Date: Tue, 7 Feb 2017 21:39:52 +0100 (CET)
From: monkeyprince@tutanota.com
Subject: Wonderland, Part I - The List, Chapter 1 - Superpower

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story is a fantasy. It did not happen in real life. The characters
portrayed in this story do not exist in real life and any resemblance to a
real person is coincidental. This story involves friendship and a romantic
relationship, including sexual encounters, between an adult man and a young
teenage boy. If you are not allowed to read it or don't want to read it,
please don't.

This story is my original work. Please do not copy or reproduce this. Nifty
Erotic Stories Archive has a non-exclusive license to display this work. I
retain sole authority, copyright, and other rights and title over this
work.

I enjoy chatting with new people and welcome new friends. I'm also happy to
receive, and will respond to, comments about this story: thoughts,
suggestions, critiques, questions, etc. But please no hate or meanness.

Lastly, to set a proper expectation, this is not a quick sex story. It does
have sensual and sexual scenes, but it is also about a relationship; it's
about love. I hope you stick with it, and I hope you like it.

Thank you and enjoy.

Peace, -Monkey Prince monkeyprince@tutanota.com

*

Wonderland

Part 1 – The List

Chapter 1 – Superpower

*

My footfalls print a way through the fresh snow, downing softly on the bed
of clean white. An inch or two, the snowfall was light for a New England
December. I look at the straight sidewalk ahead of me, then glance sideways
to the varying types of colonials and triple-deckers. With about ten to 15
feet between each home, the inner suburban street was characteristically
charming for this area. The houses were quaint and even more so with
freshly fallen snow. Cold and calm, the street is nearly silent from the
chill and snow and ahead of the return of the nine-to-fivers but after
students were nestled warmly in their houses after school.

I see my breath. Exhausted air puffed forward and away. The air is cold,
but my body is finally warming from the ten minute walk from where the bus
dropped me following my day at work.

I near my home and reflexively take my glove off my hand and reach into my
pant pocket to grab my keys. I reach my home, cross my five-foot front yard
in two strides, and bound up the several steps to my first-floor apartment.
The key sticks but just a moment later it gives and I swing my door wide
and walk into my cozy retreat. I take off my boots, my hat, other glove,
scarf, and coat then throw them on the floor. I can get them later. I
instinctively don my comfortable and worn slippers and head directly to the
thermostat to turn it up.

I flop on the couch. I'm not particularly tired. I'm not particularly
anything. Then I remember the moleskin lined notebook I bought recently
from the paper store in the town center. I want to start a Journal. Now is
a good time.

* * * * *

I write in my Journal:

I want to become invisible, for obvious reasons.

I want the power to change, to become; to switch it on and off again with a
thought. I do not want to just forever be invisible. Parts of me are
already invisible or hidden as I suppose are parts of everyone. My thoughts
as everyone's are invisible to others, and sometimes steal away from me too
quickly, as when I wake from a dream. I find the good dreams often steal
most quickly, alas. But those thoughts that linger, and sometimes those
that are the strongest, that make up the largest part of the person I think
myself to be, seem to be the thoughts that I want to be invisible to
others. Although I hope they are, I wish they weren't. Does everyone deal
with this?

When young, engaging in childhood banter and games, my friends and I would
sometimes ask each other what superpower we would want if we could have
only one. My friends would say super strength, or fire breath, or ice
beams, or mind control, or weather control, and on and on. I would say
flying. To soar and glide and float in the air, through the clouds, above
the storms, beneath the stars, quiet, alone—that is what I wanted. But
no more.

Now, if I answered the question to the childhood versions of the my friends
goading me for a reply, I would tell them cooly that I wanted to become
invisible. For obvious reasons.

I want to be convenietly gone when my boss peeks into my office. I want to
be able to think in peace without the threat of being bothered. I want to
people-watch and world-watch and life-watch without the observer effect. I
want to surrepticiously enjoy the boys' locker room after gym class. I want
to be among everyone without being seen, without being judged. I don't want
to be quiet and alone, I want to exist as part of a community, but without
the need to appear; to conform. Perhaps what I want, I guess, is not
invisibility, but rather the opposite.

Recognition; acceptance; freedom; love—these are what I crave. But how
can I live life in the open, with my thoughts visible, when such an
important part of me is my sexual and romantic attraction to boys? I think
no-one but myself truly knows who I am.

* * * * *

I remember the mail. I forgot to grab it before I came inside. I head back
to the front door and open it, sticking my hand out into the cold and into
the mailbox nailed to the house. I grab onto the several envelops when I
hear the telling scrape of a shovel on sidewalk. Glancing across the
street, I see a small person, a kid, shoveling the walkway with a woman
looking on from behind the glass storm door from inside the house. I
recognize the kid through the snow suit as my neighbor's son, Jack, a
ten-year-old who is all ears and thin but well-built.

I pull back inside so the steam radiators, which should start to hiss soon,
don't heat the outside. I decide to go outside to shovel—now is the
time, I think. I replace my coat, scarf, gloves, hat, and boots, grab the
shovel from next to the door and head outside.

I head down the steps, sweeping the light snow with the shovel from the
steps as I go. At the bottom I begin my shoveling, which proceeds a bit
more like plowing—I am able to push the light snow rather than bend and
pick it up. Although my upstairs neighbors, two nice but inward college
girls, have a clause in their lease that they are responsible for
shoveling, I help out sometimes. The guy and girl on the third floor,
though, have never shoveled, at least not last winter, which was my first
winter in this apartment. They are nice enough: A straight couple that were
both in doctoral courses, but they seek different doctorates. At this
moment, though, I can't recall what...

"Hello!"

The bright, high-pitched sound stuns me for a moment before I realize it is
a person speaking to me from behind. I turn around and look down to see
Jack standing in front of me holding a card with my name on it and some
kind of chocolate-coated pretzel mix.

"Merry Christmas!" says Jack, reaching out to me with the gifts.

"Thanks, Jack," I say, trying to sound warm and sincere.

"You're welcome," he says immediately, his smile beaming under his nose and
eyes, the only parts of him exposed in his tightly-drawn winter coat and
hood.

"That's really nice, thanks a lot," I say, struggling to take the gifts
with my awkward big-gloved hands and struggling for some additional comment
or question so I could keep him here a moment longer.

"You're welcome," he says again, smile undiminshed.

He starts to turn as I blurt out the first thing the pops into my head:
"Where's your sister?" I asked, referring to his younger sister—I forget
her name...

"She's inside," Jack says.

"Warm and cozy?" I ask.

"Yeah," says Jack, smile unfailing.

"While you're out shoveling," I say, gesturing to him with the gifts that
take both my hands to hold.

He laughs just a bit; my heart flutters. "Yeah," he says again.

With Jack politely standing there, smile still on, I can only see his face
and can no longer think of anything to say... "Tell your mom and sister
Merry Christmas, and thanks for this, that's really nice."

Jack nods slightly, looking up and to the right, seemingly thinking of the
proper response to my string of words. "I will," he says, clear as a bell.

Jack turns on one foot, looks both ways, then bounds across the street back
to his house. His mom opens her door from across the street and waives to
me.

"Merry Christmas!" I shout across.

I see Jack turn around and run backward a bit and yell back, "Merry
Christmas!" I suppose he assumed I was calling out to him. He is a sweet
boy.

I watch Jack jump the stairs at his house two at a time, and his mom hands
him another card and bag of pretzel mix, ostensibly for another
neighbor. Although I momentarily feel jealous that Jack didn't give the
gift to me because he liked me but because his mother told him to, but I
think, of course his mother got this and made it, perhaps with help from
Jack or his sister, and had him bring it to all the neighbors.

He is a sweet boy.

I watch Jack run along the sidewalk and ring the next person's doorbell,
the house of an older lady who I figure, as Jack's mom must also figure,
would likely be home. Indeed, in the next moment, she opens the door. I
can't actually hear Jack from this far away, but in my mind, I clearly hear
his "Hello!" and "Merry Christmas!"

I finish shoveling my walk way and quickly plow-shovel the sidewalk in
front of my apartment. I look westward. The sun will start to set
soon—early-winter days are dark by 4:30 in New England.

I head back inside and shut the door on the coming cold night.

* * * * *

I write in my Journal:

Today is the last day before Winter Break at the library where I work. The
library, part of a small liberal arts college, does stay open with reduced
hours during the break, but it still feels exciting anyway. I feel the
spark of that glee as I once did when I was young, giddy and carefree and
wanting nothing else but to start that winter vacation that offers much
promise and seems it will be everlasting. Despite the cold weather, this
time of year often brings feelings of warmth with family and friends.

I don't have much family in the area: a mom, younger brother that still
lives at home, and dad that lives somewhere up the coast if he's not with
his latest girlfriend. I have two sets of aunts and uncles down south that
followed jobs or warmth or something else, but we don't usually see them
for Christmas. I don't have many friends, either: I'm from the area and
attended college around here, but as my bad luck has it, my closest friends
continue their studies or got jobs in other parts of the country. I have my
work friends, but we don't hang out much outside work. I have a couple
other friends from high school I see occassionally, but we don't hang out
much, either. But I like the relaxed and simple life, most of the time.

Today is particularly slow at the library for the college because this is
the last day of finals and most everyone either had their last final
already or were currently taking it—not many in the library. I mostly
act as the reference librarian—the current reference librarian was quite
old, and although everyone loved her, was not great at finding things
online; but go ahead and ask her about something on microfiche—and I
also provide references and research for various professors.

Speaking of that, I should get some work done. Signing off for now.

* * * * *

I skim through a history book and then skim a related article online. I
suddenly and almost without conscious effort lean back in my chair and
stretch, feeling the oxygen rekindle my arms and chest and back and
legs. As I stretch, I look up from the computer monitor and look directly
at beauty. A boy of about 12 or 13 walks into the library with a book and
notebook, stops mid-way into the room, and then continues into the main
hall, and finds a seat at a study table and plops.

The boy lets out a sigh that is loud enough for me to hear halfway across
the room. He takes off his coat, opens the book, opens the notebook, flips
to a page about halfway through, then takes a pencil out of the spiral of
his notebook. He sags into his books, his pencil hand flopping onto the
notebook, ready to write.

I watch this boy read and write and read and write and erase and write and
read and write. I wish I knew what he was working on. He seems sad. Maybe
just bored. Or frustrated. He is stunningly beautiful. Wavy dark brown hair
halfway down his ears. I can't tell the color of his eyes from this
distance. I need to see him closer.

I get up from my work station at the reference librarian counter and grab
some book. I walk, me and the book, in a hopefully inconspicuous arc
through the tables as if I'm taking a circuitous path to the book stacks
beyond. There are a few others at other tables, who I think are all looking
at me, but I think that is probably paranoia and likely not one of them is
actually paying attention. I turn down the row of tables to come up in
front of the boy. As I near him, I hope he moves or glances up at me or
talks to me or takes off his clothes or asks me to put my dick inside
him. I pass him. He did none of those things. I didn't even see his eyes.

Perhaps I'll see them on the way back. I walk into the stacks but remain on
the end of the row and face back toward the boy. I pull a book off the
shelf directly in front of me. Something about marble statues. I open it to
a photo of a statue of Adonis. How apropos.

I look back to the boy, still furiously writing, then reading, then
writing, then reading, then writing. He is left-handed. He wears a grey
long-sleeve T-shirt and slim jeans and white and orange sneakers. He has a
black Northface jacket draped across the back of his chair. His hair bobs
slightly as he looks from his text book to his notebook and back. I see him
take a deep breath. I hear him sigh.

I sigh, too. I want to cuddle with him. I wish he would lay on me.

I put Adonis back on the shelf, and start walking back, very slowly, to my
work station. I pass by the boy and stop just a moment. I hear him turn his
head, probably to see who the person was standing by him.

I take a chance.

I turn my head and look into the deep blue ocean. This kid, this boy, has
intense blue eyes. Of course he has blue eyes. And full, luscious lips. His
top lip almost bigger than his bottom lip.

I smile. I think I did that instinctively, from years of being courteous,
it happened without conscious effort. He gives a half smirk back and then
turns his head to books once more. I resume walking.

At my station, I spend the next hour working and looking to see how the boy
is doing and to make sure he is still there. I can think of so many
conversation starters, but I don't want him to think I'm weird striking up
a conversation randomly, and I don't want others in the room to think I'm a
pervert or worse. My butt doesn't leave my chair despite my desire.

He moves. The boy stands up abruptly and raises his arms to the ceiling,
hands grabbing each other, bends his back, and let's out a sigh through
slenched teeth that sounds a bit like a hiss. His stretch lasts for about
six or seven seconds, but it felt simultaneously longer and shorter than
that. At the last moment he gave a final, extra stretch, and I could see
his belly and top of his red and black checkered underwear peek out from
under his shirt. His belly had no hair, or at least hair so fair that I
couldn't see it from this distance. His jeans were bunched a little around
his groin from sitting, but there was no obvious bulge.

He ends the stretch and sits down again, head in his books.

I can't take it. I want his body. I have to release. I head to the men's
bathroom. No-one is in there when I walk in. I take one of the stalls.

As my dick hardens in my pants, I take two medium-length strips of toilet
paper to cover the seat, pull my pants and undies all the way down my legs,
sit down, and start jerking my dick.

I have a pretty nice dick. Seven and a half inches, kind of thick, of
course some hair at the base, but I shave my balls. My legs aren't too
hairy, either, but I buzz those. I'm sort of fit—pretty average—I
don't really work out other than some very sporadic bouts of sit-ups,
push-ups, planks, and Netflix yoga. But right now, I'm thinking about what
that beautiful boy in the main hall would think of me if he walked in the
bathroom and peered through the slat of the door on the stall. I wish he
would.

Someone opens the door. My heart skips. I hope it's the boy I hope it's the
boy I hope it's the boy I hope it's the...

It's some other college boy. But he's cute. I bet he's a freshman, he looks
young. I'm 28, but already the college kids look like high school kids and
the high school kids look like middle school kids. Not that I mind.

The guy walks to the urinal directly across the bathroom from the stall and
I hear him unzip his skinny jeans and then I hear the stream of piss
hitting the bit of water in the toilet. I don't particularly get off on
that stuff, but he is hot.

I wish that boy would walk into the bathroom and walk right up to the guy
and hold his dick for him as he pisses. Then shake off that piss and suck
that dude deep, that guy sliding his dick in and out as he leans over the
boy and pulls up his shirt and slides his hand down that kid's crack, the
college boy's middle finger sliding down that middle school or high school
boy's crack, sliding down and down, grabbing kid butt on the way, and when
he finds that tight smooth hole he fingers it, sliding the tip of his
finger in and out of his hole, easy to slide in and out because of the
slick sweat between the kid's ass from sitting all afternoon.

I hear the guy's piss stream stop. I get close to climaxing and stand up
from the toilet, hoping and not hoping that the guy would look through the
crack of the door and see me beating off to him, fantasizing about this
dude molesting that hot kid in the main hall. The guy walks to the sink
beyond my sight.

I whisper through the crack between the door and wall of the stall, "You
want to fuck that little boy out there, huh, you want to fuck that little
kid?" I hardly make a sound I whisper so quietly, and the guy is running
the water, so I don't fear that he will hear me. "Fuck yes, dude," I
whisper as I get close to climaxing.

I grab my balls with my other hand and start squirting on the inside of the
door and the floor. Maybe the dude sees my cum leak down? Probably not.

I hear the water start and a moment later the electric hand blow dryer
starts up.

I sit back down on the papered toilet seat, and as I hear the guy leave, I
pull toilet paper out of the big roll and clean up the cum from the door
and floor, put it in the toilet, and then pull up my pants and flush the
toilet. I wash and dry my hands and head back out to my post.

As I head to my post I look at the boy, but he isn't there! He left! No! I
scan the whole room, then look at the main exit door. I catch a glimpse of
him, coat on, books in hand, leave through the front door.

After an hour and more of longing, my beautiful fixation left my sight. My
dick twitched again thinking about whether that cute kid will jerk himself
off tonight.

*