You know, looking back, it's easy to imagine all sorts of tender emotions, but the reality of being a boy is that you get real horny and you need to do something about it. Then comes the fun. Then you're done and it's back to playing with matches or throwing rocks or whatever.
He was a little older than Doug and me, say 16 to our 14. Tom was originally Doug's friend. Doug and I had been in each other's pants, a lot, in between building mini flame throwers and reloading ammo so we could afford to go shooting. We both had M1 carbines and we'd play kick the can, shooting from the hip. Easier said than done. And of course you needed a safe place to do it. His dad's club rented a tobacco farm, where they had their shooting range. Every time I went there with them it was deserted, so we could spray lead pretty freely.
Effeminate we weren't, and neither was Tom. He was well built, with very little fat on him. His abs showed, though we didn't call them "abs" back then. In fact, most teenagers used to "lose their baby fat," and be pretty lean, before the "Great Chub-Out." Anyway, so Doug and I played boners every time the mood struck. Which it did with relentless regularity. Doug was a natural comedian. He was a late bloomer, having no pubes at all, as he turned 14. His right-curving dick was plenty big, as were his lovely hairless balls. But he had this huge polymorphous perverse streak. He used to cock his legs and tilt his hips and do that Elvis move — you know, cock the head to the side and down — and then theatrically undo his belt, like some hillbilly macho strip tease... This could be a preamble to just going to take a piss, or it might be the warm up to ripping off all his clothes and wagging his package out the window at the world.
So Doug's antics had already stretched Tom's tolerance for deviance a bit already. The notion that Doug and I might be "doing something" had surely crossed Tom's mind. But whenever he caught wind of anything overt, he'd sort of whine, "You guys!" You know, like: "I know you're not queer, so... so don't even act like it!" Hell, I do get his point: I mean, you don't think my dick going in and out, between Dougie's smooth buns, makes us look "that way," do you? Oh, uhh... Unnnnh! Unnnnh! Now what was I saying?
Oh, yeah: I owe Dougie for showing me that certain wanton persona of his, that abandoned shamelessness cast in a joking guise. Left to my own devices, I would never have dared do half the stuff I did with Tom (and later with... but those are tales for another time).
Tom was a hard-working C student, struggling to avoid D's. Destined to work in a trade, like his dad, who I don't remember ever meeting. But the dad was definitely the blue collar, beer-and-sleeveless-undershirt type. Tom spent his summer mornings watching Where the Action Is on TV. It was all about California Living: surfing, "impromptu" performances by Paul Revere and The Raiders and Sam The Sham and The Pharaohs. He planned to head West, the moment he graduated, where all the palm trees and beaches and babes were. Where Paul Revere and Sam The Sham hung out all day at the beach (in their woolen costumes) and casually played their Top 40 songs whenever the mood happened to strike, and all the groovy kids danced and cavorted like those giant TV cameras weren't even there. But he definitely planned on graduating. Only the loser-i-est of the losers didn't get through high school even if, like Tom, it took them an extra year to do it.
So, dearly beloved, it came to pass that Dougie moved away (just for a year, though, then hey-la, hey laa... Oooh, Now With 100% More Hair!), leaving me high and dry and throwing Tom and me together in our off time. Tom had always been coming over to our apartment complex to swim. So now, instead of Tom going to Doug's and we'd all meet at the pool, now he would come to my place and change in my room. Where I would gaze hungrily at his nakedness, as he got into and out of his weird stretchy bathing suit. His fit young ass did less for me, as I recall, than his big snug balls and that nice heavy dick swinging beneath. This one time, he remarked, "You're seeing something no girl will ever see." When I asked what, he said, "My dick, soft." Poor girls.
This one time there was a hot spell, and I remember saying that I slept nude, but even then I was still too hot. He said he couldn't do that, because it made him so horny he couldn't get to sleep. I told him I just jacked off right before bed. He told me he did it lying down every day, when he got home from school, and got real graphic about how he'd shoot a huge pool of sperm that ran off his belly and he had to lie on a towel or mop it up real quick before it could get on the bedspread. That piece of self revelation gave me at least a glimmer of hope. I did suggest that he add another J-O to his schedule. Meanwhile, that picture he'd painted for me was something else to jack off about, when I wasn't remembering Doug or lusting after some other boy from school or from around the apartment complex. I didn't want every single one of them, but there were plenty of candidates to spill seed over. I considered myself normal and straight. Just crazy about boys and dicks and doing stuff with them that you don't talk about. After all, I didn't have any girls begging to wrap their lips or their pussies around my boner did I? So what's a boy to do? And do? And do... Besides, boys did more interesting shit the rest of the time, when they weren't having boysex. Like shoot things and torch old toys with a flamethrower.
So, school was back in session. I was in 9th, and Tom had to stay over with me for a week or so, while his folks rushed to some distant state to bury some stiff aunt and tidy up her affairs. His folks asked mine to see that he got to school every morning and stayed out of trouble while they were gone. Somewhere along the line, I guess my mom must have met Tom's. She spoke kindly of her, but described her as a "salt of the earth" type.
So there is Tom, and it's bed time, and we're staying in my sister's room (she's away at college), 'because the sleeping arrangements worked out better.' (It was cooler and had better privacy. Dougie and I had fuck-tested it a few times.) The light's off. Tom's in bed tossing and squirming. I'm grinning and squirming in anticipation. Finally, he comes out with the complaint I had prayed to hear: he was too horny to sleep. I think I had my hand touching and squeezing his dick before he'd finished speaking, hefting and caressing it. Before he could object much, I had him moaning, then thrusting. Seemingly in seconds, he clenched up and came all over the place, hosing down my hand and wrist, the wet warmth cooling as it ran down, something that I found strangely sensuous. Realizing he was likely to freak out, I said something intended to sound droll; something like "So there," and mopped him up. Then I whacked myself with his cum (I'd never whacked in front of anyone before, let alone with their cum). I moaned as I came hard — with him watching — sighed, wiped up and said "Good night."
There was a short silence, then Tom spoke my name.
"Um hum?" I responded.
"Thanks. That took a lot of guts."
"It's not a big deal. Everybody does it, but then they act weird about the whole thing."
"But you touched my dick."
"That's true. I touched mine, too. I think dicks are great; I like dicks. Every guy should have one.
"Did my hand feel good?" I asked.
"Good enough to make me blow a load so hard it made me dizzy."
"Cool. Glad I could lend a hand."
"So to speak?"
"So to speak."
"Good night." Then he gave a big sigh, mumbled, and fell right to sleep.
Remembering the good feeling of having his big heavy dick in my hand made me horny again and I had to beat my meat all over again, thinking of his hard fat dick and his big balls. It was hard to "get there" so soon after the last time. But remembering his warm cum landing on my wrist over and over again, the feeling of it as I jacked with its cooling creaminess, thinking of my face buried in his package. Ope! That did the trick. Sweet cream. Relief. Sleep took me before I could even mop up.
In the morning, we slogged through getting our reluctant teenage bodies ready for school; nothing was said. But that afternoon, we came home to my place together. It was my usual time to whack off after the enforced 7 or 8 hours of abstinence at school. His, too: Tom had definitely said he whacked it every day after school, that time he told me about his big pool of sperm and his towel and all. And right after school was when Doug and I would usually have a quick romp before doing our homework (or burning stuff). A teen boy thing: helps concentration; improves grades. You see all those kids walking home, and you know damn well what they're gonna do first thing, when they get there.
I lived on the 5th floor. Tom had both his hands full: books in one, bulging stuffed notebook in the other. So, as soon as the elevator doors closed, channeling Dougie I pounced. From behind, I sensuously slid my hands into his pockets, coming to rest holding his goodies: left hand cupping his big balls, the right appreciating his thickening dick. He was already more than half hard, pointed diagonally up toward his right hip. Touching it made my dick spasm a big clear dollop into my undies. Touching it made his turn to steel. Sweet fat steel.
"Unh-uh! Unh-uh!" he objected, wriggling. He didn't dare drop his stuff. The wriggling just brought my hands into better contact with their targets and got him harder.
"Umm-Humm! Umm-Humm!" I crooned approvingly, a rapturous counterpoint to his fading objections. Clasping his hips hard between my forearms, I continued to touch his cock and balls gently, molesting him with sweet insistence, stroking, squeezing, coaxing him to a raging state. He had begun to moan by the time the elevator arrived at my floor. It came to a stop with a jerk. With the doors about to open, it was suddenly time to act normal. He yelped in involuntary protest when I suddenly yanked my hands away, just before the doors flew open. There was nobody there, as it turns out, saving Tom the indignity of scuttling sideways down the hall like a crab, using his notebook to hide his giant public boner. Instead, he paraded stiffly down the hallway like a drum major, his rampant boner leading the way. I let us in, showed him where to set his books, and led him to my room by the dick.
"I'll make you a deal," I said, closing the door. "Two deals. First nobody else but us ever hears about this. Second, I'll even suck your dick, but you have to at least jack me off, too, while I'm doing it. And you can't stop until I shoot, too."
Before he could respond, I was running my hand along the length of his shaft, squeezing the head, and moving to cup and lift his package, wryly imitating Dougie's theatrical wantonness. He moaned, thrust into my hand, and the fight went out of him. He put his hands over mine and pressed his package into them, letting out a little desperate groan. I undid his belt, unzipping him, as he just stood there with a red face, breathing too fast. His pants opened the rest of the way by themselves, actuated by boner pressure.
I dragged them down, along with his briefs, down past his butt. Out came his dick, radiating warmth. Up close, it was even better, the head chubby and boyish, the ridge frank, urgent, his shaft thick and straight. Those big, pretty balls hung heavy beneath, his beautiful bag filling the air with his mild fragrance. I grasped his shaft, feeling it pulse in my hand at the contact, and touched the tip to my lips where, by magic, it slid right in. The warm fullness of him caressed my lips as he entered me. My heart raced as I slid to take him, to feel his size, to adore him. Trapped by his pants, he was forced to submit.
His heat and the smell of him shut off my brain. Something huge and unexpected swept down and enveloped me: intimacy. It filled me, drew me, his tender penis in my mouth somehow completing me, and this huge, warm hypnotic intimacy, blanketing me, blanketing us. Together. A tender confession. Somehow prayerful. A vow. His wonderful warm smell. And me together with him, the frankness of a big penis in my mouth. His... Him... The boy words, the givingness of it, the voluptuous head filling me, my helpless abandonment to sucking, our high moans, having this boy, being with him, him with me, letting himself be taken, trusting me, giving me his most private self. My joy in welcoming him. The marvel of his cockhead in my mouth, his shaft between my lips, tenderly holding them open in adoration: I was in Dick Trance.
Drawing off the end, returning to take him in, to slide my lips to his ridge, over into his valley, onward to engulf him to the base, helplessly loving his darling hairs, as my nose touched them. The fullness of him exalted me, the back of my throat craving him, the center of me thrilled each time he entered, the corners of my mouth, my lips, cherishing the sweetness of his shape, each time they they tasted the head. I pulled off and stroked him slowly, already missing him. He moaned and pulsed. His clear juice surfaced in a big thick drop. We both looked at it: a confession of his sexual surrender. My lips moved, touched, reveled in his juice, starting to tingle as they slid in it, over the shape of him. Sliding in his juice: my own confession, him watching me do it. Watching me enjoy it, my face blazing with the mounting inner joy of it.
Dougie's wasn't this big, this nice. Sucking him had never moved me like this. I'd never lost myself in the sucking, in holding his balls, their heft, the tenderness. With Dougie, I never moaned. Maybe I wasn't emotionally ready. But I was sure moaning this time; so was Tom. I slowed my sucking to make him last. After a couple of dozen more strokes, I knew I had to stop or he was gonna blow his wad and lose all motivation before I could get him to jack me off. That would fuck things up. The balance of power would have tilted too far: I'd be the queer and he'd be a straight boy with empty nuts.
I led him by the dick over to my bed, sat him down and quickly got us both naked. Then I laid him down and slid next to him with our dicks in front of each other's faces. I took his dick back into my hand, back into my mouth. Found my nose buried in his balls again, heard myself moaning again, my heart racing and his big tender dick filling my mouth.
When he didn't get the hint, I pulled my mouth off him and reached down to put his hand on my boner. I still had my mouth against the side of his shaft, mouthing his beautiful fatness from the side, squeezing him, making him pulse and make more nectar. When I felt him start to stroke me, I hummed my approval and took his dripping dick back into my mouth. We were off to the races. Those wonderful, sweet, hypnotic races.
I had never realized sucking a dick could give me such pleasure. With Doug, it was a service we exchanged. With Tom, it was a languid, prayerful visit to the Holy Temple of Dick. It touched the back of my throat, tenderly anointing it, drawing me in, to lose myself, to abandonment, to my head filling with pleasure, to moaning, as I took him to the root, worshiping, mindlessly impaling myself, rhythmically striving to elicit the prize. His balls met my nose. My upper lip pushed against, into them, cool, beautiful, big and full, with little delicate gathers. I reached around to pluck and caress them, lost track of my own dick for a while, absorbed as I was in Tom's, in his voluptuous swelling, in feeling his bag rise and tighten, his hardness, his taut urgency, his juice, the feeling of his cockhead ballooning; the fullness of him.
By the time I heard him, his desperate "Can... C'n I... C'n I?" I was already arriving, peaking, cresting, the ecstasy taking me hard, the joy of sucking a dick filling my world as my cream slid to fill my cumming place. His "Uunnhh, uunnhhh!" barely registered as my own joy rose, until Tom's thick cream erupted into my mouth, closing some circuit and completing me. His teen cum groan, party heard through his pulsing flesh, drowned out by the huge reality of his intimate gift, testament to his arrival, erupting again and again through the heavy meat that pulsed between my lips, as he helplessly surrendered himself.
Impaled on my ecstasy, I quivered and fired my joy into space, as his load shot into me. I was peaking hard, 3 or 4 squirts along, still greedily receiving his huge meaty shots in my mouth, my orgasm sizzling cruelly.
Though I barely tasted his cream, the force of his joy entering me, claiming me, imprinted my soul forever with the wonder of all this: Intimate... Complete... Boy... Cream... Together... Pulsing... Intimate... Him. With Him.
"Whewfuckinggod Damn! God Damn! Hunh, Hunh, Ohh Fuck!" He continued to throb, as did I. Continued to pump, as did I. Fell asleep on the spot. As did I.