Date: 4 Mar 1999 06:59:44 -0800 From: poondu@members.gayweb.com Subject: Two Boys and A Man Two Boys and A Man thole Two boys and a man decloaked in the car park behind the old bus. The man in the bus was watching through the smokey rear window as the littlest one kicked off his sandals and pulled down his jeans. The other two started at the top; first their jerseys and undershirts, then their trousers, only removing their sandals when they got in the way of the trous. By this time the little one had turned away and was pulling his jersey off over his head. As if it was a mighty task he bent fully over and let the jersey fall off his arms to the ground. He reached behind and with dainty hands spread his ass cheeks to let the cool desert air dry the car-sweat from his crack and then he stood and turned back. His father admonished him to pick up his clothes from the ground and by the time he'd done that the man and the older boy, their sandals on again, had picked up all of their kit but the green plastic basket ball and commenced walking toward the gate. Little-one stepped across his sandals, picked up the ball and ran to catch up. A boy after my own heart thought the man behind the smokey window as he moved through the bus to keep him in view. The sounds of youthful voices are not heard often enough in this place. Bringing one's children to a naturist camp seems foreign to some parents despite their own enjoyment of the occasion. Is it that they don't want their kids to know? or they don't want to expose their kids to the risk of perversion? or they want to enjoy the moment of freedom by themselves? Or perhaps in this society of perverted values they as naturist parents are afraid of being accused of molesting or abusing their own children? Whatever. The father went to lay out on the lawn and his older son followed his every move; lawn-potatoes as it were, whilst the little one kicked the ball about under the badminton net. Occasionally, whether by accident or design, the ball would land squarely on the buttocks of the older boy who would snarl his disconcertion and go back to his reading. The man watching from afar wondered where the ball would land if that boy were to lay on his back. Presently the man contrived to take a bag of trash to the barrel on the far side of the lawn doing which allowed him to pass close between the father and sons. Father was quite unlike his sons and it was both amazing and saddening to think that their hairless young skysuits would all too soon become like his--he looked almost as though he could pass for a silver-back ape. His penis was little more than a glans, like a red egg in a nest, he was cut so short. The man wondered as he passed by why it is that most circumcised penises are so short, especially the adult ones. Is it cos the latent fat pushes the groin out around them or cos so much of the foreskin has been removed that the remaining scarred sheath holds the head in close. The older son, who, up close looked to be about eight or ten, was cut in the same horrible manner as his father. The little boy, who by now we know is named Eric from the way the other two address him, is cut but sports enough of a fold of foreskin that his beechmast is half covered to the result that his penis in its present little-boy- sticking-out-straight condition is actually longer than his older brother's. A condition that I'm sure engenders no end of envy and frustration in the older sibling, the man ponders as he returns from depositing his bag of trash. Eric is busy throwing his ball over the net to an invisible playmate and running under it to catch the ball and return it. Mostly he is late and the ball is already sitting quietly on the grass, waiting. As the man walks past Eric makes a heroic throw but this time does not run under the net. This time he stands pat, knowing full well that this man, unlike his father or his brother, this man is ensorcelled, bewitched, under his spell. This man will return the ball, he has no other choice. They play together for several minutes; the boy throwing with all he's got to get the ball over the net, the man with his longer legs able to return almost every serve, and then Eric ducking from under the ball, falling over it, running to catch, and then throw it back. He is tiring now and instead of throwing over, this time he kicks it under. The man returns, Eric kicks, but it hurts his toe. The man comes close and shows the pretty boy how to kick with the side of his foot and a new vigour comes upon the lad that lasts for a bit longer before he kicks the ball to the side and follows it without a word of thanks. The game is over just the way it started; the boy is in control and he has this man on a string, hook, line, sinker--by the ball one might say. The man retires to his bus and contrives a new way to get closer. He collects all his laundry--not much laundry when one lives in a nudist community--a few towels, a sheet from the bed that is big enough for himself and several boys at the same time, tho he most often sleeps there alone but for the faeries that play with him in the night, a dun pareu. He carries all this carefully through the tableau on the lawn where Eric is wandering between things that capture his attention for a moment but fail to hold it. The boy wants to play but there is no one to play with. Wait, here comes that man again. And so he follows. The man stumbles on a paver and drops his plastic liter of laundry powder. Eric is quick and returns it with a smile. Thank you Eric. How do you know my name? It is written on your face, the man smiles as the boy, with puzzled expression, wipes a hand across his brow. The wash is quickly started under the lad's watchful eye and then the man goes off to make the rounds of his responsibilities. Eric follows. When they are round the far side of the pool a heavy basso rumbles his little name. Eric! Where are you? And a boy soprano yodels back Right Here! They try the teetertotter where the man is able to launch the little boy and catch him in his arms. Contact! A three stone sack of sweaty wriggles. Eventually they are back around where the slugs repose on the grass and the man tells the boy he will return in a few minutes to move his wash to the dryer. Eric for a moment looks crest fallen, as if his playmate has been called home to supper and now he has nothing to do but then the father speaks up and says Lunch. --- Now the laundry is finished and the man is removing it, one item at a time from the dryer. He holds up each towel and snaps it, once, twice, and then folds double, over, and over again, and holds up one knee to use as a momentary table to fold again in thirds. Eric is watching from a vantage next to the dryer. Why are you doing your laundry? Cos if I don't then everything will be dirty and I like the smell of clean towels. My Dad never does the laundry, my Mom does. I don't have a Mom so I have to do it. Where's your Mom? She's dead now. Oh. And then Eric is standing next to him as he holds up one particularly large blue towel. You can tell by his milk teeth the boy is five, maybe four, not likely six, a meter tall at best, his face is level with the man's groin. The man looks around over the top of the towel and then down at the boy. The lad smiles up at him, Wanna play doctor? Right here? If you hold the towel we can make believe its the curtain for my examining room. How come you don't have any hair? You look just like me except you're bigger. Are you a man or are you really a boy? I'm a boy trapped in a man's body, the man says as the lad reaches to feel the smoothness of the shaved chest and pubes. The boy is holding both hands side by side with the man's cock across his palms. He is fascinated by its growth as he holds it. When he first lifted it, from hanging down to pulled straight up, he used his other hand to fondle the balls he found under it. Now he is testing its firmness and pulling back on the foreskin. How come its getting hard? Cos it likes the way you're touching it. Mine gets hard when my brother touches me and one of my friends has a foreskin he lets me play with when he sleeps over. But we only did it once. Eric seems to be addressing the penis he is holding more than the man, who is still holding the examining room curtain. Up until a week ago my Dad and me use to almost always wash together--sometimes in the tub, sometimes in the shower. He would wash me and then I would get out and wrap in a towel while he washed. But sometimes I would stay in and watch him wash. Sometimes he would sit and I would wash his back. Then last week I started to wash his pee-pee like he always washed mine, and it started to get longer and hard and he pushed my hands away and said I was old enough to shower alone now. That was the last time we washed together. I miss him touching me. He looked up at the man and pressed his cheek against the erection in his hands. The man groaned. Eric jumped back. Did I hurt it, he cried, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. He let go and brought his clenched fists up under his chin; the cock continued to stand unsupported. He looked up again, Is it alright? Its ok Eric, you didn't hurt it, your hands feel so good on it, that was a moan of happiness cos it feels good. Phew! I'm glad. Well, I'm done examining, its your turn to be the doctor and examine me. And who's going to hold up the curtain, the man thought. But he said, I'll finish folding all this stuff and then we can go to my office. --- He lifted the boy onto the wash basin counter top in the bathhouse and immediately their relative perspectives were reversed. He held the boy's thighs and directed him to turn about slowly while examining the statuesque nascent Adonis. There was a mirror behind the boy that doubled his pleasure. When Eric had come full circle (would that he *could* cum thought the man) he stood with his feet apart and submitted to the examination. His skin was soft and smooth, without blemish, slightly tanned but no tan line, and only the slightest trace of pubescent down. The man brought a finger up between the lad's sculpted legs and lightly scratched his perineum and then fondled the tight boyish scrotum. Eric moaned as his penis began to respond. Now I know what you meant by it feeling good. The folded remnant of foreskin retracted as his pee-pee lengthened. My pee-pee looks like a peeee-peeee now he said. He touched himself and was surprised at his own hardness. The man stroked the base, drawing a finger around the root and then caressing the glans while the boy moaned and giggled. He kissed it and the lad's sharp intake of breath told him that nobody had done that before or at least not that he could remember. Then he turned the lad away again and had him bend over and hold his ankles while he again drew a finger along the perineum towards the tight clean anus. He kissed each cheek and wondered if he would see this lad again before he was twice as old. -30-