In The Hands Of The Gods
If sexual activity between boys and men is not your thing, then please move on. If it is, then I hope you enjoy this little tale. And please remember to donate a little something to Nifty so you can read better tales than this.
In The Hands Of The Gods
A short story by Ivor Sukwell.
He lay back on the soft grass, shielded from the heat of the early summer sun by the slightly overhanging rock. It was like the entrance to a cave, but a cave that had never been made, the perfect place for a boy to sit or lie while his goats roamed, chomping at the coarser grasses and leaves beyond.
His tunic hung on a tiny rock projection behind him, and as that tunic was all he ever wore, he lay naked in the shade, the gentle breeze caressing his body and teasing his young groin.
It was his thirteenth birthday, though apart from that it was a day no different to other days. Here he lay or sat when the weather was warm, his tunic hanging behind him, his adolescent flesh caressed by the gentle air.
It had been different three years ago to this very day, the day of his tenth birthday. Then, as now, he lay naked in the warm shade, and when he had turned his head, there, on the flat topped rock that was just the right height for a seat, a man sat.
How he had come to be there or when he had arrived the boy did not know, but there he was.
A strange man, strange not only in that the boy did not know him, but strange in looks and manners also.
If he was naked or not the boy could not tell; his legs were so hairy that they may have been covered by leggings made from the skin of sheep or goats and worn with the wool outside, as some men did when the weather was colder.
His chest was bare, that the boy could tell; he could see the nipples of the man and his upper body was not covered with hair.
His chin was sharp and his ears strangely pointed, but he did not frighten the boy; his face smiled and his eyes twinkled, and when he blew on the reed pipe he held in one hand he made sounds that were sweet to hear.
"Today is your tenth birthday," the strange man said, and the boy agreed that it was, though how this man who he had never before seen should know that was something he did not understand. It was, he decided, in the simple way that boys of his age do decide, the strange man knew that because he was a man and adults know everything there is to know.
"For a boy who is just ten today," the strange man said as he looked, smilingly at the naked boy, "You have already a body that shows much promise. Your shoulders are broad, your thighs firm and your stomach flat." And he blew some sweet notes on his pipe so the boy relaxed and did not mind at all that the man looked at his body.
"Your little cock is bigger than it was a year ago," the man said and blew some more notes, and the boy had no concerns that the man talked of his cock.
"I am bigger all over," the boy said simply; "I am a year older so I should be a year bigger, and I suppose my cock grows with me."
"And have you learned yet," the strange man asked, "That a boy's cock can give him much pleasure? That when a boy sits or lays, naked in the shade of the rock and his goats wander harmlessly and in no danger, that his hand may stray to his cock and feel it so it is no longer soft, but hard as a bone?"
For a moment the boy was wary, ashamed and embarrassed; how did this strange man know that he did those things, had been doing them since the summer started?
But the man played more notes on his pipe and the boy was no longer wary, but felt free to talk about his hand and his cock.
"I have done that," the boy confessed, "It feels nice in my hand; feels nice for my cock and my hand as well. More so when it is hard like a bone, though I do not know why that is or why it grows so hard."
"It is so that you can get pleasure from it," the man smiled, and his smile warmed the boy because it told him that playing with his cock was something he was allowed to do, and it was good for a boy to know that on his tenth birthday.
"And have you yet discovered that this is how you should do it?" the man asked. He held up his left hand with his fist clenched but with his middle finger sticking out. And with his right hand he placed two fingers underneath the one that stuck out on his left hand, and his thumb above and on the top. He moved his fingers and thumb slowly up and down, and as the boy watched him do that his little cock stiffened and became a bone.
"No," the boy said, "I have not done that. Is that the proper way for a boy to play with his cock?"
The man played notes on his pipe while the boy, realising his cock was hard, allowed a hand to reach for it, hold it and squeeze it, pull it from his stomach and release it so it fell back with a little sound of a slap as it hit flesh.
"Try it," the man said when his notes were finished, "And see if I am right."
The boy did, doing as the man had showed him, and though it was awkward at first the man played notes to give him a rhythm and soon he was stroking his cock in the manner that boys have stroked their cocks since time began.
"It feels good like that," the boy agreed and the man smiled and played his pipe.
The boy felt no urge to stop, but increased the pace of his stroking, stretched out his legs, tensing the muscles and pointing his toes. His body stiffened all over as he stroked now as fast as he could manage, and new feelings spread through him and all just from the stroking of his cock.
"It is called `wanking'," the man told him, "And a boy like you should do it as often as he can. Soon, perhaps in a few weeks, you will find something new happens, and when you wank it hard enough and for long enough it will feel like you need to pee. But you do not need to pee and you must not stop wanking, but continue until all your body shudders and your toes tingle."
"Will it feel good when that happens?" the boy asked.
"Better than anything you have ever felt," the man answered, and played soft notes while he watched the boy wank.
The boy wanked furiously until his wrist tired, his eyes clenched shut because that made it feel better somehow, and when he had to stop and his eyes opened the strange man was no longer there, though he thought he could still hear faint sounds of his pipe.
He closed his eyes, grasped his cock and wanked. Not a furious wank, a slow one, done for the pure and simple pleasure of wanking, a wank intended to last and last and last.
He had wanks like that now, wanks that were just for the pleasure of it. They'd all been a pleasure, of course, ever since that strange man had shown him how to do it properly three years ago, but recently he'd stopped getting that fantastic feeling that made his toes curl and his body shudder but didn't stop him wanking. Now he got a different feeling, the same one really but so much more intense, and when he got that some watery, sticky stuff spurted out from his cock and left him feeling drained for a bit and he couldn't just keep on wanking after that happened. He had to wait, sometimes for what seemed ages, before he was able to start wanking again.
The stuff that shot out was a bit slimy, something like the white of a raw egg, but nowhere near as much as that, of course. It had an odd taste as well, he knew that because when it first squirted out he scooped some off his stomach with a finger and tasted it. He did that most of the time now because he'd come to rather like the flavour.
He slowed his wanking to a stop because he got the first beginnings of that feeling, and if he didn't stop for a bit he knew he'd shoot and it was too soon to do that, he wanted to wank a lot, lot more before that happened.
He opened his eyes and that same strange man was sitting in the same place he had been three years ago!
He paused in his wanking. He didn't let go of his cock, try to conceal what he was so obviously doing, he simply stopped the up and down movement. He still held his cock in his favourite wanking grip; two fingers underneath and thumb on top as the strange man had showed him three years before, but he'd added a slight change of his own.
He held himself so his fingers and thumb met, touching at the tips, the knuckles of his third and fourth fingers against the lower shaft of his cock. Sometimes he made a circle of all his fingers and thumb and did it that way; his cock was big enough now so that if he gripped it like that, his little finger right down at the base, the head of his cock just about poked out from the top of his hand.
He didn't let go because he saw no reason why he should. The strange man had shown him how to wank properly and he actually felt a small glow of pride that he could show that he could wank properly now.
"That is nice to see," the strange man said with a smile on his unusual face, "A boy who enjoys his wanking."
"I love wanking," the boy said, "I wank lots."
"I'm sure you do," the man smiled, "Even more now that your cock has grown big enough for your hand."
"It has grown, hasn't it," the boy agreed enthusiastically, and released his grip so the strange man could see it properly. "And I can shoot now as well."
"That is a very nice cock," the strange man praised after he had taken a very good look at the boy's pride and joy, "And I can see a few dark golden hairs at the base now."
"Twelve," the boy grinned, "I count them every day." It only occurred to him later that the strange man must have very good eyesight if he could see those hairs from where he was sitting, because he could only just see them himself, the dark gold of the strands of hair blending into the sun-tanned skin of his body.
"Don't know if I want them to grow too much," the boy said thoughtfully, "I know they show I'm growing up, but I don't think I want them all over my cock and balls. Wouldn't be able to feel them properly if they were covered with hair."
Idly, the boy's hand slid from his cock and cupped and fondled his smooth balls, even strayed a little down to the top of his equally smooth, bronzed-by-the-sun thighs.
"I like my legs being smooth as well," he said, "I often stroke them when I'm wanking. It feels nice," he explained.
"Boys do like having their legs stroked," the strange man agreed, and played a little tune on his pipe, "And not just their legs."
"Oh, no," the boy agreed instantly, knowing he could tell this man everything, "I stroke my chest as well. It feels really nice when my nipple just tickles the palm of my hand. It goes all hard then; the nipple I mean, not my hand. My cock's already hard by then," he added with a snigger. "I think I like feeling my legs best, though. I'm glad they're not all hairy like ......." He stopped himself just in time.
"Like mine," the strange man grinned. "Yes my legs are very hairy. As hairy as the legs of your goats."
The boy blushed and sniggered at the same time. The man did have legs very like the legs of his goats, but it would have been very impolite to say anything like that.
The man played another little tune on his pipe and when he asked his next question the boy had forgotten all about being embarrassed.
"When you shoot," the man asked, "Tell me, what do you do with the spunk?"
"Eat it most of the time," the boy told him, "Scoop it off my chest and stomach with my fingers and lick it off. It's nice. Sometimes though," he explained, "If I've made the wank really last, stopped for a bit when I feel it's getting nearly ready to shoot, and then start again when that feeling's gone away, then when I do let it shoot at last, it spurts out really big and sometimes spunk goes right up to my hair. I don't eat that."
"And what do you think about when you wank?" the man wanted to know.
The boy thought for a minute, wanting to get his answer right.
"Sometimes," he said eventually, "If I'm just wanking because I need to spunk, I think about wanking with another boy. Me wanking him and him wanking me. If it's a long, slow wank, like the one I was having when you arrived, and I'm feeling my legs and chest, then I think of a man doing that to me. You know, a young man, an athlete or a hero. Often, and I know this sounds really silly, I think about that statue of Apollo in the city. I suppose that's because his legs aren't hairy and the hair round his cock is just a neat little bunch, not spreading out all over the place. And this is really wicked, so you must never tell anyone about it, but sometimes ....... well, most times, just before I shoot I try to think what it would be like to have his cock in my mouth so he could shoot his spunk straight in there and I could eat it all."
"Yes," the strange man nodded, "You are coming along very nicely, doing and thinking almost all of the things a boy should be doing and thinking about."
"Is there more?" the boy asked as the strange man with the hairy legs played another tune on his pipe.
"Oh, yes," the man said when he had finished his tune, "But they are things you cannot easily do for yourself."
"What are they?" the boy asked eagerly; this strange man had taught him how to wank, were there more enjoyable things he could tell of? "Tell me, tell me!"
"I can tell you what they are, but for you to do them, you would need a man."
"If it were a man like the one in that statue, he could do all those things, whatever they are," the boy enthused, his eyes dreamy. "I've told you I would like a man like that to put his cock in my mouth and spunk there; what more could he do to me?"
"Have you ever thought about what a man might do with your arse?" the strange man asked.
"My arse?" the boy squeaked, "What interest could a man have in my arse?"
"A lot," the man smiled and played another little tune on his pipe. "You would be surprised to learn that a man would like to kiss your arse, not the outside, but right in there, at the place that is always hidden."
"Stupid," the boy dismissed the very idea, "No man would want to kiss the place where shit comes out from!"
"Oh, but they do," the man said, "And when they lick a boy there and push a tongue up into that secret hole a boy thinks it is the most wonderful thing he has ever felt." Another tune on the pipe and the boy wondered if the strange man's words were true.
"You do not believe me," the strange man with the pointy ears said, "But if you trust me, I will show you that it is not a lie."
"You want to lick my arse?" the boy asked.
"No," the man smiled, "My task is only to show boys how to wank, and for some special boys to let them know that there is more pleasure than wanking to be had. I will ask you only to shut your eyes and dream of what I have said."
"I would, but what about my goats?"
"Your goats will not wander," the strange man said, "That I promise."
The boy lay back, shut his eyes and listened to the music the man played on his pipe.
"All yours," the strange man said to the magnificent young man who, unseen by the boy, was standing beside him.
Firm of thigh and broad-shouldered, his hair a curly, golden halo, his cock rampant and more than a hand's length, his pubic hair an impossible tight mass of curls; all so like the statue of the god in the city square.
The boy sighed at first as, in his dream, he felt a man's hands caress his silken thighs, from his knees to his hips, and then up his body till fingers brushed against his nipples, nipples that had grown hard as the stones of olives.
"Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhooooooooohhhhhhhaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh," was the sound that came from his lips as he dreamed of lips and a mouth on his stone-hard nipples, and a bolt shot through him and made his toes wriggle and curl.
"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhoooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssss," was the sound he made when, in his dream, his cock found itself in the warm, wet, cavern of a mouth, and the sounds he made were echoed in the sounds of the pipe he dimly heard.
He felt his legs lifted, and eagerly he held them back with a hand under each knee, and the sound he made then was a sound of amazement, wonder and bliss, for in his dream he felt the mouth of the man of his imagination at the hole in his body, and he felt a tongue lick him there, and perhaps he shouted at the joy of it but the pipe drowned any sound he made.
Then he felt a warm, fleshy hardness pushing at that hole in his body, and in his dream he knew it was the man's cock, though how he knew that he did not know because never had he thought of any cock going there.
Perhaps he screamed as that cock penetrated him, but if scream there was it was not heard above the shrill note of the strange man's pipe and then the cock was inside him.
Nothing he had ever imagined was like the joy and bliss of having cock inside him. It could not go deep enough inside, be hard enough inside him or move in and out of him fast enough to satisfy the urges that had grown within him.
How long his dream lasted he did not know, but when he woke there was no longer cock inside him, though he felt a wetness seeping from his arse and he knew that it was spunk although nowhere in sight was a man who could have put spunk there.
The strange man was gone and he was alone, naked on the hill, and had it not been for the spunk leaking from his arse he would have believed it all to be no more than a dream.
"Do you never feel tempted to fuck them yourself?" the magnificent young man asked the hairy-legged, pointy-eared pipe playing person who sat on the rock watching the freshly fucked boy slowly return to a conscious state.
"My task is to teach them how to wank," that one answered, "And, sometimes, for the ones who need it, to show them a little more as well."
"A shame that they cannot remain forever boys," the magnificent man mused, "They are such wonderful fucks."
"But you would grow tired of them," Pan smiled, "A god like you needs fresh mortal flesh for his pleasure."
"True," Apollo sighed, "A hole is never quite so tight a second time."
"And now he knows what it is for, he can find mortal men to give the beauty of his boyhood to. Our task with him is done."
"On to the next one then," Apollo grinned, "The world is full of boys."
One of the duties of Pan was, indeed, to teach boys how to masturbate (what a wonderful job!) and Apollo, well, he was a Greek god and we all know what the Greeks were like when it came to boys.)
Hope you enjoyed that little tale