Date: Tue, 1 Mar 2005 00:34:10 +0000 (GMT) From: roy p...... Subject: Wanker part 2 There wasn't going to be a part 2, but, well, I have a fertile imagination. It's all in the mind, like dreams. Read on, dream, and enjoy. Tell me if you did, please. 2 The next morning, halfway along the second street of the first half of his paper round, Mike began to wonder if the boy would be there at all. Yesterday, as he'd walked his two last streets, he'd become annoyed that it had happened. Yes, it had been nice, very nice in fact, but it was queerstuff, and he didn't do queerstuff. He'd got home after the round, walked into the kitchen where his mother had already cooked the bacon and warmed the beans for his breakfast, and was about to crack his egg into the frying pan. "Leave it a minute, mum!" he heard himself saying. "I've just got to -" and he ran upstairs to his room and closed the door. There are times when a boy has to, NOW, and this was one of them. He pushed his tracksuit bottoms and boxers down, halfway to his knees, took it in his hand and rubbed like fury. He arched his back, threw his head right back, screwed his eyes tight shut and gritted his teeth hard. It seemed never to have been so hard, so large, so - hot. It took seven seconds. The feeling didn't just wash over him, swirl up and down his body as usual, it hit him hard, head on. Like he'd walked out in the road and been hit by a bus. He relaxed a bit, slowly, opened his eyes and looked. It was running down the wall! That was seven feet away, the other side of his bed! Mike watched in disbelief as what looked like half a cupful of watery white custard slid down the wall, leaving a damp patch an inch and a half wide on his Star Trek wallpaper behind as it went. He jumped towards it, landing on his knees on the bed, and he grabbed his pillow and tried to mop it up, off the wall. He rubbed the pillow round and round on the wall, then lifted it away and looked. The liquid was gone, but now, the damp patch was nine inches wide and a foot long! He looked at the pillowcase, a white one with a red Ferrari on it, and it was wet and dirty-grey where he'd rubbed the wall with it. Shit! Mike looked down to his lap. It was still hard! Red, wet and hard, pointing up, pointing at the damp wallpaper. He touched it with a finger, it wobbled to one side, sprang back and twitched, throbbed up quarter of an inch towards his stomach, then back. Every heartbeat, it throbbed. Cautiously, Mike wrapped his hand round it again. It wanted more! Mike jumped backwards off the bed, stood with his legs open and rubbed it again, ever so slowly, watching it carefully. He remembered the feel of that boy's hand, the soft cool skin, the tight grip when he tried to stop him, the sensuality of it all. Mike didn't know that word, sensuality, but he knew what he felt. And he knew it was good. Mike was lost in a world of self- pleasure. Not a good hard wank, his usual strum-till-it-comes stuff, but a softer pleasure. A softer hand. He held it lightly, trying to imitate the boy's touch, and got close, but not completely there. He unwrapped his hand, held it with two fingers under and thumb on top, yes, that was new, that fanned his flame. The peak was near, but oh, so slow coming. Nice. Mike inched towards it, two fingertips running the vein underneath, the thumb hardly touching, lifting off on some strokes, just tickling on others. It came closer, closer, closer. The muscle behind it, inside him, closed slowly, opened, closed slowly. He felt it, every minute contraction, every push it gave to the liquid that oozed from the slit. It oozed, formed a drop, and fell to the floor. It left a thin string, a lead-rope for the next one. The third, last, hung from the string, suspended, three inches below its escape hole. Mike watched, mesmerised. Beautiful. Sex wasn't like that, Mike thought. You WANKED, you FUCKED, they were HARD things, not soft, not - beautiful? Or were they? Should they be? He flicked his cock, and the drop fell to the floor, joining the other two. He smeared them into the carpet with his shoe. Pulling his boxers and tracksuit up, he opened the bedroom door. "Put my egg on now, mum!" he shouted. So would he be there? Part of Mike wanted him to be, part of him not. He wasn't going to do it again whatever, it was queerstuff, gay, and no way was he gay. There was definitely NO stirring in Mike's boxers this morning. Just inside the park, not quite halfway to the bushes, is a bench. The boy was sitting on it. A small dog on a lead jumped and yapped as Mike approached. "Hi!" the boy said. Mike bent and petted the dog. "Hi!" Mike sat next to the boy. Not a conscious decision to sit, it just happened. "Nice dog!" "No it's not. It smells, and it shits an' pisses everywhere. I can't play in the back garden now, too much dogshit everywhere." "Oh." "Walkin' it's an excuse, to get out, come to the park, to see you." "Oh." A pause. "Why to see me?" "I like watching you." "Why?" "Feels good." "What feels good?" "Getting' hard watchin' you." "I'm not queer!" "You don' have to be." "Are you?" "S'pose so." "You said you weren't." "I lied." "Oh." The little dog tried to jump up on Mike's lap. The boy yanked the lead, cruelly, to pull it away. "How long you been watching me?" "Months." "I've never seen you." "You didn't need to." "Oh." The boy turned his head to Mike and studied his face. "I come an' watch you walk across the park. It turns me on. I loved it in the summer when you wore the short shorts and tight t- shirt, I hid in those bushes and wanked off as you walked past. I watched the day you lifted your shorts leg and pissed up the elm tree. Then the day I watched you wank up the bush, I just had to meet you." "Oh." "So now you know. I'm sorry." "Don't be sorry." "But you're not -" "No. But you've done me no harm. Do you think about me when - you -" "Yes." "Oh. Do you picture you an' me - together?" "Yes." "And do we -" "Whatever I want to imagine, we do it." "Oh." Another pause, during which Mike looks at the boy's face, into his eyes. "Do you love me?" "Yes - no - I don't know, I watch you, I don't know you." "What do you want to do now?" "Kiss you." "Oh." Mike looks at the boy again, closes his eyes and leans towards him. Suddenly, he opens his eyes again, making the boy jump. "I'm still not queer!" He closes his eyes again, and puckers his lips. He feels the boy's face on his, not a quick peck as he'd expected, like grandma's kiss, but a hand-behind-the head, open mouth hard kiss. A tongue pressing on his lips. Mike jumped, and gasped. The tongue slipped in his suddenly-open mouth. Mike's eyes were wide open, he could see the boy's eyes were closed, his arms up over Mike's shoulders. Mike was also aware that he was hard, rock hard. He jumped back. The boy fell forward, onto Mike's chest. "Sorry!" Mike said. "S' O.K." The little dog, its lead dropped, walked away. "Sacha!" the boy shouted, and ran after it. The dog ran off. Mike jumped up, left his paperbag and ran after them. At the clump of bushes, the dog ran past, then turned to run around the bushes. Mike ran the other way and met them heading towards him. He fell to his knees, slid along the ground, and grabbed the dog's lead as the dog darted away, and held it. The boy ran up to Mike, gasping, and looked down at him holding the lead and smiling. He bent to take the lead. Mike took the outstretched hand, and yanked it. The boy fell over. Mike rolled onto him, pressed his lips on the boy's, and kissed him hard. Tongues wrestled between teeth. Hard cocks ground together between clothes. The boy pushed Mike up, away. "You aren't queer!" the boy said. "Try me!" Mike laughed, and rolled their cocks together harder.