The next afternoon, he searched me out and stuck to me like glue. His pretty mouth kept falling open, gaping softly as he looked at me. We got back to the apartment and he was soft and boy-solid in my arms, as I asked him:

"Chassie?" He smiled at this and squirmed around his boner.

"Were you a good boy today? Did you enjoy your chastity?"

He was virtually panting. "I thought about your cock all day. I thought about your clear stuff. I haven't made you shoot your sperms, yet. Are you having chastity for me?"

"All the time. You're such a good boy, such a beautiful angel. You are in chastity for me, so I have to save my sexy feelings just for you."

"Do you need to shoot your sperms?"

"I need to shoot so bad I can't think straight."

"Can I suck your cock and make you shoot your sperms?"

"As long as I get to help you make your sperms, afterwards."

"That will be... So I don't have to worry? I can just let my pee-pee go and not worry?"

"Don't worry. Let go and don't worry. How do you want to do this?"

"I want you to stand up and I want to kneel."

I did. And he did. My cock was hard like glass and stood up at a sharp angle, not even bobbing. He took it in his cool little hands, then collected my balls and ran his fingers over the skin, appreciating my bag. He pulled my cock down, facing him. A clear drop appeared at my tip, followed by a steady stream, as my desire rose and burned in me. His soft hand was gentle torment, making me want to thrust and shout. Instead, I had to wait, prisoner of my lust and his, until his pretty, rosy lips reached to take me.

His expression was meditative, prayerful, his face awash in smooth repose, unfurrowed. His lips caressed my tip, feeling its outline, coming to rest behind the ridge, slowly withdrawing only to return, eager and hungry, to take me ever deeper, as his silvery tenor moans sang out the music within him.

He sucked me so tenderly, with such innocence, with motions that spoke such deep gratitude for the privilege of sucking, that my tender feelings rose up and enfolded me, coddling me in cloying pleasure, as he earned my cream. By the time he had me at the edge, my cream was quivering and burning in my deep place. I was helpless before him, surrendered to the exquisite approach of my impending inevitability. His lips were sweet torment, bringing me closer, closer, hanging... then arriving, impaling me on the cruel ecstasy of climax, arching and sobbing my release, yielding myself to the sweet burning tenderness of his lips. Being taken, hard.

The sound of him swallowing sent a shiver through me and made me glad inside.

It wasn't until I snapped out of it a little that I thought to ask.

"Did you ever suck a boy's cock before?"

"Only Seth... " he faltered. The sad look returned.

"Seth? Tell me about Seth."

"He had a... We were... He died."

"Died?"

"In a car wreck during Thanksgiving last year. His whole family."

"Was he your best friend?" He paused, and then nodded.

"Seth and me... We knew each other since we were eight or nine. We spent all our time together. He was circ- circumcised, so he didn't have any skin. He liked to look at mine. When we slept over, we liked to look at each other's and touch each other and give each other boners. He liked to touch my bag a lot. That's how I discovered about my skin being too tight. I always figured, you know, that it would finally go back, and I would have a cock head, like him. But he ended up with a cock and I just had my pee-pee. But he let me suck him and... and be with a real cock... and have it in my mouth. I couldn't have one of my own, but Seth let me share his. He got the blond hairs at the same time I did and I was sucking him when he made his sperms for the first time. It felt like we were married. I just couldn't suck him often enough."

"And then... And then he never came back from Thanksgiving." His voice raised to a choking wail.

"I carried him," he sobbed bitterly, "I carried him out of the church. And now I'm having trouble remembering his face. I loved him so much and now when I try to picture him... It makes me so ashamed."

I held him against me, as he squirmed in his misery. I found myself rocking him, and he seemed to calm down a little.

"I'm sorry, I got snot on your shirt," and he broke again into bitter, racking sobs.

I rocked him and kissed his hair, until he was calm again. Then I gave him some Kleenex from my bedside table.

"Don't you have a photograph of him?"

He shook his head, suddenly less emotional, almost detached. "No, the whole family, Seth and his mom and dad and his little sister Stephanie. The truck got them all. And the relatives came and took all their stuff and I never got any of the pictures they took of us."

Shit! ShitShitShit!

I confess my original motives were -- lets face it -- entirely selfish. I told myself there was something in it for both of us, I guess. I went and bought a fucking vibrator, for where I thought this was going. Something about the clerk's utter lack of... judgmentalism? Is that a word? Something came across in his detachment that served my... that I had used to justify where I was taking this. But something had just happened to tip the scales. It wasn't about me anymore, with Chuckie as just a... what? A sidekick? A sexual subservient? To be manipulated and used? It flipped and became about his needs in that moment.

"Do you remember what church it was?"

"The big Catholic one downtown. The funeral home was that one on River. Mortenson or something. I hate driving by there. It makes me hurt when I see it."

"I am going to get you a picture of Seth if it's the last thing I do," I vowed to him.

"You are a good friend."

"I'll try to be," I said, knowing it to be truth.

He was looking better. "Are you in the mood to make your sperms?"

"Yeah," he said sadly, "I can think about Seth, if that's okay."

"You think about Seth," I said.

I guess he did. He whimpered and then he moaned strong, and then he growled and came fiercely, thrusting, though it had to hurt. He shot. He paused.

And then he said, "Oh, Seth... "

And I held him as he mourned.