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 (though not in this chapter). You've been warned.


Author's Note: This is still my first 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! xpud at yahoo dot com.


Credit goes out to Nifty prolific author JD for helping with formatting, editing, and suggestions. If you like stories in a similar vein as this, check out his works:


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Chapter 8


Despite the roller coaster of emotions over the weekend, it was the best time I've had in...probably this life. I mean, my perceptions are a bit skewed since I have a few more things to compare it to, but still. It fucking rocked, am I right?


So it should come as no surprise that the next few days are torturously slow. I still don't regret changing myself to the remedial classes, but it's annoying to have to remember to be stupid occasionally in class. Further, it's like we had quizzes in almost every class. On a Monday. Who the hell forces students to take quizzes on Mondays? Anyway, by Tuesday, I'm dying for some action, and I don't think I'm going to be able to hang out at Matty's for at least a few days unless I want my parents to start getting more suspicious than they already are. Thankfully, I know exactly who to hit up for the action part: Mr. Owes-Me-One, little Edgar 'Canelito' Gutierrez.


In Reading class on Tuesday morning, I write a little note to him on a sticky note:


Meet me outside gym after school

Payback time


He sits a row up from me and to the left, so since I can't just hand it to him, I fold it up into a little paper airplane and when the teacher is turned toward the whiteboard, I sail it low over his arm to stick between his fingers on his left hand. This was not what I intended, but I'm totally claiming it if anyone asks. He jolts back when he sees a small yellow blur dart across his vision and nail him in the finger; he immediately looks over to me with confusion and a little amusement in his face, akin to 'dude, what the hell lol' in a facial expression. I pantomime opening the plane and turn back to my book, just in time to avoid scrutiny by the teacher.


Edgar opens up the note surreptitiously, reads it, and immediately shoots a panicked glance my way. I meant the note to be ambiguous, so that if someone intercepted it they'd think I was going to beat him up, but I was really hoping that Canelito would get the hidden meaning. I roll my eyes, stare him down with a deadpan face, and mime sucking a dick (complete with using my tongue to push my cheek out). His eyes bulge out even more, but his expression changes to somewhere between 'ah-hah!' and 'oh MY.' I literally have to 'stir' the air with my finger to remind him to turn around and stop gawking at me. He snaps out of it, looks at his book, and pretends as hard as he can that he's reading; I can tell by his breathing, though, that his mind is...elsewhere. I check to see if anyone else is watching our antics, but everyone else is in their books.


With that little seed planted, I go through my day with as minimal effort as possible, the same as always, unless I can find something to disrupt. I always have been, and always will continue to be, THAT kid. I've just gotten a lot better at it over the years. Now it's worth noting that I never pick fights unless it's in defense, and I never make fun of people that don't deserve least, not in any way they could find out.


Now some of you may be thinking, 'now Phillip, you've experienced a millennium of time. You're older than me, and yet you still act like a little kid! Why don't you grow up?' The answer is a simple question: why? What do I get for growing up? In fact, gentle reader, if you were able, I'd suggest that you grow down. It's really enlightening to relive these years, and when you get in trouble, you don't end up with a ticket or in jail. You know you want to.


Where was I? Oh yeah, so classes are stupidly boring, at least until Gym. I did say that I wasn't rewinding with Matty anymore, but if he's only incidentally involved, I don't care as much. So, when we're playing Hot Foot again (for those who forgot, it's dodge-beanbag), I 'load the game' tons of times just to line up subtle but neat tricks, like sliding a beanbag right underneath Rod's foot as he was stepping, causing him to slide forward and almost do the splits before being tagged by about five more beanbags while he was on the floor. With the amount of beanbags sliding everywhere, though, it's impossible to tell whose was the original culprit (though I'm sure he'd blame me for anything ever). There's also the time I see a beanbag zooming toward Matty's feet (we were on the same team), so I slide a beanbag to intercept it, knocking it aside to nail an opponent with their own teammate's projectile--it still counts! That one causes a little stir, with a bunch of kids hooting at how awesome it was.


"I was just aiming for that guy over there," I 'confess,' pointing to whomever was over in that direction. "I couldn't do that again if I tried." Matty gives me a knowing glance with raised eyebrows. I wink at him and turn back just in time to get hit with a stray beanbag. Poetic justice, I suppose.


I work up quite a sweat in the gym today, so I decide to hit the showers (On one hand, I'm glad it's not mandatory; on the other, you can almost always tell who had gym the period before in any given class). As I'm soaping down, I harden up. This is one of the main reasons I don't shower often, but it really doesn't help that I'm still thinking about Friday, and about later today. I don't really pay too much attention to it, though; I'm usually interested in seeing if other people are shooting glances at it. Future targets, right?


Anyway, I'm facing the wall in my little poorly partitioned shower cubicle soaping myself down, noting the nice job I did on shaving my pubes yesterday (yes, I borrowed my dad's razor without him knowing; yes, I washed it), and also noticing for the first time that my dick has grown a little bit thicker over the last month, when I hear "Hey fag. I mean, Phillip," followed by a couple of snickering laughs. "Are you jacking off over here?"


I turn around to see Diego, another friend of Rod's (and therefore part of the 'Mexican Mafia' as others are prone to calling that little group), sneering at me with another 8th grader whose name escapes me. For the visual, Diego is a head taller than me and very Native-blooded, with darker skin, sharp features, and long black hair (currently dry still) going past his ears. His friend is only a tiny bit shorter than him, but where Diego is moderately-built, his spiky black-haired friend is a knobby stick-bug of a guy. They're both standing so as to block my retreat.


Diego looks down to see me pointing straight out and barks a laugh. "See? He's hard! Why you hard with all boys around, fag?"


His friend laughs with him; I casually reply, "It's just proof that mine works--though I don't suppose you've had the awkward boner problem yet, right?"


"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"


I blink. "Let me spell it out.' Don't worry, puberty helps with that."


He sputters a bit, but regains composure quickly. "What the fuck you talking about? You don't even have pubes!"


"And yet I have more meat down there than you do, 8th grader." He has a decently hairy package, but there's only a fat-headed little twig sticking out from it. "I mean, if it worked, we could tell if you were more 'grow' or just 'show,' but oh well." By this time, I'm going a little soft, but I doubt it'll go all the way limp. Oh well, makes the whole situation funnier. I can't help but notice his friend has nothing to say, but he's doing his best bouncer impression. It's cute in a failed-thug sort of way.


We've drawn an audience by this point, with two other boys that were showering peering over their tiled partitions to watch the verbal fight. Diego retorts, "You shut your fucking mouth. It works, and I bet I shoot farther than you, too."


"Well, we won't know unless you wanna have a contest. Was that what you came over to ask me? Or did you just want to come stare at my boner?" It perks back up as I waggle it back and forth tauntingly.


Amid cries of "Oh snap!" and "Oooooooooooooh burn!"


"God, you're such a fucking faggot. What the fuck is wrong with you?" He flexes his fingers a few times, unconsciously signaling that he's running out of words and patience.


I smile like I'm just about to laugh, and reply, "The only thing wrong with me is that I was interrupted by someone who was staring at my dick just to see if I was hard."


And that won the battle: Everyone in the locker room just starts yelling things like "OHHHHH!" and "You got ROASTED!"


Diego's nostrils flare as his breathing intensifies. "You little fucker. You're dead."


"After what I did to Rod, you still want to fuck with me?"


The peanut gallery doesn't help things; everyone starts chanting, "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" He has no choice but to advance on me. He comes in with a well-telegraphed left hook. As I duck under the blow, I see the soap on the floor. I drop to a squat and pick it up as he winds up for another pounding attack. As his right hand comes crashing down at me, I twist to the side to dodge it and thrust the bar of soap straight into his open teeth.


He recoils quickly, yelling a stifled "Fuck!" as he opens his mouth to drop the soap; shavings of soap are jammed between his teeth, and his mouth is sudsing. I think I see a loose tooth.


I stand up, saying, "Just in case your mama never did that to you for your--" and I don't get out the other words before he dives in at me in a berserk frenzy.


His friend watches in abject surprise as Diego roars and flings himself at me, hands open to grasp at whatever he can grab. I duck back down, spin on the balls of my feet to where my shoulder is pointing at him, and just as he gets in range, I thrust my elbow directly into his diaphragm, using his momentum to drive it home. He flops on top of me, temporarily pinning me underneath him; if he had breath, he could easily beat the shit out of me right here. As it is, he's stunned long enough for me to slide out from underneath him and stand back up. He is stuck in a half-fetal position, abs cramped up, diaphragm locked in place. I've seen plenty of trained combatants get up and push through that sort of thing, but it was clear to me that Diego isn't a fighter; he's probably used to intimidating people to get his kicks. As he moans on the floor, trying to breathe, I look at his friend and ask, "Could you move? I'm done showering."


I don't get a chance to do anything, though, because a shrill whistle cuts through the cheering and yelling. Coach comes over and points at me. "You. Out. Now." Everyone takes the advice anyway and scatters. Coach helps Diego up and talks to him quietly out of earshot, which isn't far considering how loud the other kids still are.


I'm swarmed by kids telling me how awesome it was, and he's a dick and deserved it, and all of that; one of them sneaks quickly around the corner, past Coach and behind the adoring crowd around me. He's a lanky boy, Michael I think, cute cheeks, auburn hair, endearing little gap between his two front teeth, and apparently the same problem with shower boners as I have. He sees me but quickly looks away and heads to his locker to put on his clothes while everyone is distracted.


The same story happens again as it did with Rod, only this time Coach Rigby takes me aside after class into his office and says, "What are you doing to provoke those boys?"


I stare at him a moment, unpacking his loaded question. "Responding to their insults, and standing in their way when they want to mess with other boys."


"Well, they sure want to mess with you a lot, it seems."


"Coach, I was bullied a lot when I was younger." My first life...still true, though. "I can't just sit by and watch them torment the other boys."


"It's not your place to make that decision, unless you want to get kicked out for fighting." He's picking his words carefully, I can tell; he hasn't said that they don't deserve it.


"What am I supposed to do when I'm cornered in the shower, though? Scream for help?"


"Don't take that tone with me, boy." Coach stands up from his chair.


I raise a hand in deference. "My apologies, Coach. You see my side, though, right?"


He stares at me silently for a moment. Glancing at the clock on his desk, he dismisses me with, "Get to lunch." He doesn't even look at me...probably because he knows the answer he wants to give isn't the answer he's allowed to give.


I show up last in line for lunch, meaning that I end up with the dregs of the lasagna-analogue that they're serving today.


I go hang out with Matty and his choir friends again. Sitting down, I ask Matty, "Did you get the number?"


"What?" he asks, but quickly follows up with, "Oh! Zacky's number. Yeah, I got that at the end of Choir." He gives me a warning look.


"Oh yeah," Kasha says. "Why you needed his number again?"


Matty hesitates just long enough for a slightly chubby kid with dusty brown hair and glasses to come up to the table and say, "Hey, uh, Phillip?"


I recognize him from some of my classes a few years ago: Ethan, one of the GT kids in all the advanced classes now (back in elementary, we didn't have that separation yet). He's in Marching Band, so he doesn't have to take PE. "Yeah?" I say nonchalantly.


"Hey, how you been?" he asks with an uncomfortable smile. Before I get the chance to respond, though, he continues: "Hey man, I just wanted to thank you. I just heard about what you did to Diego, and he used to bully me and my friend Michael all the time. I wish I coulda seen it, though--I heard it was awesome."


I shrug it aside. "I'm not the best fighter, but when it comes to insults, he sucks. Bad. Like, with teeth." The kids at the table laugh.


Ethan smiles a bit more, but drops it quickly. "He, uh, had started picking on Michael again this year in the showers, and...well, it really meant a lot to Michael to see someone stand up to Diego. You're a pretty cool guy."


I put on my most disarming smile. "Well, thanks. I doubt he learns his lesson, but maybe he'll think again about it. And tell Michael that if Diego gives him any trouble, he can tell me about it...I'm not afraid to do something about it."


He nods in approval and stands for another awkward moment before responding. "Right. Well, I gotta go sit back down before the lunch minotaur gets mad. See ya 'round, I guess." He waves to me and the table, and heads back.


Wait, did he just say 'lunch minotaur'? That's amazing.


I realize later on that day that Michael is actually in the remedial classes with me and Matty, but is always near the back, so I never realize he's there. I look back during math class and catch his glance through his wide-rimmed glasses, tossing a quick acknowledging nod his way. He looks back at his paper without returning the favor, though I see the faint beginnings of a smile on his face. He's all right, that kid. I'ma punch the fuck out of Diego if he messes with him again.


Class finally ends and I go get my phone from first period, then book it to the back door near the gym. I get there first and find a shady spot by the concession stand to wait outside and look cool leaning against something. Impressions are important, right? So as I'm standing there, a couple of kids walk by on their way to the neighborhood (apparently Matty's not the only one who does that). A few minutes later, Edgar shows up outside, searching the area while his eyes adjust to the sunlight. And who should he have with him but the spiky-haired boy that was trailing Diego earlier.


Looking around to make sure we're the only ones around, I call out, "Really, 'Lito? Bringing backup? I told you this wasn't a fight."


I apparently startle Edgar; he jumps and spazzes out as he turns in the direction of my voice. "No, no, it's not like that!" he calls in reply. "And God, don't scare me like that!"


The other boy seems similarly surprised, and more than a little scared; he looks down and quickly mutters something at Edgar that I can't hear from here. Edgar looks at him in confusion, and then nods his head toward me as if to beckon the boy to keep up. He does, but only after a few seconds of deliberation.


"And what is it like, then?" I ask, keeping on the ready, just in case.


He and the other guy get close without looking threatening in any way, and I know Edgar's not the sucker-punch kind of guy, so I let down my guard a bit. Edgar blinks a few times in the shade of the concession stand awning and says quietly, "Um, so, I know you were just know...with me, but, uh, this is my friend Beto. We, uh..." he trails off, looking to Beto for help. This I gotta hear.


Beto looks back at Edgar, obviously unhappy at being forced to talk. Receiving no sympathy, he takes a deep breath. "So...Edgar and me have been friends for a long time," he says in a heavily cracking voice, "and he told me that he wanted to mess around out here. We kinda...did that before, um, a few times. He said he had a friend who wanted to join, and I was like cool, sounds fun, but--but I didn't know it was you, man!" He puts his hands up defensively. "I swear I didn't want to mess with anyone back in Gym, especially not you, but Diego told me that I had to!" His voice is cracking like a jagged roller-coaster through his entire speech. He seems honestly scared of me.


"Really, Edgar?" I say coyly. "I didn't think you were the slutty type."


Edgar immediately jumps to the defensive. "What? No! It's not like that! I'm not like, you know. It's just him 'n me. He's my best friend."


The ironic truth is how much of a slut he could be if he wanted to. The boy's got that exotic face and red hair going for him, and I'm pretty sure half the girls and more than a few boys would jump at the chance, even though he's, what, 13? He seems a little older than the normal 7th grader, even has a deeper voice than I'd expect for his height and size otherwise (dick notwithstanding). I'll ask if the opportunity arises.


"Well, he's not the one who owes me, but I guess he can help pay."


Beto turns slightly to Edgar and mouths, 'You owe him?' as Edgar stares daggers at me.


I shake my head. "He lost a bet. Don't worry about it. But if you bet me something and the loser has to suck the other's dick, sorry bud, but I'm not going back on that." Edgar's cheeks flare up red, but he seems placated.


"As for you, Beto..." I say, watching him tense up, "you're all right. I know you didn't wanna be there in the shower. I can tell these things." He exhales guilelessly as I look around the area. "So, uh, where do you guys usually mess around? I was gonna go under the bleachers, but it's kinda dirty in there."


"Follow me," Edgar says, zipping around the concession stand and over to the restrooms they use for baseball games. He goes over to the girl's door and starts messing with the handle.


"Are you serious?!" I almost shout, catching myself halfway. "The girls' restroom. Really?"


"Shhhh!" he hisses, whispering, "this door doesn't lock right, so if you this..." He jiggles the doorknob and pulls just the right way a few times, and the door opens right up. Sneaky little bastard.


He turns on the light and looks around, as if there were the chance of someone already being here. "So, yeah, this is where we, uh, you know."


Apparently, Canelito here has a really hard time saying anything sexual. It's adorable. "Where you guys usually have sex."


Edgar gets an exasperated look. "It's not 'usually.' God! Look, we just used to hide in here because we found out how to open it, and then I mean we did things once or twice in here. Let's--let's just get this over with, okay?" He walks into the bathroom quickly.


In response, I plant my hand on his flat chest and slowly guide him to the wall behind him. "Why? After all, it's you who owes me."


My hand rises and falls on his ribcage as his breathing immediately picks up. "I, uh, Mom, she...we usually have dinner early."


"At what, 4:00?" I say dryly. "Relax. This will only take as long as you make it. So, get started." I push down on his shoulders to get him to sit, unbutton my uniform khakis, and in one move, untuck my shirt and fish out my rapidly stiffening dick. I wave it in his face to give him a clue.


He looks up at me with uncertainty, and slowly puts my dick in his mouth. He has an awkward time of it at first, needing to wet his lips and get his tongue in the right spot. He moves back and forth on it a bit, gagging once as he goes down too far. I'm not long enough to count as 'deep-throating,' but I guess it does hit the back of his mouth. The feeling is decent, I guess. For a kid giving a blowjob.


As Edgar gets into a rhythm, I look aside to Beto, who seems to have just been gawking at the whole thing since he came in. Well, except for the fact that I catch him adjusting himself pretty heavily. Looking at him, he's got one of those baby faces that makes a person look like they're innocent but really they're gonna cause trouble, and the spiky hair doesn't help the look, but he seems more of a marshmallow than I thought. A very twiggy marshmallow. Bad analogy aside, I give him a once-over glance and hold a hand out, beckoning him with a finger as I steady myself with the other hand on Canelito's head. He comes over silently and I grasp his package through his pants, bringing him much closer.


A wave of pleasure spreads through me as Edgar hits just the right spot with his tongue, sending a shudder and an involuntary moan through me. "Whoa, do that again," I say breathlessly.


Edgar looks up at me with just my head in his mouth and says, "What, this?" with muffled words as he rasps his tongue against my frenulum (the spot just underneath the head that feels fucking amazing).


"Yeah, oh shit, that." By this point, Beto has already dropped his pants and his ugly green plaid boxers (I mean, really) to reveal a nice-looking 5-incher, uncut, straight out at 45 degrees, and a great set of balls nestled nicely at the base, complete with a patch of short pubes. He's slowly moving his hand on his dick, just peeling the foreskin back and letting it climb its way back up. It's mesmerizing to watch, just as he is entranced watching Edgar go at it on me.


Beto starts to jack back and forth, and a drop of precum gets squeezed out. I scoop it up with a flick of my middle finger, making him sharply inhale. I spread it around between my finger and thumb and use it to coat his head; the cracking moan he lets out is music to my ears.


I hit the plateau in my excitement, so I slowly pull out from Edgar's mouth. He seems almost sad, like I took his toy away. "You're pretty good at that."


"Thanks," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm, seemingly surprised at either how good he is, or how proud he is of that.


"But since you brought Beto in," I note, "it's your job to make sure he's taken care of, too." I also notice that he has pulled his member out and dripped a bit of precum on the floor already. When I said earlier that his dick was big, it's not long so much as just thick, all the way through, with a big mushroom head on it and a slight upward curve. Bet that thing feels fucking amazing. Notably, he doesn't seem to have a whole lot of pubic hair. Total twink, this one.


He stands up and shucks his shirt, pants, and shoes (also a boxers guy, I see) and walks over to kneel next to Beto without hesitation. He barely gets Beto's dick in his mouth before he stands back up, saying, "Um, can we do this with you not standing up? My knees already hurt."


Beto quickly obliges and sits down, taking off his shirt and leaning back on his hands with legs slightly spread, like he's at a gynecologist. Edgar shoves Beto's jeans under his knees and sits on folded legs as he goes to town on Beto's knob. It's easy to see that these boys have some familiarity, and a bit of chemistry, going on. I sit cross-legged and play with myself, enjoying the exhibition.


What I don't expect, though, is when Beto asks softly, "Can I do you again?" Again, he says. Interesting. I just figured they did oral or hand-job stuff before.


More interesting, though, is that Edgar looks at him with barely masked eagerness and says, "Yeah, sure." Edgar immediately flips around on hands and knees to present his pucker to Beto, who begins to rim him. What the fuck--I did NOT see that coming. Edgar rears his head back in pleasure as Beto makes the area wet enough to work with; Beto inserts his middle finger in and moves it around a bit with only a quick wince from Edgar. He pulls out, sticks two in, wiggles them about, and then gets ready with his ram at the gate. He pushes against Edgar a few times, but can't make any headway (so to speak).


I scoot closer and put my hand on Beto's smooth thigh. "Hold up--you're not wet enough." Without waiting, I clamp my lips and tongue on his dick.


"Ohhh, shit," he says in a full exhalation as I make sure every nook and cranny is nice and wet. While I'm doing this, I sneak my middle finger inside my mouth to wet it, and use it to continue loosening Edgar up.


My fingers are a bit thicker than Beto's, which Edgar notices immediately. "Oh, whoa," he says, but only tenses up for a moment before accepting the rest of my finger in his hole.


Satisfied with both ends, I pull myself out of the equation, spit a little bit more on Beto's beautiful cock, and say, "Now try." I take off my pants and briefs so I can get more comfortable, and sit back to watch the show.


Within only a few short pushes, Beto's head slips easily in; Edgar still winces, though, and grunts, "Go slow." Beto obliges. Meanwhile, I'm dripping like a leaky faucet over here watching this.


Beto starts up a slow, methodical rhythm, sliding in, pulling out. Sliding in, pulling out. The look of bliss on his face says everything; Edgar has an iron grip on his own cock, pounding it double-time.


I, for one, am in awe. These two don't just 'mess around'; this is pure, transcendent passion. I think these two have a lot more feelings for each other than either one would like to admit. Either way, it's a serious fucking turn-on, and I have to slow my roll before I blow. Just watching Beto's slow, sinuous moves as he gently fucks Canelito, and Canelito's obvious pleasure at the whole thing, is almost enough to push me past the point of no return. It didn't help that these two nude boys were also beautifully smooth and mostly hairless.


I can easily see that Edgar is getting into it, as well. Gone are the squints and grunts, replaced by gentle moans and a blissful look in his half-lidded eyes. Beto doesn't emote much facially, but I catch him watching his own dick moving in and out of Edgar's hole.


At one point, Edgar lets out a sharp-cracked moan, sounding almost painful. Beto stops quickly. "Sorry. Did I hurt you?"


Edgar says behind him, "No, no, it's fine. Keep going." Damn, Edgar is into it. That boy might be a bigger bottom than I am. I mean, I'm versatile and all, but I can't deny how much I really like a dick in my ass.

They go at it quietly for a little longer, neither making any real sound or attempt at talking, both entirely in the zone. A minute or two later--I was too lost in the hypnotic movement to keep track--Beto asks, "Can I cum inside you?" in that same soft voice, less out of fear of being heard and more out of gentle affection. Edgar nods quietly, and only four much quicker thrusts later, Beto jerks forward involuntarily, burying himself deep as the base of his dick throbs in the throes of ejaculation. He pulls back a bit after a few pulses, about halfway out, and starts quickly moving back and forth, almost vibrating his dick back and forth as it continues visibly pumping into Edgar. Spasms shoot through Beto, locking his abs, sending his head over to rest on the back of Edgar's neck.


Edgar responds immediately to the first burying thrust by jacking furiously, and before Beto's head even reaches his back, Edgar lets out a very loud grunt and starts oozing cum on the floor. Not a shooter, but a decent volume of cum sits in a puddle underneath his dick.


This is too much for me to sit and watch; if I don't do something now, my dick will do it for me. I walk to Edgar and lift his head by the chin, essentially inviting my dick inside. "Payback time."


He doesn't waste a moment, immediately wrapping his lips around my cock head and rubbing his tongue up against it. It takes no time at all until I can barely squeeze out, "Oh God, I'm gonna--" before my breath locks and my cum explodes into Edgar's mouth. Even in the heat of the moment, I realize that I didn't say anything about my intentions; nevertheless, he continues sucking on it to the last twitch, swallowing as he needs to (and making me jerk like a rag doll in the process).


A short silence envelopes us, three spent boys all swimming in the feelings of our own orgasms. I sit down heavily, popping my dick out of Edgar's mouth. "Holy shit, man," I breathe. "I told you that you'd like paying me back."


Edgar giggles, his voice spiking in the middle. He looks back at Beto, who is still more or less paralyzed on top of Edgar. "Are you still cumming?"


"What?" Beto asks, slightly out of it. "No, I don't think so."


"I still feel you twitching in me. There goes another one."


"Oh, that? It does that for a while after. Feels good, though."


Fuck me, these two are too damn cute. Beto eventually straightens back up and slowly pulls out, still semi-hard. Canelito rolls over and leans back on his hands, making sure not to sit in his own cum. "That was really good," he says after a moment.


"Yeah," Beto says with a goofy smile as he sits on his legs.


"Not to ruin the moment," I mention, "but you might wanna go, you know, sit on the toilet for a moment."


Edgar looks at me, puzzled. "Why?"


"To push out the cum?" I ask, wondering what he did the last time they had sex.


Beto adds, "Heh, I don't think I was cumming yet last time."


"Ohhh," Edgar says. "Um, be right back, I guess." He heads to the farthest stall.


I break the momentary silence (mostly to give Edgar a bit of acoustic privacy) with, "So how long have you two known each other?"


As he starts to wrestle his pants back on, Beto replies, "Since second grade. We were in the same class."


Real talkative, this boy. "Ah. So...if you don't mind me asking, when did you and he first, y'know, mess around?"


He kinda ducks his head a bit sheepishly, as if the answer were embarrassing. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, "Like, two years ago? It was my birthday and he was spending the night, and I had just found my dad's porn on his computer, so we went and watched it after my parents were asleep. We...yeah. We tried what they did and, I dunno, liked it." He puts his shirt on over his head while saying the last part.


Why is it always birthday parties? I mean, I guess it's not the worst time, but still. You'd think parents would catch on. "Ah. Hey Edgar," I call out, "how old are you?"


"Thirteen," he replies over the sound of the flushing toilet.


"We're the same age," Beto adds.


"So was he held back?" I ask.


Beto suddenly freezes, as if he's said something terribly wrong. He says in a hushed voice, "Look, don't worry about it, huh?"


Well, dammit, now I have to know. "Hey, Edgar. You two were in the same second grade class, right?"


Edgar closes the door to the stall and heads over to his pants. "Yeah, why?"


"Why aren't you in the 8th grade then?" I ask innocently.


Edgar pauses; Beto rolls his eyes in exasperation. " really sick a couple of years ago."


Wait, what? "You cancer?"


As he tugs the last pant leg on, he looks around the area without meeting my gaze. "Look, I really don't want to talk about it, okay? I'm in 7th grade now instead of 8th, and it's stupid."


Beto watches Edgar for a moment when he's not looking, and shoots me a silent 'cut-it-out' gesture as he tugs his shoes on. Undeterred, I prod, "Being sick isn't stupid. It's serious business. I mean, it sucks that you have to repeat, but it must have been really bad."


"I SAID that I don't want to talk about it, okay?" he says, emphasizing the word by practically kicking his foot into his shoe.


"You know I have a friend who had cancer and almost lost a year, but he did lose a kidney. Pretty crazy stuff. It happens, you know? But you're all right now, right?"


"No, I'm not all right!" he suddenly snaps at me as he yanks his shirt over his head. "I lost a year of my life because I tried to commit suicide, okay?!"


The words resonate a moment longer in the tiled walls of the bathroom. He stares at me a moment longer before whirling on his feet and leaving. I dash out of the door to block him, knowing full well that currently, my ass is exposed to whoever wants to get an eye-full of it outside. "Dude, no. You don't get to walk away after saying that."


"What the fuck?! MOVE!" he yells, pushing against me.


"If you push me out there, people will know that you were in here with me. Don't do it."


He freezes instantly, dropping his hands. "Fuck you," he whispers as he slowly backs up to the wall.


"Whoa, whoa, hold up!" He looks like he's about to panic. What the hell is going on? This isn't normal. I continue, "It's not like I was gonna go yell it out at everyone. Chill out. I'm not gonna tell anyone, I promise. Seriously." Man, I'm handing out promises like candy this go-around.


"You have no idea," he mutters to the floor. "You have no idea." A tear spatters on his foot.


"Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?!" Beto says, walking up to me. "I told you to stop!"


Backing up as Beto interposes himself between us, I say, "Look, guys, my father is a psychologist. I know a lot about these kinds of things, and it sounds like Edgar needs to talk about it." This is an 80% lie: my father is in sales, which requires you to know people inside and out, but he's never been a professional shrink. "Listen to me. I'm not going to tell anyone what happened here, or anything you've said. I don't have any reason to. You know me. I barely even have friends. Who am I going to tell? My mom?"


Edgar squats down against the wall, hyperventilating. Beto shakes his head. "What the fuck, man. You're real fucked up, you know that?"


"What?! What did I say?!" What am I missing here? There's something really big under the surface here, and now I'm worried for the kid.


Beto sits next to Edgar and puts his hand across Edgar's shoulders. "It's okay, man. Breathe. Phillip, get the hell out of here."


At this point, I'm nearly in tears with frustration. The urge to rewind this whole thing is almost overbearing, but I'm stuck between wanting to help this kid and wanting to spare myself the frustration and embarrassment.


"No." Edgar takes a shuddering sigh. "Phillip. You wanna know what you said? Fine."


"You don't owe him shit anymore," Beto hisses.


"I'm tired of hiding," Edgar spits. "It was Janet. She was in my 6th grade class two years ago. She found out that I...had messed around with this one boy, and she got mad; I think she was just jealous, really. So she told me that if I didn't do her work, she'd tell everyone about it. Well, we got caught. She had to go to another school, and she told everyone on her friends list anyway."


"So she blackmailed you, and still screwed you over." Pieces of the puzzle shove themselves together painfully in the back of my mind as I remember Edgar's whispered, 'Don't tell anyone,' followed by my own, 'You owe me.'


"Then her friends blamed me for her having to move schools and made my life a living hell."


I hear my voice as another burning puzzle piece: 'Two, you know I would make the rest of your school life a miserable hell.'


Edgar continues, "I couldn't take it anymore, and wanted to sleep forever. So I tried." He falls silent; strangely enough, it's Beto whose eyes are dripping. I blink and realize that he's not the only one crying.


"That's why I didn't want you to tell Beto that I 'owed' you anything, but that's also why I wanted him to come along, just in case. I didn't want him to be scared. So there. Now you know. Now you can go tell everyone and screw me over again."


Wow. I am officially the biggest asshole on the face of the planet. I just blackmailed a kid for sexual things, a kid who attempted suicide for being blackmailed for sexual things. I'd hang myself if I knew it'd work. Rewinding won't do shit, other than make me remember how much of an asshole I was in a past moment. No, I just need to suck it up and--


"Why are YOU so upset?" Beto asks me.


I'm sitting here with my face in my hands, sobbing silently, dripping tears down my hands into my lap. This is super embarrassing. "Because I'm the worst person on Earth," I say with more than a few sobs breaking it up.


Neither of them reply, making the realization all the more stark. How the fuck did I get this fucking callous? Why did I not see it? Maybe I spent way too long as an adult. Adults suck. "Edgar," I finally manage to say, "I can't say 'sorry' enough for blackmailing you and being such an asshole. I can just say that this time, I owe you. Big. Just tell me what you need and I'll do what I can."


"Look, man, it's fine--" Edgar begins, but I cut him off.


"No. I owe you. If you never ask for repayment, that's on you. But I WILL make it up to you."


Edgar silently looks at me for a moment. Beto asks after a moment, "Why did you even blackmail him in the first place? That's a pretty assholish thing to do."


Twist the dagger in the wound. "Because I apparently have a history of making really stupid decisions and regretting it later. I don't want to go into it, but I really hope you can forgive me." I think about it, and add, "For what it's worth, what we just did was really, really hot, so thanks for that."


Edgar sighs. "Yeah, but I mean, when you found me in the bathroom, why didn't you just say, I dunno, something like, 'Hey, wanna do something later?' or whatever? Why did you have to word it you did?"


I really, honestly don't have an answer to that one, at least not one that I can put into words and not hate myself forever for it. All I can do is shrug, and blink away more tears. "Look, I...I'm just gonna go, now. I'm sorry I caused you guys so much pain, and I won't bother you again."


Beto gives me the silent treatment again, but Edgar puts out a foot in front of me to stop my passage. "Phillip, you're not a bad person."


"How the hell can you say that?" I ask with a sharp crack in my voice.


"Bullies don't cry about what they do. I'd be surprised if Janet ever cried about forcing me to do her work. She probably only cried when we got caught because she had to leave her friends."


He's got a point, but I'm not able to accept it. "But I still did those things."


Edgar stands back up and looks down at me. "Would you do them again?"


I wish there were an easy answer to that question. "Not knowing what I know now," is all I can muster.


Edgar squats next to me, somehow actually seeming older than me as he says, "I didn't realize how many people I hurt when I tried to kill myself. Family, friends, classmates. Beto knows." He looks to Beto, who gives him a stony-faced expression in return. "I'd never do it again. Not just because going to the hospital sucks, and having your stomach pumped sucks way worse, but I'll never hurt my friends and family like that again. I learned my lesson."


Without even thinking about it, I say, "I guess you can learn a lot when you can't rewind what you've done."


"That's one way to put it," Edgar replies. "I sometimes wish I could."


I take a moment to compose my answer: "I dunno. If someone could always just rewind if they made a mistake, and never had to live with it, do you think they'd really learn?"


"You mean like loading a saved game?" Beto inquires.


"Right," I say. "Like, if I'm playing a game, and I mess up and load it, all I learn is that if I want to get past that point, I should do things differently. It's not like I care about the people or whatever, I just want to get past it."


Edgar considers this. "Yeah, I guess you're right. If I just took it back, I might not ever really know how bad I made others feel. Maybe I'd do it again."


A strange thought occurs to me, one that I'm surprised hasn't crossed my mind more often in my years. "Also, you load a game so that you can do it better and win, right? If you could load real life, what would be 'winning'? How do you 'win at life'?"


"That's deep, man," Edgar says. "I dunno. Get rich? Have a good family? Be happy?"


Beto chimes in. "It's different for everyone. Like, I wanna be a famous soccer player, but Edgar doesn't. If he became a soccer player, that might not be 'winning' for him."


I think the analogy has run its course, so I change the subject slightly. "This might sound really weird, but thanks for the advice."


"What advice?" Edgar asks, confused. "I don't get it."


"I told you it was gonna sound weird. Don't worry about it. So I really do need to go, and I know you do, too, but can I offer some advice in return?"


"But I never offered any..." He looks to Beto for help; Beto shrugs.


"Beto," I begin, "don't take this the wrong way, but I can see that you really care about Edgar, like, a lot. Edgar, I watched how you and Beto were when you were 'messing around' like you called it. I think you two are more than just friends, whether you say it like that or not."


Beto immediately retorts, "Whoa whoa whoa, that's going too far, bud. I mean I care about him, yeah, but we're just best friends." Edgar, however, stays silent on it; I watch his eyes dart to Beto and then to the ground as Beto firmly gives his denial.


With a sly smile, I ask, "How would you feel if Edgar started hanging out with someone else like, say, Diego, and you found out he was 'messing around' with him. Would you just be all like, 'Okay, cool'?"


Beto's expression is incredulous, as if I'd just said the most obvious thing in the world. His reply, however, takes a much longer time to form. Without any conviction behind the words, he finally says, "Well, yeah, I mean, he can do what he wants, right?"


"What are you trying to do, exactly?" Edgar says with suspicion in his eyes.


"Get you two to tell the truth," I state in a no-nonsense tone. "Here, I'll tell YOU the truth: I'm jealous of how well you two work together. Like, I'd kill to have sex like that. I really wish someone would defend me like Beto defends you. I'd be lucky if I could spend my life with someone who gave half as much care as you two do for each other. I'm not blind; I can see it clearly."


Edgar, by the end of my speech, has turned strawberry red. He takes a deep breath and announces, "I said I was tired of hiding. Besides, it apparently doesn't work, if I'm that obvious about it."


Beto halts. " you mean?"


Edgar stands up and squares his shoulders towards Beto. "My name is Edgar Gutierrez, I'm gay, and I have a crush on my best friend. There. I said it. No more hiding." The last part, however, is spoken to his shoes. He did pretty well, though, all things considered.


"I..." Beto says, working his mouth wordlessly until his thoughts collect, "I didn't think you felt that way about me."


Looking at the wall next to him for fear of meeting Beto's eyes, Edgar admits, "I never said anything 'cuz, you know, you're into girls. I mean, you even told me a long time ago that it'd probably be different if I was a girl."


The look Beto gives Edgar is subtle, but to the trained eye, it screams love. "Fine. If we're all telling secrets here, then here's mine: I like boys, too. I've always been too scared to admit it. I mean I know I said that thing about you being a girl, but I've never really wanted to go out with anyone because...because, I dunno, I guess it'd feel almost like I was cheating on you. God, I know that sounds weird, but like, I dunno. I really like you, and I care about you, and...I used to wish you were a girl so we could go out without being scared." The last part rushes out of him like the last air in a deflating balloon, but he maintains his stare at Edgar's face the entire time. Edgar meets his stare, searching his face up and down like he's just met someone new. After a moment, Beto adds, "And I knew you had enough to deal with, so I didn't want to make things harder on you."


"What? No!" Edgar says emphatically as he walks up closer to Beto. "You wouldn't make things--you're my best friend! Why would you think that?"


Good God in a Heaven that Doesn't Exist. I've gone from horny to self-hate to pride to glee all in what, an hour? I take my phone out of my pants pocket and check; it's actually been a bit longer. "Um, guys? It's like...almost 4:30. I'm sorry to break things up, but we should probably go. That, and I forgot my popcorn."


Edgar shoots me a 'shut up' look for the bad joke and looks back to Beto. "So, you like me 'that way,' even though I'm not a girl?"


One side of Beto's mouth can't help but curl into a smile. "Yeah. I do."


Edgar's response is a bone-crushing hug with Beto. My head is about to explode with cuteness overload, I can feel it. I give them their moment as I put my clothes back on and stretch my arms and legs a bit; bathrooms aren't really all that comfortable, it turns out.


After they finally let go of each other, Beto mumbles, "I really gotta go. Mom's gonna be pissed if I'm really late."


"Me too," 'Canelito' says, his cheeks living up to his nickname. "Can I text you later?"


"Yeah, of course," Beto says, his fear of his mom finally winning out over his desire to stay with Edgar. "Talk to you later," he says on his way out the door.


Edgar watches him leave, and then searches me with his eyes. He snorts a quick laugh, and says, "You don't owe me anymore."


As he leaves, I think to myself how much I could get used to making that sort of thing happen more often.



End of Chapter 8



Okay, I'm just going to admit it: I like emotional sex stories. There. It only took 8 chapters to say it. Anyway, next we'll be focusing back on ol' Matty, so gear up for a fun ride there! Send me an email if you like the story so far; flattery and ego-boosts are an author's best fuel. Love y'all for reading, and stay tuned!

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