "Okay," he'd say, "but I won't forget." And he didn't.
The occasion of the most recent call was a storm that hit us hard, but nothing like what it did in the Midwest. There the governors of three states had already declared disasters and gotten promises of federal aid. The big storm had lost some of its punch by the time it got to us, and most of it passed to the north. It had started Friday night, and had pretty much ended by Saturday afternoon.
"My grandma's staying with me," Tyler announced as we began to work. After seven years, our roles had been reversed. I tidied up around the edges, and Ty ran the snowblower, a job he seemed to enjoy―manhandling that big piece of equipment.
"Where's your mom and dad?" I asked.
"They're marooned!" he said with a grin. "Out in Des Moines. May be there a week, my mom said. But really, it's not a big deal, cuz they'd probably be out there that long anyway. Dad says there's plenty for them to keep `em busy."
"Des Moines? What's in Des Moines?"
"My dad's uncle. He just died, and he only had my dad so...they're out there taking care of stuff. Mom says he was a real packrat."
"So your grandma's here," I summarized.
"Yep. She's cool! She's a great cook, Mr Spear! Makes an awesome pecan pie!" he added with a grin.
"Well," I replied, "maybe we ought to forget the shoveling and go straight back to your house!"
His eyes sparkled and never lost a beat playing along. "Well, if we went back now, we'd have to bake it ourselves; she's gone into the city with my aunt." He gave a sort of smirk as if to say, but we can go if you want.
"Oh, well," I said, "I guess you don't want any pie I'd try to bake."
"Me either," he said with a chuckle, and those dimples popped into place.
We had an easy relationship, Ty and I; it was an honest relationship, too. I smiled, thinking about the sound of "Ty and I". More than once, I'd grinned at that rhyme, at how we just seemed to fit together in that phrase: Ty and I. And how I fantasized that we would fit together in more than name alone. Often Tyler would be my last lingering thought as I drifted off to sleep (usually following an incredible session of self-pleasuring where he also played a prominent role). But in the cold light of day, I knew that would never―could never happen. Though I occasionally caught the boy gazing at me, it never seemed in "that way". I think he thought of me as another uncle, or perhaps a good friend. There was a bond between us; we both recognized it, I think, but it didn't include anything close to "sex".
I began to notice that special connection about four years ago. Tyler seemed to appear at my house at odd times. He'd always begin with a vague sort of, "Need anything done, Mr. Spear?" I was happy to have him around, but the first time it happened, I thought it was a little strange. Luckily, I answered, "sure," and invited him in. (Actually, there was never any luck involved. It was a sure bet: I'd never turn young Mr. Brightman away from my door!)
At one point I had asked him about other kids: friends. He'd said he didn't really have friends, and though he didn't seem particularly bothered by that, it caused me to wince. Such a wonderful boy! Why on earth wouldn't kids line up wanting to be his friend! Eventually, I finally understood that he simply liked being around me. It was really quite a revelation! This incredible, sweet boy actually wanted to "hang out" with me―a guy old enough to be his grandfather.
One day as we worked on getting that old snowblower tuned up for yet another season, he just blurted it out: "I really like being here with you."
I looked up at him and grinned. "Back a'cha!" I said.
"Really, Mr. Spear," he pressed, "you're not like most grownups. You really listen to me, and you don't go getting like all preachy `n stuff."
"Well, Ty," I replied, "I could say the same about you. I don't think you're like most kids. It's so easy to have a real conversation with you...so...I guess we're just two peas in a pod."
He grinned at that, and I fought an urge to tussle his short-cropped brown hair, but throughout our relationship―for that was how I'd begun to think of it―I'd studiously avoided touching him. Younger boys seemed to tolerate and even crave that fleeting contact, but I never felt I had permission to do that with Tyler, and now he was at an age where it would seem odd to offer that kind of contact. In truth (except for some frustration when I was especially horny) it was just fine. I valued the deep respect we had for one another, and I wanted to do nothing that might derail that. At any rate, I never had any sense that Ty thought of me in any way other than a good friend: someone he could confide in and trust, and as I said, in the light of day, that truly was enough for me.
We talked about all kinds of things, no topic was off limits―save one, and that was my choice. It was one that I struggled with again and again, and even at that, we talked about it (at least around the edges).
At thirteen and fourteen Tyler began to raise―timidly―questions about "girls". I was happy to respond with what little information I could share, but when issues of sexuality came up―and they did―I studiously avoided any reference to my own sexuality. Yes, I know I was denying myself, denying who I was, but I thought it best for Tyler. Deep down I was afraid I'd turn him away, scare him, and at that point, the thought of not having that young man coming into my life as often as he did was unbearable. In retrospect, I know now that was a denial of my very being, but it was also a disservice to Tyler; he deserved better than that from me: he deserved the truth.
I'll never forget the first time we talked about something sexual. He sat at the island in my kitchen as I poured some Cokes. He was playing with a piece of paper. As I thought about it later, I was sure it was all part of a plan he'd concocted. He was all of thirteen, maybe even younger.
"What's that?" I asked, turning back to him with the two drinks in hand?"
He reddened instantly. "Oh," he said, the word catching in his throat. "This?"
I grinned. "Yeah, that."
"Just a word I learned today in school," he responded, and then, reddening a bit more, added, "In Health."
Instantly I was on guard. "Oh?"
He looked down at the scrap and seemed to struggle with what to do with it. Finally, he slapped the slip of paper face down on the island, and gratefully grabbed the glass I offered.
I gave him a look, and he averted his eyes. Oh, I thought, this is going to be rich and rare!
"Well," I said after a pause that made him squirm. "You going to make me guess?" The red in his cheeks that had subsided now flooded back, making them redder than ever. "Ty," I said, "you don't have to tell me, you know. Up to you." I don't think that was the response he was hoping for.
"No," he squeaked. "It's okay." Slowly he reached out and pushed the paper scrap over to me. Holding him in my gaze, I picked it up, and turned it over. I'll never know how I managed not to burst out laughing, but I did.
"Interesting word," I said as noncommittally as possible.
"Yeah," he replied, or tried to reply, more accurately. After choking on the word, he just nodded.
"Masturbation." The word seemed to echo in the room when I said it out loud.
"Yeah," he breathed, averting his eyes.
"A perfectly good word," I said, and turned my attention to getting some cookies. Somehow I knew the conversation wasn't over.
"You know what it means?" he asked sounding somewhat incredulous. I turned to face him again, and I guess the smirk on my face told him I did. He reddened more, and slapped his forehead. "Dah," he breathed.
"Of course," I said, "and I bet you knew what it meant, too―even before your teacher told you; you just didn't know it had such a fancy name!" I grinned, and predictably, he reddened, and I knew I'd hit the nail on the head. "Jackin' off, jerkin' off, beating the meat, smokin' the bone, rubbing, doing it," I said. "Guys throughout the centuries all know what it is―even if they don't know the technical term for it!"
He gripped the glass of Coke with both hands so hard that I thought he was going to break it. His head looked like it was about to pop.
"Hey, Ty," I said softly. "It's okay. Breathe." I got the cookies on a plate and set them down between us. He grabbed one in a desperate swipe.
A long silence followed, but I could see he was working up to something.
"But it's wrong," he said, looking into my eyes, "isn't it?" This wasn't some theoretical question for my sweet boy, no, this was real life, and he desperately needed an answer.
"Why would you think that?" I asked as simply as I could.
"Well...it's...it's like dirty an' stuff. Like sex."
"Ty, did your folks tell you it was wrong?" I knew his parents a little, but with what I did know of them, I couldn't imagine them saying that to him; they seemed pretty enlightened. (And no guy, if he was being honest, would say that jacking off was bad!)
"No!" he responded, and then instantly added, "Well, when I was little, I remember my mom telling me not to touch myself down there."
He grew redder and looked down into his lap, which was hidden from my view. "You know," he whispered.
Now I reddened, and chuckled softly. "No, Ty," I grinned, "I figured that. I mean when. You know, like where were you when she said it?"
The boy rolled his eyes and groaned softly. "Ooohhhh." He looked back up at me. "At the playground, I guess. I was playing on the slide...an'...I dunno...I guess I was grabbin...you know...down there."
I shook my head at his shyness, but at the same time, I realized how difficult this must have been for him. He was―so to speak―in virgin territory.
"Ty, let's think about that for a sec. Think how that would look: a kid tuggin' at himself all the time."
He did think about it. "I guess...kind'a pervy or somethin'."
"Yeah, something like he's got a problem of some kind...like too-tight undies." I winked at him, and he grinned, thankful for a break in the tension.
"But a four-year-old grabbin' his privates in a public place is way different than being your age and finding the relief you need. Right?"
"Relief," he muttered, and looked up at me. I knew he wasn't convinced.
"Look, Ty," I began. "You've been growing a lot lately. Your body's changing." He blushed. "It's natural. It's inevitable. You can't do anything to stop it: You're changing." I smiled. "And, yeah, I noticed." He grinned and blushed some more. "And if you're taking Health," I continued, "then you probably know about hormones and all that."
He nodded, but grew more serious. "But, Mr. Spear, is it bad? You know...doing it?"
"Look, Ty, even little boys discover that playing with their penis is pleasurable." He blushed again at that secret word: penis! "But starting at puberty, your body starts sending out even stronger messages about the feelings in your genitals―you know what I mean by that, right?"
"It's a natural part of being a healthy male: your body starts producing sperm and hormones, and all those hormones create a need, a drive, for release. It's what nature intends." He seemed to be struggling to make that make sense. "So," I added, "if you ask me―and I guess you just did―is it wrong to masturbate? I guess I'd ask a different question: is it wrong not to? I think jacking off is just a natural part of being a guy."
I smiled. "Really."
I saw a sense of relief flow into him. His body actually seemed to lose some tension. Then, without missing a beat, he asked, "Do you do it?" Instantly, his eyes widened, and he sat bolt upright. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spear! I'm sorry... I shouldn't..."
"Tyler," I said sharply, stopping him in mid-sentence. A fearful look furrowed his forehead. "Ty," I said more softly, "It's not something I talk about with a lot of people, but of course I do...as often as I feel I need to."
The boy's hazel eyes widened. "Need to?" he breathed.
"Exactly," I replied. "I think your body sends your brain messages: take care of this!" I grinned. "And so I do."
"Wow," he whispered.
"Wow?" I repeated. "You think an old guy can't jack off like you young whippersnappers do?" I chuckled, and he smiled shyly. And then I think he really heard what I said. "Like you do." My question and his grin was an acknowledgement that he masturbated, and I knew he did.
He swallowed looking almost desperate. "You won't..." He paused. "I mean...like tell..."
I smiled as reassuringly as I could. "Ty, as far as I'm concerned what you do in private, is just that: private. It's no one's business but yours. Except―and there's an `except'―if I think something's going on that could harm you, then I'm going to talk to you about it―and maybe even with your parents."
"Like what?" I could see the concern growing in his face.
"Well...hmmm...if I started seeing evidence of depression, for example, that's not something people can usually deal with on their own, and if it's ignored, it can really lead to some heavy shit. To be honest, I don't think that would happen to you, but if it did, I'd want to be sure you got the help you needed. Okay?"
"Yeah," he said simply.
"But...let me also be clear: jacking off isn't one of those things...unless you build some sort of jackin' machine and all day long you're strapped up to that thing doing it nonstop!" I winked at him.
He swallowed hard again. "Mr. Spear?" I looked at him quizzically. "You can make a machine like that?"
I laughed out loud, I couldn't help it that time. "I suppose you could," I said, "but what d'you need one of those for when you've got two of these?" I held up both hands, shaping them as if they were fitting around a healthy dick, and grinned.
He grinned back, blushing a deep red, and seemed truly relieved. "Well," he said, gulping down his Coke, "I guess I better be going." He slipped down off the stool, and headed for the door, but stopped before he got to it. "Thanks, Mr. Spear!"
"No problem, Ty." He turned and headed for the door again. "Hey," I said, stopping him one more time, "You only had one cookie! Where're you headed in such a rush?" My grin stretched ear-to-ear. His deep blush heated up his cheeks and even tinged his ears. "Go on!" I said shooing him out the door. We both knew exactly where he was headed! "Enjoy yourself," I murmured as soon as the back door had slammed shut. I wondered if he realized I was headed to my bedroom at just about the same speed he was heading to his! I grinned. What a stimulating picture that created in my mind's eye.
I thought about that delightful conversation often, and in fact, now―while taking a break from cleaning off the driveway and walkways, we were once again in the kitchen. This time I was preparing some hot chocolate, and my mind was wandering back to that moment when my sweet boy was all knotted up about such an elemental part of being a male.
It was then that Tyler's cell phone went off.
"Is she okay?" I heard him say. "Yeah...okay, I'll call." He ended the call, and I could see the worry on his sweet face. "My grandmother fell in a store. She's in the hospital. They think she may have a broken hip."
"Oh, Ty, I'm so sorry," I answered. "Do you want to go to the hospital?"
"I don't know yet. Aunt Sarah wants me to call my mom. She said I might have to go stay with her and Uncle Frank." He shook his head. "Man, that'll suck!" Then he looked up at me: "Sorry, Mr. Spear...but it kind'a will. I've got exams this week." He fell silent for a moment, then resumed. "Maybe I could stay with a friend...or..." He brightened, and looked up at me.
I was truly lost. I had no idea what he was thinking. "Ty?"
"Or...no, I guess that'd be too..."
Sheepishly he said, "Well, I was thinking I could stay with you."
Instantly my heart raced. "If that'd work for you. And your folks. It's fine with me."
"Really!" he exclaimed. "That'd be awesome!"
"Well...give your mom a call. If she's open to the idea, I'll be happy to talk with her.
After a call that lasted 15 minutes, it was settled. Tyler would be staying with me until his folks could return from Des Moines. He called his aunt back and let her know he, his mom, and I had solved the problem of where he would be staying. She was so grateful; with Ty's grandmother in the hospital, she had more than enough on her plate.
I don't think I'd ever seen the boy so animated. He seemed almost giddy at the prospects of spending a few days with me. (Needless to say, the feeling was mutual!) His questions came in machine gun fashion: Where will I sleep? Do you need any help getting anything ready? Should I get my sleeping bag? And on and on. His excitement left me breathless!
"Maybe I should go to my house and get some clothes and stuff."
"Sure," I said, and suggested he might want to turn back the thermostat some since the house was going to be empty for a while.
Then he was on his way out the door. "Oh," he said, pausing at the doorway. "Should I finish the driveway first?"
I waved him on. "No, go ahead. Get your stuff, and when you get back, we can finish it up."
He was off in a flash. About a half-hour later, he was back, with a backpack, and a large canvas sports bag. In one hand he held a bunch of mail. "The letter carrier was late because of the snow," he announced, offering me the packet of envelopes. On top were two or three of odd sizes and colors. "Something special?" he asked, nodding toward the envelopes.
"No, not really," I said. In fact, it was my birthday, but I hadn't celebrated that uninspiring event in nearly twenty years. What Tyler had seen was the sum and substance of any recognition at all that I'd reached my sixtieth year. My two sisters and a cousin were the few and the faithful. It might have been different if we'd lived closer together, but we didn't, so a card would have to do. But the truth was it was quite enough for me.
I threw the mail on the island, and he set his kit down in the corner.
Together we moved out to attack the remainder of the driveway. It shouldn't have taken long to finish up the driveway, but within a minute of restarting the snowblower, it stopped, and no amount of coaxing it could get it started again. "Well, Ty, maybe it's time to get a new one. This thing is older than you are―by a good five or six years!"
"Wow!" he exclaimed.
"But, for now, I'm afraid we've got to drag it back into the garage, and do the rest by hand."
"No problem, Mr. Spear!" he said.
In an hour we'd pretty much finished up the work. I was amazed at the boy's strength and stamina. I think I've said he was never the biggest boy for his age. At sixteen years old, that was still true. He'd told me recently, he was five feet, five inches tall. I think that might have bothered him a little, but to my eye, he had a perfectly proportioned body; it was compact: tight with solid muscle. Perfect!
The snow that day wasn't the heaviest, nor was it the light fluffy stuff, but it never slowed him down. That day, like all the days Ty was around, I was impressed with his work ethic, and the strength of that lithe body.
By the time we'd gotten back inside, it was pretty dark and close to 5 o'clock. He hung up his jacket in the closet and then found me looking through the cabinets in the kitchen. "You hungry?" I asked.
"Yeah, kind `a. You?"
"I'm gettin' there, that's for sure. I was thinking...I'm not sure how much food I've got in the house. Maybe we should get some take-out or go somewhere. Actually, I thought if we ate early, maybe we could drive into the city and you can see your grandma."
"That'd be really nice," he said, and continuing to hold me in that hazel stare, added, "Thank you, Mr. Spear. I mean it, really...thanks. Thanks for everything." He seemed genuinely touched by my offer. He was so sweet in that moment that I wanted to pull him to me and give him a big hug, and to tell you the truth, I think he wanted to do the same, but we failed to act on our shared impulse, and the moment passed.
"Okay, then..." I said, trying to recover, "You like Mexican?"
"Awesome. My fav!"
I grinned. "That was easy!"
Then, in a classic guy move, he lifted his arm and sniffed his pit. "Ummm, if we're going out, maybe I should take a shower?"
My smile stretched. "Wha'da'you mean if we're going out! So it'd be alright to stink up my place if we were eating here! Eeeooww!"
He looked mortified. I grinned all the more. It was so easy to fool with him. "No," he said. "I meant..." Then he recognized I was fooling with him. Without really thinking about it, I reached out and jabbed my fingers into that same armpit he'd sniffed. His t-shirt was damp with perspiration. A peal of laughter tore from his throat at my attack. "Don't!" he gasped, "I'm really ticklish there!"
"A-ha!" I interjected triumphantly. "A dangerous thing to admit!" My grin had stretched from ear-to-ear. I attacked again, and he giggled like a little boy and pulled back, trying to escape. I relented, and then as a kind of punctuation to our fun, brought my hand to my nose and breathed in his strong scent. "Eeeoowww!" I repeated. "Stinky boy! Get yourself into that shower, and pronto―or else we'll have the Board of Health in here closing me down!"
We laughed some more. It was wonderful seeing him so carefree and relaxed. "There're towels in the guest bathroom; your room is just beyond it." He picked up his stuff, and headed for the bedroom. "I'll probably do the same," I offered. "I'm a little stinky myself."
As I was rummaging around in my bedroom, I heard him step into the bathroom, and it was then I remembered the bed wasn't made in the guest room, so I grabbed some sheets and headed into Tyler's room. I quickly pulled back the spread and blankets, put the fitted sheet on, and opened up the top one. I snapped it full open in the space above the bed, and when it drifted down, I was startled to see Ty stepping into the doorway. He froze, as did I. He was clad only in his underpants, tighty-whities. In all the years I'd known him, I couldn't recall ever seeing him even without a t-shirt, and certainly not anything as revealing as briefs. In the summer, he always wore those baggy calf-length board shorts, and in the winter, jeans.
I was mesmerized. He was beautiful. Perfectly proportioned. His belly was a taut...hmmm, not six pack exactly, perhaps more like a four-pack. Except for a hint of downy hair on his arms and legs, he appeared hairless and smooth. I could barely see any hint of a blemish anywhere on his body. His near-nakedness only served to emphasize his regal up-stretched neck, with just the hint of an Adam's apple. His legs were strong and straight. And really for the first time in all these years, I was getting a glimpse of his marvelous boy-package. His briefs were nicely filled with what seemed like a good-sized set of balls, and nestled over them, a large bunch. Those briefs, glowing white, seemed to attract me, as a light attracts a moth. I don't know how long I was held in their thrall, but at one point I thought I saw a slight change in what was hidden from my eyes―a lengthening, an enlarging. I felt a similar stirring at the base of my own belly.
I forced myself to blink, and look up into his eyes, which were already locked onto mine.
"I just..." "I just..." We spoke simultaneously; we both spoke the same words; we both stopped at the same time.
"I...um...forgot my toothbrush."
I swallowed, forcing my eyes back onto my work. "Yeah, and I remembered I needed to get sheets on your bed."
"I can do that, Mr. Spear."
I looked back up at him, forcing my gaze on his face. "No problem. Almost done." I began tucking in the sheet on one side of the bed. He quickly stepped to the other side, knelt, and began doing the same. We pulled the blanket and sheet back up over the bed. "Hey," I said as he stepped to his sports bag which was just a few feet from me. He crouched down, and my eyes savored the gentle curve of his back. My eyes drifted over each bump of his spine, until I reached those pure white undies. This time I beheld the outline of two wondrous mounds of firm boy flesh. "You better get back in there; you'll be freezing to death." He stood now with his toothbrush and a few other toiletries.
"Oh, it's not cold." He stepped closer to me. "Just a little on my back. See?"
In my daze, his words finally registered. He wanted me to feel for myself. I reached around, and my hands (O, such unworthy instruments to touch perfection!) settled lightly onto his smooth, exquisitely soft shoulder blades. They seemed, in my dazed state, to be the wing buds of the youngest of angels. At that touch I'm sure I trembled, and I think so did Ty. Then―even now I have moments when I think it must have been a dream―unbelievably, he set his toiletries down on the bed and then he moved even closer to me until I felt his arms wrap around me. He laid his head against my chest. Impelled by nature, I suppose, if not my own need, I lowered my hands down along his back. His body was indeed warm, whereas mine, I was certain, must be covered in goose bumps―not because I was cold, but because I trembled with the knowledge that I held in my embrace, the sweetest boy I'd ever known. When my fingers touched the band of his briefs, I stopped, though it took every bit of willpower not to continue on and cup those delicious mounds of boy flesh. I sighed, releasing the air that I'd been holding since he'd pressed his body to mine.
"Mmmmmmm." I thought I heard the softest sigh coming from him, but I couldn't be sure. Hell, I was sure of nothing in these moments―nothing except I never wanted it to end. But I knew it had to.
"Ty," I said softly into his thick hair. He lifted away, and looked up at me. My memory of those moments is that he seemed vulnerable, uncertain, longing, knowing―all these things wrapped up into one sweet face. "I think we better get going, or we'll never get our enchiladas."
"Yeah," he breathed, and though I wasn't sure if my ears were playing tricks or not, I thought I detected just a note of disappointment.
He stepped away, turned and headed for the door. "Tyler," I called with still-shaking voice. He turned, and I gestured to the bed. "Toothbrush," I said.
"Oh. Right." He blushed and grinned, and stepped to the bed, and then was off again, but not before turning again, and softly offering a sweet, "Thanks, Mr. Spear."
In my own bedroom, I sat dumbly on the bed. What just happened?" I asked myself. I was still trembling as I replayed those incredible moments. I tried to recall everything that had assaulted my senses as Tyler pressed against me. I tried to recapture the feel of his supple skin in my hands, the gentle rising and falling of his breaths, the shallow valleys between each rib bone, the smooth plane of his lower back, the warmth of his breath on my chest, his scent, the softness of his hair on my chin, his arms locked around my torso, his hands―fingers splayed―pulling me into him, the press of his body against mine. Slowly, more than my mind, it was my body that recalled one more sensation: his young flesh caressing my thigh, and I trembled all the more as the memory of his strengthening boyhood pressed in on me. Sitting there on the bed, I wondered if he'd been aware of the effect he was having on me―that he was still having on me. My penis throbbed in the constraint of my jeans. What just happened?" I asked myself for the hundredth time.
It had been a quiet supper except for the noise of the other customers―oh, and the mariachi band that was wandering from table to table. But Tyler was quiet, and so was I. Normally when he was quiet, I'd work extra hard to draw him out, but tonight, both of us seemed lost in our own thoughts. In truth, I suspect we were both stuck in that brief moment of embrace, but neither knew quite how to talk about it―especially with a trumpet and guitarrón next to our ears.
We weren't at the hospital long; at first the nurses weren't even going to let Tyler in, but with a little convincing from him, me, and his aunt, they relented. I stayed in the waiting room, and after a few minutes, Ty and his aunt returned.
"She says she's doing okay," Ty said.
"Well, Grandma's a trouper that's for sure," Aunt Sally said reassuringly. "As your grandfather used to say, `She's a tough old bird.'"
Tyler managed a hint of a smile at that.
"She's in the best hospital in the state," I added. "So I'd say she's in good hands."
Ty's aunt agreed with that, and the boy seemed to relax some.
By 8:30 we were back home. Like the dinner, the ride to and from the hospital had been quiet. We had, it seemed, a lot on our mind. "I could get a fire going in the fireplace," I volunteered, and then maybe watch a movie or something."
"Cool," Tyler said, though he didn't entirely convince me. Once we had gotten into the house, I asked which movie he'd like to see, he couldn't seem to decide. Finally he looked over at me. "Umm...what if...we just listened to some music?"
"We could do that...though you sure you want to listen to Lawrence Welk?"
He gave me a look. "You don't listen to that!" he said with a hint of a grin. "You're old," he said, "but you're not that old!"
I wanted to poke him in the ribs, but after what had happened earlier, I wasn't sure that was the right thing to do.
"I've got some music," he offered, and off he when to his bedroom. I stoked the fire a bit, and by then, he'd returned and was hooking his iPod up to my system. He selected some new-age-sounding music―really minimalist―and we settled down on the sofa. I wondered where all this was leading. Tyler was clearly calling the shots, and I figured I'd just wait to see how it all played out. I liked the music he'd selected; it was easy to listen to, and it seemed to calm any sense of unease I might have been feeling. "My grandma's going to be okay, right?"
"Well, Ty, it sure seems like it," I offered. "We can all hope and pray, anyway."
"Yeah," he breathed, and then settled back into the soft fabric of the sofa. We both gazed at the fire. I longed to know what was on the boy's mind, but I was determined I was not going to ask. It was a long time in coming, but finally, he was ready. With eyes still set on the fire, he spoke softly, his words catching in his throat. "What we did this afternoon..." He paused.
I knew exactly what he was talking about, of course, but I decided I wanted a little lighter tone―at least initially. "Shoveling out the driveway, you mean?"
He shot me a look, then rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Not exactly," he mumbled with a grin. "Later."
"Trying to fix the snowblower?" I asked thickly.
"Later," he repeated.
"In the bedroom," he said, looking skyward.
"Ohhh..." I said. "That."
"I know you know," he said.
I grew more serious now, and I nodded. "Yes, Ty. It's been on my mind, too."
He had turned from the fire to me, and we held each other in our gazes.
"It was really...awesome," he said.
He turned back now to the fire, and we must have sat there for another ten minutes in soft glow of the fire and the gentle strings of the music.
"I want to do it again." The words hung out there like your breath on a cold day. I felt my body tighten as Tyler turned to me. Something in me said, No; don't do this, but for the life of me, I couldn't come up with a reason that overpowered all the reasons I could think of that were screaming, yes! On the plus side the biggest reason was that my sweet boy had asked. It was that simple, and while the results of that simple request might be anything but simple, I could not refuse him.
I held out my arms. He seemed to be paralyzed for a moment; somehow I think now it was because he understood exactly that this simple action―his request, my response―would set something into motion that neither of us could have anticipated. His paralysis lasted only an instant, and then he hitched himself closer until I could pull him to me. He wrapped one arm around my shoulder, the other around my chest. He lowered his head to my chest and I felt his weight and his warmth on my body. My arms wrapped around his torso, and I felt him settle into me.
A deep sigh slowly escaped from his sweet lips. My mind raced with conflicting arguments: How right this was; how wrong this was. One thing I knew for sure, one thing we both knew for sure: this would change the relationship that had grown over the past twelve years. The only problem was, I didn't know if it would change it for the better or for the worse. With a soft, sardonic breath, I thought about those words: "for better or for worse". How many weddings had I been to and heard those same words. I held my boy tight, and stretched my chin downward, covering his short, soft hair like a cap. My fear, my terror, was that what we were doing would destroy what was so precious to me. But, I argued, this is so pure, so innocent, so right. How could simply holding each other be anything but a sign of our shared need to be with each other?
Then, in another instant, I knew. We'd lain embraced in each other's arms for twenty minutes, or was it an hour and twenty minutes? It was long enough for the fire to die down, and the cool of the air closed in on us. The music had ended, too.
"Maybe," I said softly, "I should build up the fire again."
"Okay," Tyler whispered. He eased his grip of my body, and slipped off me. "I'll put on some more tunes."
"Okay," I echoed.
With the first few notes of the music, I started. I knew that music. Was this some trick that my ears were playing on me?
"Is this okay?" he asked.
"Brideshead Revisited," I said.
He nodded. "You know it?"
I smiled. "The soundtrack," I said simply.
"Yeah, I love it. I listen to it all the time," he answered.
I hadn't heard that music in 30 years. It had been a sort of soundtrack for a very special relationship I'd had. When Zach had left, I put the album away and never listened to it again. Now, in one instant, it was as if that music had been born anew―fresh and alive in my ears.
"Grandma told me about it," he continued. "She had it on an old CD."
"I think somewhere I have it on an old LP."
"LP?" he asked, and I smiled.
"Stands for `Long Playing'," I said. "A record. Vinyl. A large flat black plastic platter. With one long groove. Plays on a phonograph."
"Wow," he said cheekily, "The kind with the big horn and you have to crank up by hand?" He looked over at me, smirking.
"That, my young friend," I said, grabbing him, "deserves a response." Holding him with one hand, I began tickling him mercilessly.
"Stop! Stop!" he squealed amid peals of breathless laughter.
Rather than pulling away from me, he pressed himself against me, and I had no choice but to cease my torment, and then he did what could only be called snuggling: he snuggled up against me, looked into my eyes and tightened his embrace. Again long minutes passed. "Can we go back to the sofa?" Ty asked finally. We did. I sat down and he next to me, then he twisted and leaned into me again.
"Oh Ty," I breathed into his sweet hair, "what's happening to us?"
He just sighed; that was his only response for the moment. Then he asked, "Can I ask you something?" His tone was almost dreamy―or at least it was one of utter contentment.
He lifted away, twisted around, and crossed his legs "Indian fashion". He gazed into my eyes, bit his lip, and trembled with uncertainty. "I'm afraid," he whispered.
"Of what, Ty?"
"I don't know..." Then he thought better of that. "I do know." He swallowed. "I'm afraid I'm going to mess everything up."
Now I turned, drew my leg up and pulled him onto me. "You could never, never do that, Ty. Nothing you could say or do would mess anything up." I wanted to reassure him, to encourage him, but the truth was, I was as afraid as he was. I'd promised myself I'd never presume to take him to a place he didn't want to go, and yet, here I was doing exactly that. I was afraid I was taking him too far into my fantasy world, too close to the world of lovers, and now that I had, I waited, heart pounding, for him to say he couldn't, that this wasn't what he wanted. Deep in my thoughts a single sentence crashed into my consciousness: "I'm not a fag, Mr. Spear." Oh my God in heaven, those words would devastate me―not that he would say them, but that I would force him into a place where he would feel it necessary. And yet, forcing myself on a young boy, I shouldn't be surprised at such rejection. Why, I screamed inside my head, Why did I ever start this?
"This is what gay people do," he said simply, softly. "Isn't it?"
I closed my eyes, and I think probably a tear fell down my cheek. "Oh, Ty, I...I..." I swallowed hard, trying to gather my composure. "This is what two people do who love each other."
He held me in his soft, liquid gaze. He didn't speak, though I thought I noticed the slightest, nearly imperceptible nod. He sighed. "But we're two guys," he mumbled, and dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry," he said softly. I thought I saw a tear spill from his eye as well. He began to turn. "I shouldn't have... I thought... I'm sorry."
I reached out and touched his arm. He stopped, and turned back again to face me. "Why, Tyler? What's wrong?"
"I'm wrong!" he moaned. "I'm all wrong!"
"Ty," I said, pulling him to me. He resisted, but finally relented. Still, though I had my arms wrapped around him, his arms hung at his sides. "You could never be wrong! Not any part of you! You are an incredible human being! You fill my life with such joy!"
He looked up at me with glistening eyes. "Mr. Spear," he moaned, "I'm not like you...I'm not like other boys. I want to be with you...like..." He stopped, shook his head and swallowed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spear. I like boys, men. I shouldn't have tried to..."
He stopped, or at least I think he stopped. My head was spinning, my heart pounding. He could have kept talking for all I know, but I wasn't listening. "Ty...Ty...Ty..." I breathed over and over. And then I was lifting away from him enough to see his pain-wracked face. "Ty," I breathed, and closing my eyes, I leaned into him and kissed away his tears. I could feel his heat, taste the salt of his tears, smell his essence. "Ty," I repeated, lifting away from him again, "I need you to listen very carefully. Okay?"
"There's something I should have told you long ago. But I was afraid. You are so important to me, Tyler Brightman. I don't think I can even begin to explain how important you are to me. My heart soars when you are near me. But, like you, I was afraid if I told you that, if I told you how much I loved you, I'd scare you away."
The boy sat there unmoving, blinking, barely breathing. "Love me?" he murmured.
"Yes, Ty," I answered. "But I need you to hear something else, too: I'm gay."
Young Tyler Brightman stiffened and stretched ramrod straight. His mouth literally dropped open. "You're..." he began, and then stopped. "...like me," he breathed.
He exploded onto me, knocking me backwards onto the sofa. One hundred, twenty pounds of firm, lithe boy lying on top of me. "Oh, Mr. Spear!" he sighed.
"Tyler, don't you think it's time you started calling me Will?"
"Will," my sweet boy breathed with a tremulous voice, "you said loved me." He lifted his head off my chest and scooted up over my body until his face hovered over mine. "Really?" he asked again.
I gazed into his face that seemed to glow with a fire of its own: soft and pure, open and expectant. I lifted my hand to his cheek, and as I'd done so many times in my dreams, I stroked his velvety-smooth skin. I smiled gently, then taking his head in my hands, I lowered him as I lifted my head away from the sofa. I felt him tremble as our lips drew closer to each other. His eyes drifted shut. The first touch was so fleeting. Like the lightest breeze on the first warm day of spring. We parted for just the briefest of moments, and then our lips touched again, and lingered, and savored the warmth and firmness of the other. Oh, heaven's sweet bliss! We broke again, and again leaned in, hungry for more contact. This time, braver, perhaps, he mashed his lips against mine. He sighed, and we kissed again and again. We broke again, and he nearly groaned and then rolled over to lie next to me, blankly staring up at the ceiling.
"I can't believe it," he murmured to no one in particular, and I smiled, sharing his utter contentment.
"Neither can I, Tyler." I leaned over and stroked his face once more, this time with the backs of my fingers. So exquisitely soft, I shivered at the touch. "Neither can I."
"Yes?" I said softly.
"How come you didn't know?"
"That I was gay. I read these stories on the Internet―Nifty stories―and they always talk about `gaydar'."
"Guess mine wasn't working too well."
"Mine either. I used to go home from being with you and...well...think about what it would be like if you were...like me. And when I..." His face grew a bit rosier. "...you know, when I...did it, I imagined you doing it to me."
I smiled, touching my finger to his lips. "I do the same thing, Ty."
He grinned a huge grin. Just the thought of that must have had an effect, because he reached down and adjusted his jeans; then, seeing where I was looking, grinned again. "Will," he breathed, "we don't have to just pretend now."
"Oh, Tyler," I said. "That's a huge step."
My sweet boy suddenly darkened a bit. It almost seemed as if he'd heard my words as a rebuke. "Ty, I...agree with you..."
I drew my finger along his face, gently tracing the strong line of his jaw and chin. Then I lowered my fingertip underneath his chin, and down his neck to the edge of his t-shirt to that soft indentation just above his sternum. "But, it will change the way we are together."
"I want that to change! I've wanted you to...do things with me from the time I started knowing I was different."
I nodded. "How long have you known, Ty?"
He turned some and lifted up, resting on his elbow. "For a long time," this sweet sixteen-year-old murmured. I stifled a smile, because for him, it might well have been a long time. "Since I was twelve or maybe thirteen." He paused for an instant. "Remember when I asked all those questions about girls an' stuff?"
"I always hoped you'd say girls weren't for every boy, that some boys like boys. Then I could have told you, but..."
"I know, Ty. It was just too risky for me."
"I'd sort of rehearse telling you," Tyler said, "but then I'd chicken out. I'd imagine you saying, `That's a wicked sin' or something and telling me to get out and never come back." A tear welled up in his eye. I leaned in, and his eye closed, and I kissed his soft eyelid, and kissed away his tear.
"We were both thinking that, it seems," I breathed. "I couldn't bear the thought of not having you around."
"Well," he said and then paused for a beat. "I'm here now."
I gathered him in my arms and pulled all of his 120 pounds onto me. "Yes, you are," I whispered into his ear. "Ty, we're in two different places in our life journeys. You're 16; I'm...well...can I let you in on a little secret?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"Today's my birthday. I'm 60."
"Your birthday! Why didn't you tell me! I didn't get you anything!"
"It's okay, Ty. Really. Being with me: that's all the gift I need." If I'd heard anyone else say something like that I'd probably have smirked, but it was exactly what I felt in those moments. There was more I needed to say: things that wouldn't be so easy. "Ty, that journey we're on? We are in different places. Things are different for us. You see things from the start of your journey; I see things as I'm―well―from a good ways down the road. When I think about being with you, my heart soars." He smiled at that, those lovely dimples framing his sweet mouth. "But," I continued, "I also see all the potential detours or pitfalls in the road along the way."
"I know, Mr..." He caught himself. "I know, Will. I know about some of them...maybe not all of them, but some of them. I know I can't ever tell anybody. Even though it's legal. It is. I've looked it up on the Internet: the age of consent is 16 here, but I also know people wouldn't understand." He let his hand rest on my neck. "I'd never do anything to get you in trouble."
I smiled. "Thank you, Ty. That's one thing―a big thing, but it's not the most important, or the hardest to explain. I have fantasies about you..."
Me,too!" he interrupted. "I imagine that we'll be together forever."
"But that's really the problem, Ty. When I really think about how much I love you, I know it can't be like that." I felt him stiffen; his hand on my neck stopped its gentle swirls.
"Because, imagine what that would be like? Thirty years from now, you'd just be 46, but I'd be 90. Tyler, I want to be with you so much, but I also want you to keep heading along your journey. You'll come to turns where I can't go."
"But why?" He was growing more upset, and it hurt me so that I was hurting him, but he needed to understand how much I loved him.
"Because you have your whole life to live. And if you are with me, you'll be going down my roads, not yours. Tyler, I want you to get married and even have children. There's so much waiting for you!"
"But..." I could see the confusion in his eyes.
"With a man," I said. "A life-mate: someone who can grow old with you...not someone who's already old."
"But I want to be with you."
"Yes, I know. And I want to be with you, my love. But I can't bear the thought of you..." I stopped. "I could see he wasn't ready for this. I shifted, and rolled over so he was now underneath me. I looked down at him. He was confused. "Tyler," I said, "I never want our relationship to hold you back. It would kill me if I thought that was happening. What's most important to me, what's always been important to me―is being with you as you become the man you are meant to be. I always want to be there...to urge you forward―urge you along that road, to cheer when you excel, to hold you in despair, but you must live your life fully. I know that doesn't make sense right now, but someday it will. And when it comes, I want you to make the right choice―for yourself...because that will be the right choice for me as well. Then you will need to turn to me and hold me tight, give me a kiss, and I will release you to go be who you need to become. I never want you to forget me, but I want you to promise me, now, that when that moment comes, you will take that road that beckons you."
It was too big a burden to put on such a young boy. How could he possibly understand what had taken me 60 years to understand? And so I shouldn't have been surprised at his reaction: "I'm sorry," he said, with tears streaming down his face. And he pushed out from under me, stood up, and raced into his room.
I sat there frozen with fear. I damaged the very thing that was important to me. I should have known. He's just a boy, I thought. You should have known!
The fire finally had died to just a dim glow of a few embers. I had run the argument around in my head a dozen times. I'd either make it worse, or I'd make it better. For better or worse. I hoped I'd get it right, this time.
"Tyler." I stood in the doorway of his bedroom. He lay prone on the bed, his face buried in the pillow. "Ty," I whispered. There was no reaction. I stepped to the bed, and sat down. Haltingly, I placed my hand on his back, and slowly, lightly rubbed my hand up and down from his shoulders to his pants. I felt him stiffen at my touch. "Ty," I repeated. "I'm sorry. I really messed things up." I continued to move my hand over his t-shirt. I swallowed. "I just love you so much."
I heard his muffled words between sobs. "How can you? You're so much older than me."
My hand stopped stroking his back, and I felt the sting of his words. And I began to understand the pain I had caused him. My tear spilled onto his shirt, darkening the spot where it fell.
Then he lifted his head, and turned it away from me. "I'm sorry," he breathed, his words echoes of my own. "I didn't mean it."
"Then tell me what you mean."
He rolled over, then, and looked up at me through red-rimmed eyes. "I love you."
"I know," I whispered.
"And I know you love me."
"I do," I nodded.
He sat up now. "Don't you think I know that we're different―with ages. There's stuff I just don't talk to you about, because it's kid stuff, and why should you know about that? It's not even that important, anyway. But I talk to you about the important stuff." He searched my eyes. "Will, don't you think I know I won't always be here with you?" Tears spilled from his eyes, and he wiped at them. "I know that, Will...and I know what you said is true...but that's not today."
I swallowed hard and nodded slowly.
"It's not today, Will. And I don't want to think about it today. Not now. Not here. Okay?" He snuffed once and wiped his tears again.
"Okay," I whispered.
"I know that poem from Robert Frost. About the road not taken. We studied it in school. I know roads turn and split and go in different directions. But right now, we're on the road together. Right, now, Will." He looked at me a while longer, then lay back down and rolled over.
I resumed stroking his back, and whispered, "I know, Ty." I thought about what he'd said, and I nodded at the truth of his words. Maybe I'd been right in what I was saying to him, but I'd been wrong in when I'd chosen to say it. "You're right, Ty," I breathed.
I glanced down and saw the classic lines of manhood outlined by his shirt: his tapering sides narrowing to his waist, his muscled arms filling―mostly―the sleeve of his t-shirt. I slipped my hand under the bottom of his shirt, and again felt him tense. I could feel his muscles tightening under my touch. "You're right, Ty..."
I lay down next to him, and whispered in his ear, "...we are together now." And I felt some of the tension drain from his body. My fingers drifted lightly over his skin. It was like the finest velvet, creamy and smooth and warm. I leaned in closer―close enough that I could feel his warmth. My hand continued to explore. I glanced down, gazing upon those two firm mounds covered by his jeans. I trembled, and at the same time he sighed. As my hand wandered over the flat plains, the shallow valleys and gentle hillocks of his back―all the time softly raising and falling with his breath―I moved his shirt up higher exposing his back. I shifted my position, leaned into him, and planted a soft kiss on his back. He shivered when I did that, and drew in a slow breath.
"Do you want me to continue?" I whispered in hot breaths in his ear.
"Mmmmm," he sighed, along with a slight nod. He lay there, barely moving.
I slid my hands up along his sides, catching the bottom of his shirt with my thumbs. "Lift," I said quietly, and slipped the shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. The smooth, silky skin of his back was mesmerizing: every bump of his spine, every ripple of rib, the gentle tapering of his sides, the up lifting of his shoulder blades, the flat plain of the small of his back, finally, just the hint of two rising mounds of flesh covered still by his jeans. I leaned in and kissed every square inch, ending at the edge of his pants. While my mouth was so occupied, my hands traced along the edges of his body, and down his arms, so smooth, yet firm: perfectly shaped, tight, bulging biceps. Ahh, sweet gods of Olympus, how I savored his texture, his scent, his taste, his warmth, the sound of his sigh as I attended to his need.
I lifted away now, and drew my hand upward, finding his ear, and tracing its delicate swirls. How delightful. I glanced down to his back once more, endeavoring to memorize its sensual topography. I permitted myself one last pleasure: My hand traced lightly down his spine, across his lower back, and onto his jeans, coming to rest there, the spread of my hand embracing one of his firm, muscled cheeks. I sighed, feeling the heat that emanated from that place. I heard in that moment a divine sound, a soft mewing coming from the boy himself. It was not a whimper exactly, and not a sigh; rather some small animal sound of contentment. I was pleased I was having such an effect on him.
I reached out now, and gently grasped his arm, and lifted him and rolled him over. His exposed front was every bit as perfect as his back. A quick glance down to his jeans showed me that he had found my attention quite arousing. But I would wait on that lovely surprise package. His angelic face was flush with expectation. Those hazel eyes sparkled in anticipation as he looked up at me. His chest and belly was absolutely devoid of any hair. He was as smooth as a baby's bottom. His pecs were nicely muscled mounds, and toward the bottom of each, a rosy chisel point of dark flesh was surrounded by a lighter-colored, nickel-sized base.
I leaned in and kissed his sweet face: his cheeks, his button nose, his forehead, his succulent lips. When our lips touched, he reached up and tugged my head closer to his. He was hungry for that contact, and he did not relent, growing more and more desperate by the moment it seemed. I debated pressing open his lips with my tongue, but I opted instead to break from him, and kiss my way down his neck. Then I kissed lightly over each of his firm pecs, finally coming to his firm nipples. There I extended my tongue, and prepared to give his small nipples a treatment he'd not soon forget. He actually gasped when my tongue found a nipple (the first of many such gasps that night). I sucked hard on that tiny morsel, and toyed with it until it grew into a miniature, outcropping of iron ore. His easy breaths ratcheted up a notch, and I smiled at the effect I was having on his young body. Then I turned my attention to his other nipple, teasing it until it responded as nature intended.
My hand was not idle during this time, either. I traced lightly down over his belly, savoring the delicious warmth and the smooth, firm flesh. As my touches awakened him, I felt gentle risings of muscle emerge from the flat plain of his silky stomach. I found that delightful swirl of belly button, and toyed with that for a moment before my hand drifted casually ever closer to the seat of his need. I was anticipating the edge of his jeans, and when it appeared, I stopped, letting my fingernails ever-so-lightly trace along to top of the fabric. Poor Ty was so desperate, so in need, he vibrated with expectation. It seemed to overcome him now, and suddenly I felt his hand on mine. He tugged at it, dragging it over the front of his pants, now stretched tight by the swollen boy package hidden beneath the stiff fabric. As if possessing its own capacity for thought, my hand opened automatically, extending over the sizeable bulge. Still not satisfied, Tyler lifted his bottom and pressed himself upward, hard against my hand that now cupped his considerable teen treasures.
I forced my hand to be passive; I did not want to rush. Instead, I lifted away from my tongue work on his nipples and returned to his mouth. He was hungry as ever, and eager. I kissed him again and again and again. Unlike earlier, this time I extended my tongue, first lightly tracing along the warm, soft divide between his lips. But he seemed to be aware of my intent and opened his mouth enough to permit my tongue to skip along over smooth, perfectly aligned teeth. They formed a sort of picket fence that bordered the pathway forward. I accepted the invitation, and extended my tongue further, first tracing over the sharp edges of his teeth, then delving deeper into his hot, moist cavern. His own organ of taste waited for me, and when we touched, his whole body stiffened. We began a slow serpentine dance, touching, pulling back, swirling around the other, entwining, exploring, and when he became a bit more aggressive, I retreated allowing him to enter me, and perform the same tentative explorations.
Now, careful not to break our kiss, I moved my body up over his, straddling him, my knees pressing against his thighs. My lips muffled a kind of squeal when he felt that, and despite their current activity, they curled into a smile.
Tyler's glance shifted from my eyes to my torso. A reassuring smile gave him permission to do what I thought was on his mind. Slowly he reached up and with trembling hands unbuttoned my shirt. He pulled it out of my pants, and then tugged at my t-shirt as well. He needed some help getting it over my head, but I was more than happy to assist. He gazed at my chest and literally licked his lips, which brought yet another smile to mine.
My body is no longer that of a youth, but it's not in bad shape for 60 years (at least that's what I tell myself when I catch sight of it in the mirror). And while I'm not hairy, there's more on my body than on Ty's. In these moments, he seemed almost like a little boy, curious at something newly discovered. (I know the feeling!) Once he glanced up, seeking my approval. A hint of a nod and a smile was all the boy needed. Tentatively, he reached out and drew his fingers over my chest, toying with the wisps of hair he found there. I heard a sigh escape from his throat, and felt his warm breath against my face. His hands were electrifying, awakening me in ways I'd forgotten long ago. I was alive as I hadn't been in years. My heart pounded, and the contact of his hand set me to trembling, too. "Mmmmmm," I hummed, teaching him the language of love-making.
Ty's body was a newly-launched boat. I was about to take it on its first virginal run. Before, this sleek, handsome craft had been sitting at rest in calm water. With the touch of my legs against his, a key had been inserted. Now I adjusted myself just a little and lowered myself. Slowly my manhood, turgid and awake and straining against my Dockers, first brushed against, then settled in on his boyhood package. If our legs touching was inserting the key, his awareness of my heft on his boyhood was turning it to the "On" position. Instantly his massive engines, buried deep in his belly surged to life, pulsing and throbbing, sending massive surges of energy throughout the virginal vessel. He was alive with sexual energy, and I could feel it radiating from his hot body. I'd forgotten what that was like―the power of first times. I looked into those sweet hazel eyes, and I could tell he had no understanding of what was happening to him.
Oh my sweet Ganymede, I thought, Such a privilege to bring you to fulfillment!
I believe that was the moment Tyler stopped consciously considering what was happening to his body and then responding. Instead, he, in this moment, he simply gave into his body's demands. I felt him lift, pressing―mashing―his denim-covered genitals into mine. Little moans and gasps told me he was quite beyond himself. His hips rotated in slow-motion gyrations. I was worried he might come right then and there, but almost in the same instant, I realized in his aroused state, he'd be able to repeat that achievement almost instantly. (Ah, sweet youth!)
Reluctantly, I lifted away with a delightful, soft smack as our lips parted. I kissed him lightly on both cheeks, then on his chin. He tilted his head back, inviting me to explore his firm neck. This was all so new for him, but there was no doubt that he wanted everything I might offer him. I tasted his sweet, pure neck, kissed his small Adam's apple, then traced my tongue downward, and found that soft little indentation where his collarbones meet his sternum. Lower, I paused long enough to reawaken his hard nipples.
To go lower, I would have to move my whole body, which would mean an end to mashing of our cloth-covered cocks. I smiled, knowing he'd be filled with frustration when I lifted away. I did, and he was. A groan signaled his displeasure, and I smiled again at his desperation: so hungry for what he felt building inside him. Each new attention to his body ratcheted up his rapid breathing, his muscles rippling with energy. But the incredible, mystical paradox of sex is that while each step closer to fulfillment should leave one more satisfied, the reality is it only creates greater need―until that magical moment when relief (and release) is finally attained.
Yes, I knew exactly what my sweet, pure Ty boy was feeling, so I was prepared for him when he reached up to hold me in place. I placed my hands on his, matching every press toward me with an opposite and equal resistance, which I could tell from his grunts, only increased his desperate need for relief. My mouth immediately moved downward along his sternum. I hoped that light dusting of kisses would let him know that "patience would be his reward". Poor boy! Again I smiled, realizing I was the catalyst for everything he was feeling in these moments.
Eventually, I felt the resistance in his arms ease. I folded his arms back and looked down at him. With his hands pinned down on either side of his head, he suddenly seemed vulnerable, conscious of the power I held over him. Even his "humping"―his deliberate grinding against me had slowed. I kissed lower, moving onto the sweet meadowland of his belly. I loved feeling his quick, desperate breaths, the response of his muscles to my touch, his luscious boy taste. His belly button was a shallow "innie", and the touch of my tongue to that succulent swirl seemed to ignite me as much as it fired him.
On either side of his lower, belly, two clear valleys, each bordered by muscle, marked the divide between his torso and hips. It was a place not all males have, but Ty did, and now, I drew the tip of my tongue along first one of these inviting channels, then the other. He gasped when I did that, for it brought my mouth as close as I was able to get to the source of the energy that surged through his body, threatening to overpower him at any instant. I would not get closer without removing more of his clothes. Waves of exhilaration coursed through my body as I anticipated the next several minutes, moments when the dreams and fantasies of a dozen years would be fulfilled.
We hadn't spoken in countless minutes; words weren't needed, but now I felt compelled: "Are you okay, Ty?"
"Yeah," he croaked hoarsely.
"Are you ready?"
He was silent for a moment, and then in almost a confused murmur repeated that word: "Ready?"
I offered a nod of reassurance. "We're at a place where the path splits," I said just loud enough for him to hear, and I reached down and, with my fingertips, traced along his inner right thigh, lightly across his swollen package and down his left thigh. He trembled visibly at my ministrations. His eyes were wide and unblinking. There was no mistaking the crossroads at which we had now arrived.
"Ty, are you ready to continue our journey together―to go to a place you've never been before?"
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but he seemed unable to form words. He swallowed, then ran his tongue over his lips. Waves of tremors surged through his lithe body.
"Will you allow me to take you there, Ty?"
Looking into my eyes, he nodded once. A soft, `Yes" parted his dry lips.
I smiled back at him. "Thank you, my love."
We removed his Nikes now and his white, low-cut socks. Odd how one is so unprepared for such a simple thing. The vision of his feet caused a wave of pure energy collapsing into the base of my belly. I realized I'd never seen those parts of him before (save the briefest glimpse earlier in the afternoon). My head spun; was that only a handful of hours ago? In some ways it seemed like an eternity; in other ways it was as if time had frozen in that moment. I generally find little about feet noteworthy, but not so as I gazed down at these: They were perfectly shaped―sculpted by a master artisan. I leaned down and kissed the tops of each one, and then slowly, lovingly, tasted each morsel of boy toe. I glanced up at his face while so engaged, and his face was flushed. I don't think he'd ever considered such attention to his body was possible. Inwardly I smiled. Ty, my love, it's just beginning!
When his luscious feet had received the attention they deserved, I took him by the hand. Even that threatened to overpower my senses. It'd been years since I'd felt his hand in mine. Oh, sweet sensation: warm and soft, yet firm and strong! I guided him to the edge of the bed, and moving my hands to his waist, urged him to stand before me. I sat on the bed, legs opened. He stood between them. He was the altar before which I now paid homage. My eyes gloried in the temple of his body. "Please," he breathed.
I reached out to his belted jeans. I ran my hands lightly over his cloth-covered hips, his uplifted backside, even his front. It was as if my hands demanded a rehearsal: practice to be sure when the time came, they would perform sufficiently. I closed my eyes, letting my fingers retrace their steps to be sure they understood their task, to be sure their memories of their task was adequate for what awaited.
Opening my eyes again, I grasped his belt and gently tugged until the buckle released, and I could slip the belt end from the buckle. My heart pounded. Likewise, he seemed to sense this act signaled some sort of finality, and waves of tremors coursed through his lithe body.
My fingers moved to the button at the top of his zipper. I felt like a nervous schoolboy standing in front of the class while everyone watched. Now two equally anxious hands settled uncertainly on my shoulders. Ty apparently needed some steadying himself. I unfastened the coppery button, moved my hand just a few centimeters lower, and found the tab of his fly. I looked up. Tyler gave a slight nod. Lowering my gaze again, I began to lower the zipper. He was so slim, at first nothing changed, but then as I got closer to his mounded package, the two flaps strained to part. When I had lowered the fly sufficiently, my eyes locked onto the gleam of white between the two blue flaps. I leaned in and gently nuzzled that pure cloth, luxuriating in his scent.
Grasping his jeans on either side of his hips I lowered them. It was easy to see he was fully erect. His boyhood formed what was to my eye a massive ridge reaching upward to the waistband of his briefs. It was quite obvious even cloth-covered, that my sweet Ty was circumcised, a fact that surprised me, for most boys now aren't unless there is a religious obligation to remove the foreskin. A moist quarter-sized spot just at the tip of his penis was testimony to the extent of his arousal. Below, his testicles, swollen with his seed, filled the rounded pouch between his legs. Ohmygod as the kids say! Oh, sweet Ganymede!
I began to grasp his Hanes baby blue briefs, but I stopped when his hands drifted off my shoulders and moved deliberately downward.
We held each other in our gaze as his hands found my belt, and my button, and my zipper. And when my pants had parted, I lifted and he tugged them down over my knees. His eyes were riveted on my crotch. I wore boxer briefs, and like him I was hard, and his gaze made me grow even harder, though unlike him, my penis extended downward over my balls. Like him, I was cut, and like him, or perhaps surpassing him in this respect, I was leaking precum in a way I hadn't in years. I also surpassed him in one other respect: I was clearly larger - a fact that had not escaped him, judging by his increased his attention "down there". I was hairier as well, but as Ty let his fingers dance over the light trail of fur running from my navel to the top of my underpants, I could see this was at least acceptable to him, if not a turn-on.
He seemed enthralled with what lay tantalizingly covered by the cloth stretched tight over my cock and balls. His fingers hovered over my package. "You're big," he breathed with a tone of adoration that made me blush, nevertheless he could not seem to bring himself to touch me, for it yet must have seemed forbidden territory for him - that despite years of imagining.
I had no such qualms, though I did feel that same sense of wonder and awe at what would soon be revealed to me. Even now, as he stood before me, I was overcome by his innocent beauty. I doubt he even had a clue about his power over me in this way. His gentleness of spirit, his quiet self awareness, his warmth, and self-giving nature were all lenses aligned with lenses to magnify his physical beauty. It was the former that had drawn me over the years to love the boy. It was the latter that would soon move us to a point where the need to touch, to hold, to stimulate beyond all sense would redefine who we were.
My hands rested on his hips, the elastic band of his briefs just under my thumbs. Another glance upward focused him; he knew what was about to happen, and he was yielding to me all control. I grasped the waist band of his briefs and pulled gently downward. He gasped almost instantly, and I saw the front of his briefs had gotten hung up on his erection. His penis angled outward away from his belly like a tent pole. "Sorry `bout that," I whispered and repositioned my thumbs to free his rigid tool.
Thus it was that his head was the first part of his hidden treasures that I actually saw. No amount imagining could have prepared me for this sight. Like the rest of him, it was perfectly formed, with a small opening at the top toward his underside. A clear syrupy liquid oozed from it, and a gossamer liquid string trailed back over the head onto his belly just below his navel. A strong, pronounced corona gave the satiny pink helmet a regal appearance. I gulped and resisted an insistent urge to lean in and kiss it and slurp down the sweet juice that bubbled up from deep inside him.
With shaking hands, I lowered that cruel cloth―cruel because it denied me the sublime vision which was Ty's pure "boyness". Millimeter by millimeter, the full length of his penis came into view. As it did so, I became aware that he'd stopped breathing. I looked up; he seemed entranced, expectant, even perhaps worried. And why not? For a male, his penis is so much of who he is. When it is revealed for the first time, there is always uncertainty: Will I be accepted; will I satisfy; will I impress? "Ahhhh," I murmured. "Beautiful," It was ramrod straight and was set off nicely by a thick nest of dark hair that now came into view behind it. The unfolding scene was like the most stunning scenic view on a road already filled with wonder. Lower still, and the full length of his boyhood was revealed. At its root, the beginnings of a sac stretched taut by the two pendulous spheroids. Releasing his underpants, they fell to his knees. Below them, his jeans bunched up around his ankles. With a quick bend down and just two or three swipes and a kick, he cleared the tangle away, and he stood completely naked before me. My legs were close enough to his that I could feel his heat. His penis was larger than I expected; indeed if there were one flaw with his body, it was (if this be a flaw) his penis was larger than quite fit with the rest of him―and his balls, too, for that matter.
"Breathe," I urged him, smiling. Oh, what a feast to behold! His cock remained pointing virtually straight up, perhaps angled slightly toward his chin. And as he began to breathe again, it pulsed strong and pure with the rapid beat of his heart. His hair was a dense thicket of tight curls, and not quite black, but nearly so. It seemed gathered around his shaft only; to my eye, his scrotum was hairless―hairless and holding two enormous eggs. I sat there riveted.
"Breathe," I heard him whisper, and I looked up to find him grinning as he offered the same advice I had only moments ago given him. He bent down and pulled off my pants and loafers and socks all in one action. Then he looked back up at me, briefly catching my eye, but then dropping his stare back to my still-hidden manhood. He swallowed, and a look of uncertainty seemed to stymie him. He licked his lips, and reached out to grasp my underpants as I had done to his. "Can I?" he asked hesitantly.
"Of course, you can, Ty."
He nodded, took my hands, pulled me to my feet, knelt, and then slowly lowered my boxer briefs. I think he actually gasped when my cock and balls were fully revealed. "OhmyGod," he muttered more to himself than anyone else. I smiled, pleased that he was impressed, but also, I realized in that moment, proud of him. He was in virgin territory―literally―and he had, as they say, seized the day. Oh, Tyler! Such a good boy. Like his penis, mine had a considerable flow of precum. Like his, it pulsed, seemingly with a mind of its own.
He'd been kneeling, but now I reached down and coaxed him to stand, and without urging he stepped into me, wrapping his arms around me, holding me tight. He groaned as he felt my body against his and his against mine. His cock and balls I could feel against my left thigh; my package pressed against his belly. His penis continued to flex, but whether of its own accord or by his conscious effort, I couldn't decide.
My hands began again to explore his smooth back, and where before I'd quickly bumped up against his jeans, this time there was no such impediment. Extending them downward, for the first time I felt his exquisitely smooth bottom. It was incredible, and the mere touch of that special place sent massive shivers through me, as it did through him. I felt him press his head against my chest, and a long, slow moan tore from him.
I slowly, almost imperceptibly, massaged his butt. It was so firm, so warm, so smooth. "As a baby's bottom," the saying goes. Yes, I thought. Exactly.
"May I?" I asked, knowing he wouldn't understand, so instead of explaining, I simply turned him and beheld his glorious bottom. I knelt before my boy god and gazed on those perfectly formed globes of muscle. It was wonderfully rounded―as I knew it would be from years of studying him from behind. The sides of those two globes where pinched in slightly, serving to accentuate their firmness and roundness cheeks even more. It was as luscious as any boy bottom I'd ever seen in any internet picture, and those, except for sight, cheated the senses. Ty's sweet, uplifted (and uplifting!), tight bottom offered warmth and softness to touch, his mildly musky boy scent for the sense of smell, and when I stroked him, a soft meowing sigh escaped from somewhere deep in his throat for hearing. But that's only four of the five senses you're thinking. Indeed. I drew in a deep, slow breath, closed my eyes, and leaned into him. He tensed and drew in a breath when my lips touched him first on the left cheek, then on the right. The first kiss was merely the briefest of pressure on his bottom. More odd little sounds softly burbled up from his chest. My hands ensured the rest of him (save his boyhood charms!) would receive the attention they deserved, but now his sweet bottom was my focus. I plied him with kisses there, my lips a kind of super-sensitive NASA probe charting new terrain. He trembled under my ministrations; I trembled to be one privileged to share in such beauty.
I adjusted my head and drew my tongue along that deep, crevasse between those tightly clenched mounds. I savored his earthy taste, satisfying now all my senses.
For his part, the movement of my tongue seemed to spark him, fire him to greater intensity, and I wondered if he'd discovered the pleasures of anal play. At first touch, he clenched, almost trapping my tongue, but then almost instantly, he relaxed, and actually backed off, as if willing it deeper. But I was not ready to go there with him; we'd have to explore that some other time. First, there were other explorations awaiting.
"You are beautiful, Ty." These words might seem strange to a boy, but I hoped he'd understand the truth of them. I stood now, and turned him to face me. "You are, Ty." He blushed sweetly at that, and I leaned down and we kissed again. It was a surprisingly chaste kiss―delicate even―but I think he sensed my simple words came from the depths of my very soul.
At the risk of cliché, it wasn't just his physical beauty, it was the inner beauty: that which made him who he was. It was why I wanted to be with him; it was why I had come to a near obsession with him.
For me, he was the best of humanity, he was the closest I'd ever come to having a son, and yet as he was proving now, he was more than a son: In a place deep in my soul―a place no one else could ever know―he was my lover. I'm not sure even Tyler understood the depth of my commitment to him. But perhaps before this night had ended, he would.
Skin, it must be said, is an incredible thing, and touching skin unfettered by any cloth is like touching the divine. My hands continued to explore from as low as I could reach to his sweet head of thick, closely-shaven hair. Always though, I returned to his bottom―those magnetic outcroppings of muscle. Shivers of raw sexual energy continued to course through his compact body, and like the surging charges of a Tesla coil sparked from his body to mine.
Impelled by all the forces that newly assaulted his body, he began a more aggressive humping of his boyhood against my thigh. The soft sighs turned to more insistent groans. I knew it was time.
I'm not sure how I managed this, but I picked him up, and lowered him gently onto the bed. Then I lowered myself over him, straddling his legs. His slightly worried expression told me he knew we had moved to a different place on our journey.
"It's time, Ty," I whispered.
He nodded and murmured, "Okay."
"It's going to be like nothing you've ever experienced before," I said, smiling down at him. He seemed vulnerable, almost like a boy many years younger.
"I know," he said in a soft, tentative voice.
"Oh, Ty," I whispered and lowered myself to offer him yet another kiss, and more on top of that one. He was hungry, eager, ready, and he responded with a desperation that took my breath away.
It was to my way of thinking a glorious scene of seduction. The only thing is I didn't know―don't know even now―was who was seducing whom.
We kissed so voraciously our lips seemed in danger of injury. Underneath me, my love's body was in constant, ratcheting motion. I lifted away from his mouth, and kissed my way downward, tarrying only long enough at each nipple to reawaken them. Then I plunged downward, recognizing that my own growing lust was matching Ty's. I rushed through my tongue-bath of his belly button. I think he thought then whatever was going to happen ultimately would happen then; however, I wanted his desperation to build even more before his found "relief". I kissed my way down past his throbbing boycock and his balls, savoring instead his strong, smooth thighs, and knees, calves, feet and toes. And when his moans of frustration had grown louder, I slowly began to move back. My fingers danced along ahead of my mouth. Then, dipping my fingers down between his thighs, I let the backs of my fingers trace with the lightest of touches over his balls. His whole body tightened and he sucked in a sharp breath. And then a small whimper escaped from his mouth.
From there, my fingers drifted upward, caressing his throbbing boyhood. Finally. Ah, sweet, succulent morsel. He was so hot, so firm, skin stretched pleasingly. My heart pounded in rhythm with his cock.
"Do it!" His words had more the tone of a desperate plea than a command, the need of his body overpowering his usual reserve. I slowly ran my fingers up and down his penis, and as I did so, I gradually enclosed it in my fist. He gasped aloud, which was followed by a tremulous, "Oh my God..."
Now I leaned down and felt his heat on my lips before I felt his flesh. I lowered a millimeter more, and my lips savored the satiny smooth flesh of his head. I shook with the sheer exhilaration. He let out a high-pitched, "Eeeeeeeee!" I smiled in spite of myself, and with my mouth savoring his cockhead, even the smile seemed to electrify him. I extended my tongue and ran it over his head, finding his slit, and the clear syrup that oozed from him. It was the sweetest honey.
When I had kissed and licked my way around that lovely piece of wood, I raised myself up and in one motion, sucked his head back into my mouth. I sucked hard, and the rim of his head and my lips formed a perfect seal. This was too much for my boy, and he grasped my head firmly and held me in place. I extended my tongue and felt the thick tube on the underside of his cock expand. I was afraid he would come before he was really ready, so I placed my hands on his tummy, and eased my attention to him, releasing him from my mouth's grip. In a frantic move, he grabbed onto his cock and began jacking. I wasn't ready for him to ejaculate just yet, so I gently grabbed his hand and slowed him. "Too soon, Ty. Easy."
"I've got to..."
"Shhhh..." I soothed, as I would comfort a baby. "Shhhh...I want this night to be so special for you...something you'll never forget. Trust me, Ty."
"It's hard," he muttered, sounding just a bit frustrated at my interruption. I knew what he meant, of course: it was difficult for him to step back from precipice. Like most boys, masturbation was all too often something to be done quickly, furtively. He had learned, no doubt, when his body responded in this way, a few quick strokes would bring welcome (and speedy) relief. I smiled, though, at his choice of words: "It's hard." The poor boy was so desperate that I don't think he even considered the double meaning of his cry. But you can be sure I didn't miss it! Indeed it was hard!
"Yeah, I was really close," he breathed.
"Let's see if we can't delay it a little." I said. I leaned down and kissed him along that dividing line between his stomach and his hip.
While one hand moved lightly over his torso, toying occasionally with his erect little nipples, he did calm. I drew my other hand down across his left leg, slipped it down along his inner thigh, and back up under his warm, velvety bottom. The movements of my hands on his skin were soft caresses, little more than hints of what would soon transpire. Finally, I curled my fingers on one hand slightly, and scraped lightly at his nipple. It was like I'd found a switch to turn on the flow of all that incredible sexual energy. His body snapped taut once more.
Again, I took him into my mouth. Truthfully it was a little difficult because he was so rigid. For an idle moment, I worried I might injure him as I angled his penis so I could take him deeper. It had been years since I'd deep-throated anyone, but I wanted all of him, and so I began a slow up and down action, taking more of him each time. He'd placed his hands back on my head, and when I glanced up at his face, he alternated between having his eyes open wide and closed tight. He had to watch, but if he did, it seemed, it became too overpowering.
Now I felt him poking me in the throat; at the same time, I felt his thick nest of curls pressing into my lips. My tongue twisted around his tool, and I greedily slurped up every drop of precum I could manage. My fingers edged along his luscious crack, and I could feel an incredible heat. When he felt my fingers there, he gasped, and pressed down on my hand. He wanted more attention paid to his bottom it seemed, and I was happy to oblige.
I lifted away, and quickly retrieved the KY from the nightstand. "What's that?" he asked.
I smiled. "I'd have thought a young, avid reader of Nifty stories would recognize lube when he saw it," I smirked.
He reddened. "Oh, yeah," he mumbled. I folded his legs so his heels were practically against his bottom. Then I angled them outward like a butterfly opening its wings. The wide "V" of his legs seemed to focus emphasis on his package, but a more subtle effect was to open that deep divide between his butt cheeks. I could see just a hint of his secret opening.
I opened the tube, and squeezed a generous amount out on my finger. Ty's gaze was riveted on the glistening gel. I looked up at him and again saw that blend of curiosity and concern fill his eyes. I smiled reassuringly; I knew the source of that concern. "It's okay, Ty," I said, "Just my finger." He seemed to relax some then, but that brief exchange told me so much about him. First, he knew about anal sex. From his response, I figured he'd at least tried some variation of ass play. But he was also alarmed, I'm sure, that I might have been planning to insert something other than a finger into his tight hole. It was concern I saw in those hazel eyes, though, not panic. He knew enough about anal sex to know it'd probably hurt at first and that concerned him; yet it was not a turn off to him.
I smiled and shook my head in wonder. I'd known Tyler for so many years. I thought I knew him so well, but in these past few hours, there was so much I was discovering about him that I didn't know. "Just, my finger, my sweet," I repeated.
He nodded, and I leaned in and kissed him on his beautiful mouth, his lips still red and puffy from the last time we'd kissed. Then I lowered myself, and I heard him draw in a breath, hold it for a moment, and then release it in a long sigh. He was preparing himself. My mouth again found his cock, my tongue reveled in his flow of precum which had bubbled to a large drop held in his slit. My left hand toyed with his pendulous balls. My right hand, with gelled finger extended, searched out his anus. When I touched down, he gasped, and I sucked him hard into my mouth. I held my finger steady there until he had ratcheted himself to the point of no return. I ran the length of his penis in and out of my hungry mouth, sucking hard to create a vacuum, savoring his taste and his heat. I bobbed up and down on that wonderful tool, on the upstroke, my tongue running around his corona, and over his slit, on the downstroke, my throat compressing around his head. With each stroke he'd moan, and his body would actually compress as if he were having some sort of spasm. Then I felt his penis grow even harder, and I knew he was again close.
My finger had been resting against his anus, and occasionally, I'd press in gently, not to penetrate, but simply to test. I lifted off him just long enough to offer a further instruction: "Fight it, Ty, for as long as you can. Hold out `til you can't any longer. Okay?"
He seemed dazed; indeed, I suspect he was, but he nodded he understood. I resumed my mouth work.
At the same time, I pressed in with my finger, twisting it first one way, then the other. He stiffened all over, groaned, and lifted his bottom off the bed. His stomach muscles were taut and rippling. Just my fingertip was inserted but already, his response had risen. I pressed in more, and more. So hot! So soft! So tight! I could feel his anal ring contracting around my finger, and then it seemed to wink open just a bit more. It seemed like an invitation, and I quickly inserted a second finger. Again he stiffened, and I rotated my hand slightly to improve the angle, and pressed my fingers in for maximum penetration. That signaled the end for my virgin lover. He shuddered almost violently. His groans had given way to whimpering and soft gasps of "Ohh...ohh...ohh..." I increased my attention to his balls, playing with them and squeezing them just enough to make him aware of the pressure on them. I increased my speed, plunging wildly up and down on his penis.
By the groans and moans and squeals that tore from his mouth, he was beyond caring. He seemed almost as if he were having some violent out of body experience. His head was thrashing back and forth, and as my hands played across his body, I could literally feel ripples of energy flooding across his muscular body: a taste of what was to come. Now I fingered his anus with the same speed and rhythm as I assaulted his boyhood. "Ohhh...ohh...It's happening..." he gurgled.
I curled my fingers buried in his hot chute, and sucked him harder, swirling my tongue over and over his head. My fingers found his prostate and pressed against its smooth surface. That was the final trigger. I truly do think he'd been fighting that overwhelming assault of sensation up until that very instant, but suddenly, there was nothing left for him to fight with.
I felt his urethra swell, his penis seemed to be locked rigid for an instant, and then his entire body contracted violently. And I felt a massive, hot, thick, explosion on the roof of my mouth. He grunted once, and then, as if in the throes of a massive seizure, another contraction, and he shot again, and again, and again. I tried to count them in my dazed state. I got to eight, I think, or perhaps it was ten. I had a mouthful of boy cock and the sweetest syrup a boy could produce.
"Will," he murmured, but he was already collapsing into unconsciousness. I held him in my mouth and felt him soften, Then, lifting away, I slipped out from between his two legs, still folded up and out. I straightened first one leg, and the other, and then I lay down next to him. He turned to nestle up against me. In his half-consciousness, he reached out and grasped my throbbing cock and murmured something unintelligible.
"What was that, sleepy head," I whispered.
"Will," he breathed, "Happy Birthday." A contented smile formed on his lips and half-closed eyelids lowered completely over his glazed, unseeing eyes. I lay there holding him, sharing his contentment, knowing these moments had forevermore bound our lives together.
Thirty years ago today: the first time Tyler and I had sex. (And not, by the way, the last.) In my 90 years, I had never loved anyone as I had loved my sweet Ty. I loved him so much. It broke my heart when he went off to college, and I think it broke his, too. I was so proud of him, so hopeful for his future; and yet, I knew that moment had come: our journeys were taking us down different roads. When I reached out, he would no longer be there, beside me.
I still love him―after all these years; that's the truth of it, even though he lives halfway across the country. We have journeyed to different places. The last time I saw him was nine years ago. He and his partner had come to help his parents move. He had a successful business by then, and he and Mark had decided to have a child with a surrogate mother. The result was the most adorable little boy―sweet like his father. Since then, they'd had another child, this time fathered by Mark. Contact with Ty after that diminished, but there was always a card on my birthday. Always. They always bring a smile and reassurance that despite all the demands of his life, he, too, still shares the love that blossomed in those days so long ago.
I sat in my chair, disappointed that this year his card―that simple sign of our love―was missing. I tried not to be like a lot of old people and bitterly mumble something about being forgotten, but I guess I understood why people my age feel that way―especially ones, like me, with no family. I'd lived in this house for 42 years, and now I was faced with the prospects of having to leave. My mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be, but it was still plenty sharp enough to know I couldn't stay here forever. Assisted living was looking more and more like not just an option, but the only option. "He wouldn't forget," I muttered aloud, feeling twinge of shame that I had thought even for a moment that that was possible. "It'll be here tomorrow," I told myself.
It was then that there was a knock on the door. I almost decided not to answer it, but it was insistent, and I guess perhaps I hoped that the neighbor cutie had realized he'd forgotten to deliver one card.
I opened the door, and suddenly I felt myself spinning. My eyes wouldn't focus. I thought I must be having some seizure or hallucination, or perhaps I'd already died and was in heaven. I gripped the handles of my walker as tightly as I could. A boy, perhaps 14 or so, stood before me. "Mr. Spear," he said in the most melodious tenor voice and with a smile to die for. "Special delivery." I blinked. He was stunningly beautiful, and in my confused state, I thought it was my boy; I thought it was Tyler. It was uncanny; he really did look like my Tyler―my young Mr. Brightman. He could have been a clone, though when I looked closely, I realized there were differences. This boy's eyes were blue―not hazel―and under his ski cap, I could see he had blond hair. Still, it was a shock, and it took me a moment to recover. Then I realized he was holding out an envelope. I took it, and saw immediately it was from my boy. I shook my head, still confused by what was happening.
"Here," the boy said, stepping into my house, and closing the door to. "Let me help you to your chair." Like a befuddled old fool, I let him do exactly that. He held my arm as I settled into my chair, and then he stood there patiently while I opened the card. Inside there was Ty's typical thoughtful card, but there was also a long letter. I couldn't help the building sense of apprehension as I began to read.
I hope this finds you well. We think of you often. Mark says I'd have nothing to talk about if I couldn't talk about you. (Well, that's not quite true.) The kids are another year older of course and doing well in school. Next year our oldest will be in high school. Hard to believe how time flies.
It wasn't hard for me to believe. The years fly by ever faster the older one gets. I looked up at the boy. I should have asked him his name. I should have at least asked him something; instead I gave him a smile and returned to Ty's letter.
This has been a busy year. Even with the economy the way it is, our business has been doing quite well. We'd talked about moving into a bigger house, and last month we did it. There's plenty of room, and lots of space outside. It's in a great location, with all the conveniences nearby. In addition, there's a great hospital within minutes of the house. Oh, one more thing: the house has what was billed as "an attached in-law" apartment, but we prefer to think of it as an attached "dear friend" apartment.
Our son really came up with the idea, and Mark agreed wholeheartedly. Will, we want you to come live with us. I know you've had some health issues lately. (Mom still keeps in touch with the old neighbors.) So we think the perfect place for you is right here with us. The kids are too old for a nanny, but they aren't too old for a good friend to be waiting for them when they get home from school, and because of the way work is going, Mark and I are finding it harder and harder to be at home when we need to be.
Will, we won't accept a "no". Please give this some thought, then we'll talk.
I frowned, took my glasses off, and wiped my eyes. I was touched by his invitation, but I knew I could never impose on him in that way.
"Did you finish it?" the boy asked. I put my glasses back on and nodded. "And?" he asked.
I looked at him again, struck by his beauty―and his familiarity. I gazed into those beautiful blue eyes. "What's your name, son?"
He held out his hand. "Actually, my dad says we met when I was about four. He says that's how old he was when he met you for the first time. "I'm William...well...Will, really...Will Brightman."
My mouth dropped open. I couldn't think of a thing to say.
A cold breeze carried a new voice: "You never used to be a loss for words when a cute boy was around." I turned to the doorway. Instantly, I teared up; I couldn't help it. My Tyler was there, his spouse, Mark, next to him, and just in front, their daughter, Jessica.
"I did all the time, when you were around," I said, my voice cracking.
"Will," he said, "You know Mark, and I see you're getting reacquainted your namesake, and this delightful young woman is Jessie."
I smiled at the shy girl. She seemed so poised. I grinned. Clearly, she could rise to any challenge living in an otherwise all-male family might offer. (Trouble with the toilet seats could be the least of the problems.) "A pleasure to meet, you Miss Jessica," I offered with a slight bow. She grinned, warming to me as a little puppy might after a moment of uncertainty.
"Come in, come in," I beckoned, and Ty closed the door behind them.
"And to what do I owe this extraordinary assemblage?" I asked, striving to lighten things for a moment.
"We had to deliver your birthday card!" young Will exclaimed. It was humbling knowing that Ty and Mark had named their son after me.
"Are you going to come live with us?" he asked. His intensity was delightful.
"Yes, please," said Jessie. She had the loveliest lilting voice, but then so did her brother.
"I'm afraid it's not that easy," I replied. "I've got about 40 years of `stuff' here to deal with."
"We can help," the boy offered. "Please."
"Will," Tyler said, and both his son and I looked up. "Well..." Ty muttered, "I see one potential problem. I guess we'll have to call you `William', from now on," he said putting his arm around his son's shoulder.
"That's cool, Dad" his son said, and then looking at me, added, "Really!" Such a sweet boy!
"Will," Ty said, turning to me. I gazed into those still-sparkling hazel eyes. He was still a beauty at 46. "We're not going to take no for an answer. The in-law apartment is pretty good size. Most of your things will fit there perfectly." He smiled reassuringly. "Remember," he added, "You taught me well. I can drive a pretty hard bargain, so don't even try to argue."
I didn't, not then, anyway. "Besides," he said, and pulled an old ten dollar bill out of his shirt pocket. "I owe you."
"That's not really..." I said taking the bill in my hand.
"It is," Ty said. "I've kept it all these years. It's my good luck charm. Been with me through thick and thin."
He stepped to me now, and practically lifted me out of my chair. He wrapped his strong arms around me, and we hugged, tears flooding down our faces. "It's time I settled my debt," he whispered in my ear. "It's time, Will."
Ty lifted one arm away, and his son stepped in. His dad pulled him into me, and the boy wrapped his arms around me, his dad holding him tight. "My dad told me all the stuff you used to do together." I looked sharply at his father as young Will added, "I think that's awesome!"
"Now that's just fighting dirty," I whispered in Ty's ear.
"Whatever it takes," he said, never missing a beat.
Now lovely Jess stepped into the scrum. Her father and brother made a place for her. She looked up at me with those sweet eyes, the eyes of her father. "At least you can just come for a visit. And see if you like it."
"Oh hell," Mark muttered, "I'm not gonna get left out of this." And he wriggled in between Jessie and Will.
"Group hug!" young Will exclaimed, which sparked a round of giddy laughter.
"Will," his father said to me softly, "This really isn't about owing you anything—even though it's true. I do owe you―so much. I can never repay you for that. This is about something that's just right to do. Our family is pretty awesome. But it's never been quite complete. There's an empty place in it. You're what's missing. For 30 years. It's been too long."
"Mhmm," his beautiful son said. "I can feel the love filling up that empty place already."
I looked at him. There was not a hint of guile in that sweet boy's face. What he'd said came from the same sort of purity his dad had at that age. I gave Tyler a look.
He grinned. "What he said," he murmured as a tear spilled down his cheek.
An hour later, we'd gotten my bags packed with all my essentials, and then some. The kids and Mark had loaded everything into their vehicle. Mark, Jessie, and Will piled in and were now waiting for us.
Ty and I took one last look around my bedroom. "We spent a lot of time in this room," he said quietly.
"Yes, we did," I responded. "A lot."
"I've missed you so much," he added, embracing me one more time.
"Tell me about it..."
"You used to talk about the journey we were on."
"I remember," I said.
"I want us to finish that journey together―all of us. Together."
"Now, young man," I said. "...you keep that up, and I'm gonna start crying again, and old people get dehydrated pretty easily. Then you'll have some explaining to do at the ER." We laughed at that.
"Well, turn about's fair play," he said quietly. "You used to drain me pretty good, as I remember." We both smirked at that.
"Ohhh, did I ever," I grinned. I stepped away from his body, reached into my pocket, and thrust that ancient ten-dollar bill back at him. "A visit would be alright, but I don't think I'm going to let you off that easily―not just yet anyway."
"Fair enough," Ty said. He put the bill in his pocket. Then he folded up my walker and tucked it up under his arm. His other arm, he put around me. And together we headed down the road to whatever awaited.