Any resemblance to actual boys is universal.

Vignettes  1


How we got there doesn't matter. Me lying there, jacket up, shorts down. Stiff. Timmy's soft hand on my hairless boyhood.  Stroking, lightly. Fluttering, like a hummingbird.

Shy about my boner? No. Both boys. My lack of hair? Neither of us had it. Had ever had it. Both of us exploring the truth and meaning of this. First time. Learning this thing with Timmy. My friend. Part of me. Both boys. Feels so good. Thoughts? -- none. Boner so good. Reaching, reaching for something undefined. Hint of some goal, beyond reach. Boy bag snug and tingly warm sun and trusting friendship.


Randy right here on the ground, needy. Always so complete before. Contained in himself. Now needing my hand. Fluttering in his lap. A butterfly. On his clean pink stiffy. Such a complex thing. Young lines and wrinkles. Needful, for once. Needing my hand. New, this need: reaching, reaching -- for what? His terry shorts half down his thighs. Always saw those thighs so strong, running, purposeful. The shorts still showing the outline of what I now hold, so warm, in my hand. Inner thighs pink and white and smooth. Helpless. My friend, so young! Tender. First time needy like this in front of me.


Tired. The goal beyond reach. My shorts back on me, now. Snug, again, cupping and containing the still-need. Timmy. Groping my package. Fingers now exploring my butt. Deep in the crack, invading. Taking my privacy. Into my most private places, taking them over. Melting. Growing fuzzy. Finger finding my secret place, pressing. You found me. Deep pleasure. A flash of comfort.


Something different in my head. Not holding things together anymore. Timmy: the boundary between us fuzzy. My borders fuzzy.

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