Stories of an Old Boy

Written By: xpud  2016-2017



Standard disclaimer: This story depicts sexual acts between minors. There is also omorashi (desperation/urination) in it. You've been warned.


Author's Note: This is still my erotica series, so I'm always interested in constructive feedback. If there's a path you'd be interested in seeing this go, or if there's anything else you'd like to say, I'm all ears!


Editing Credit goes out to JD for helping with formatting, editing, and suggestions.


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Chapter 4


          The night is full of the usual dreams for me: simple replays of other events I've experienced. I long ago stopped dreaming in abstract or confusing images; no spaceships, no arriving at school naked (though I've done that a few times just to see how much trouble it causes), no falling and then waking up at the bottom... just scenes from my life. One is of when I married my first husband, a kind, balding man who lived to be 84 and died in his sleep. Another dream is of a time I strangled a man to death for trying to mug someone else. Just snippets of a millennium's worth of experiences.


          I awake to the sound of soft footsteps and the popping of an ankle as Matty quietly steps over me. Though the room is only lit by the muted sunlight streaming through the closed blinds, I can easily see that his briefs are damp and discolored; so he's a bedwetter, too, apparently. I mean, I can see how a weaker bladder like he already has could lead to that, but that's gotta be a blow to his ego. I feign sleep to afford him some privacy, but turn my head slightly so as to still be able to spy him as he walks to his dresser, slips off the wet pair of white briefs, uses a shirt on the floor to wipe off his genitals and legs, and puts on an identical pair of Hanes undies. He puts the soiled garments in the dirty clothes hamper on the far side of the room and goes back to check the bed; his face exudes defeat as he bunches up the sheet he was sleeping with and carefully covers the wet spot with his comforter. Listening carefully, I can hear the slight crinkle of the mattress protector under the sheets.


         Putting the sheet in the hamper as well, he grabs a pair of light beige cargo shorts from his dresser and slips them on as he makes his way to the bedroom door. Then, before he opens it, he turns around and stares at me. I can't read his face all that well through my slitted eyelids, but he takes a good 15 seconds to watch me. I wonder what he's thinking.


          Right on cue, his mother opens the door with a fairly loud THUMP sound as the door, not aligned to the doorjamb, scrapes across its frame. She doesn't even get a chance to open her mouth before Matty screams in startlement. This leaves her taken aback and myself expending every effort to make-believe that the commotion woke me up (instead of cracking up laughing at the entire thing).


          "MOM!" Matty yelled. "Why don't you KNOCK?!"


          "Matty, darling, this is my house, and I can do what I want with it. Anyway, breakfast is ready, if you two are hungry. I made pancakes."


          I sit up, rubbing my eyes. I then realize that I didn't put my briefs back on and decide to stay covered up for the time being. THAT would be an awkward conversation. Matty responds, "Okay, Mom. We'll be there in a moment."


          "Was everything... okay last night?" his mother asks pointedly. I freak out a bit inside.


          "Yes, Mom. Everything was fine."


          "Do I need to do laundry?" she asks, utterly tactlessly.


          "Moooooom!" he seethes through gritted teeth. "EVERYTHING. IS. FINE; I'll take care of it. We'll be there in a moment, Mom."


          "Okay, okay," she says. "Don't let them get cold."


          Matty basically tries to shove the door closed on his mom, leaning on it after it's closed. "Um, good morning?"


          "'Morning," I reply, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "Um, do you know where my underwear is?"


          "Your under& OH! Uh, did you check under the sleeping stuff?" Matty asks as he begins to help me search. We look around for an embarrassingly long time before we realize that they somehow ended up under the game console; I must have moved it on top of them while preparing my blankets.


          Breakfast goes by uneventfully at first; Matty and his mother do the same perfunctory conversation as always, the pancakes are a little chewy, and the orange juice is nice.


          "Phillip?" Matty prods, breaking me out of my reverie.


          "Oh, sorry, still waking up. What was the question?"


          Matty's mom starts asking me the standard new-friend battery of questions: how do I know Matty, what classes do we share, what do I want to be when I grow up...


          "A psychic," I say nonchalantly.


          "Oh," she says with some amusement. "That's an interesting career choice. Is anyone else in your family a psychic?"


          "No." I take a bite of pancakes.


          "Why do you want to do that, then?"


          I swallow, and start cutting another piece. "I can tell the future."


          "Oh. Okay. That's a nice thing to have," she says, obviously dismissing me as pretentious and weird, the standard adult response. I think that later on I'll become a rich psychic just to know that she's eating her words.


          This entire time, Matty's eyes are bulging out, threatening to plop into his OJ.


          "So what if that career choice doesn't work out?" she guilelessly asks. "What are you going to do instead?"


          I look at her like she's insane before shrugging. "I don't know. Nuclear physicist, maybe, or a garbage collector. Those trucks are neat."


          She quickly takes a bite of her pancakes to hide her obvious amusement. Harmlessness: achieved.


          So after breakfast, Matty and I go hang out in his room again, where he starts grilling me with questions about my ability: "How did you find out?" "When was the first time you used it?" "What's the weirdest thing you've done before rewinding?" and such. Long story short, laying on my deathbed at 102 years and 6 months old, finally having lost my battle with loneliness and senescence, I succumb to old age and fall asleep for the last time. Except, time feels literally sluggish when I do; I figure that it's just some effect of dying, after all, I hadn't done it yet; how should I know? Shortly afterward, I can literally, inexplicably feel time stop, as if my mind itself stopped breathing, as if the Earth stopped turning, the Sun stopped burning, the universe stopped expanding. Needless to say, this is an uncomfortable feeling; my mind quickly looks for an exit as my life flashes before my eyes and lands me in the womb. Again. With memories of everything before. As for the weirdest thing I've done before rewinding... I'll leave that to the imagination.


          Time goes quickly before I realize that I need to get going before lunch time; I figure I'll go hang out with my sisters at the pool, haven't done that in a while. Splatterday is a day for revenge.


          "Do& do you want to come over again later?" Matty asks at the door.


          I smile. "Of course I do! I still haven't won in Black Ops yet!"


          "Cool!" he says, with far more excitement than just Black Ops deserves; I've opened his mind to a world of possibility, and he doesn't want that world to close. No worries. There will be more. I begin the half-hour walk home; I know the area, the weather's nice, and I'm a patient kinda guy.


          The rest of the weekend is boring, and before I know it, I'm already sitting back in first period, daydreaming as the other students in the class struggle to answer basic questions about a story they pretended to read for homework. My thoughts drift to last Friday; I recall the massage where just rubbing my dick against Matty made me shoot, the two times Matty peed himself (goddamn, that fountain in his briefs was hot), the throbbing of his stiff little prick in my mouth...


          I snap out just in time to check where we are in the next chapter of the story before the teacher calls on me to read. I sit up a bit, but realize that a certain member of mine won't let me sit up farther, he's already tenting my somewhat tight khakis fiercely. I'm not particularly concerned. Everyone thinks I'm awkward and weird anyway, and I'm a middle-school-aged kid, so Hard Happens. Anyway, I sit up and narrate the next page, making sure to stumble on a few words here and there to keep up appearances. (I cannot, however, abide glossing over punctuation.) After I finish, I answer a few questions about what I read, others do too, and then I surreptitiously reach down and adjust my dick to a slightly more upward slant. It prefers pointing to the horizon, though, so there's not a lot I can do. I glance sidelong to those near me, and nobody seemed to notice. Nobody except for "Canelito," it seems; Edgar Gutierrez by name, he's half Irish and half Salvadorean, and ended up with bright red hair (hence the name "Canelito" or 'little cinnamon') and lighter skin, but otherwise Latino features including the high cheekbones and shorter build. His hair had just grown long enough to start sweeping forward and cresting up in that popular style these days, which made the harsh fluorescent light shine off of it in a particularly supermodel kind of way. He tended to hang with the "cool boys" more, and had more than a few girls who couldn't stop drooling over him, but he tended to stay pretty quiet and reserved. It's clear that he had recently hit puberty and his body had just started growing.


          I catch him glancing down at my 4-inch package, and after a second or so passes, he notices me staring back and quickly darts his eyes to his book. A moment later, I look again to see his cheeks almost as red as his hair. Welp, now that I have an audience, and I'm bored... I adjust myself again slightly and sit so that I'm more comfortable and my tent is more prominent. I pretend that I care about what I'm reading, but keep glancing over once in a while to see what he's doing; sure enough, he keeps glancing over at my crotch. I flex my stiffy a few times, just to mess with him. Then, I roll my neck to the right, behind, and then directly toward him, to give him time to look away. As I glance at him, though, it's pretty clear that he's sitting funny & one leg bent, the other off the chair, leaning to the side & on purpose; I can pretty clearly see that he's trying his best to hide a boner. So he bats for the team, eh? At least, he looks like he's buying what I'm pitching.


         Oh, fuck it. I unzip a little bit, quietly, and fish out my dickhead. I sit where I can slouch and cover it up with my shirt if need be, and keep reading. My prick rubs up against my zipper, but for as much as it should hurt, I'm so turned on that it's pleasurable. I glance at Edgar, who is extremely uncomfortable in his position. The bulge down the side of his extended leg is a lot more noticeable now, and gives away quite a bit of growth there. Apparently his center appendage grew before the rest of him. He is trying his best to look completely innocent about it, but he's doing terribly; not only are his cheeks bright red, but his inner thigh is obviously throbbing.


          Some kid in the back who doesn't know how letters work is trying miserably to read aloud; I slowly arch my back to stick my penis out of my fly. The zipper adds a little 'teeth' to the sensation as the remainder of my foreskin (I was circumcised, but still have enough to half-way cover the head if I pull on it) pulls away from my glans. The feeling sends an eager heat through my loins and a heady anticipation through the back of my spine. I slowly sit back up, retracting my penis into the skin before pushing it back out again. I do this a few times, looking around to see if anyone notices, but at this point it simply looks like I'm being fidgety.


          Edgar, however, notices. A lot. I begin to see a dark spot appear at the tip of his dick's outline. He locks eyes with me for a moment, incredulous that I'd even be doing this, but he is so entranced by the sight that he doesn't dare mention it to anyone. I simply look back with a sly smile and thrust quickly outward. Suddenly, Edgar's eyes shoot wide open and he bites his lip; I watch as the spot on his khakis grows darker and wider, throb after throb. He somehow manages to remain completely quiet as he cums in his pants, even though it looks to be a particularly powerful orgasm. As per the usual, that's quite enough to push me over the plateau, even though I've barely "stroked" less than a dozen times, and I have just enough time to untuck my shirt and wrap the tail quickly over my cannon before the torrent of jizz comes spattering out. I can't help but twitch a few times, which grabs the attention of the teacher.


          "Phillip? You falling asleep over there?"


          I blink innocently once I can regain posture. "No," I say in a slightly strangled voice. "Just a weird pain in my back. I think it was just a nerve." She stares me down with the Eye of Scrutiny, but ultimately deems the class more important than any investigation. I can feel the semen soaking the tail of my shirt, and one glob slides its way down my dick into my briefs. Ew.


          Throughout this, Edgar is trying very terribly to maintain composure; it seems as though his eyes are taped open. I can see him trying to process what just happened, and coming to the following conclusions: 1) I know he's into me (or at least into cock); 2) he just came in his pants and is going to have to try and hide it from people; and 3) the guy sitting next to him just gave him a porn show and is a crazy fucker who really just did that. The look on his face is sublime.


          Despite how rather disgusting it is, I wait until my dick softens and tuck my shirt back in, cum squishing against the waistband of my briefs. I zip up my khakis just in time for the bell to ring, completely okay with what just happened.



End of Chapter 4


Well! Phillip corrupts another boy! Hope you're still enjoying my little corner of the Nifty archive. I love hearing from readers, so drop me a line: XPud (at) yahoo (dot) com -- good or ill, or even just to talk about what turns you on. :D


Until next time!



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