Eli, Eli

+ + +

I had just turned fifteen when I moved to the sweltering expanse of Houston. I was excited, in a way—a new city meant a new beginning, a clean slate, no reputations or awkward memories, I could be whoever I wanted to be. But it was with an immediate and suffocating sense of loneliness that I longed to see my friends again—to ride around town in their cars, to take long walks down Commonwealth or Tremont, to just get stoned and watch movies all afternoon, eating bowl after bowl of popcorn.

I thought back to my life in Boston, to the subtle reminders of where I was, the little things I took for granted, things I barely even noticed: the cool air that had the faint salty smell of the ocean, the tolling of church bells, the tall narrow old-world architecture, the urgency of fashionable pedestrians with heavy shopping bags and hoarse accents, plaques indicating a long and rich history around every corner, the rumble of the T somewhere far below me, the shady dignified ambience of Beacon Hill and the lively commercial bustle of the Back Bay—already I missed it all terribly.

Houston was such a jarring contrast. Hot and humid and unbearably flat, it stretched outward in all directions, covering an area that I suspected would take up most of Massachusetts. It stretched, but it also sprawled—it was impossible to walk or even ride your bike anywhere outside of your immediate neighborhood. And for a city that was once the capital of an entire nation, there was very little visible history—every day, older buildings were torn down to build soulless new ones, and the only reminders of the city's past were found on street signs.

With a heavy heart, I approached the place where I was imprisoned interminably, the place that I was supposed to call home—a steepled Victorian on a quiet, tree-lined street called Heights Boulevard.

He was out there, like he had been every day for the three days since we'd moved in, playing war games—barking out orders to nobody and making machine-gun noises as he riddled his prisoners with imaginary bullets.

Eli was a blond Israeli with dark eyes and a Hungarian surname. He was eight years old, I guessed, or maybe recently nine. His family had moved from Jerusalem when he was two, that much I knew, and his dad was a chemical engineer. The rest, I knew from my surreptitious observation: he preferred his shirts sleeveless, and his feet were almost always bare. When I heard him speak, it was with his parents or in his play, and thus always in throaty Hebrew: exotic and flowing sounds I couldn't describe. I wondered if he spoke English, and I realized it was funny how much I knew about him, considering he probably only recognized me as the kid next door.

As I meandered up the front walk, Eli put his arms up momentarily, and my eyes flashed to a tanned sliver of exposed midriff. He looked at me—for a second I felt a pang of terror and I'm sure my face went the color of a stop sign—but he just smiled and waved. I nervously waved back, and went quickly inside the house. It was so quiet here, so slow, so still and so crushingly lonely.

I felt a pang of jealousy for the boy next door who could go outside and have such noisy fun by himself—something I had never been able to do because of the suffocating sense of propriety and self-consciousness that had plagued me my whole life. I always had an uneasy feeling in the back of my mind that I didn't quite fit in with kids my own age—I was smart, for one, not nerdy but just naturally gifted and always very precocious. I knew how to appreciate things like art and architecture and history and languages—things most kids my age equated with chores, with rote memorization and stressful midterm exams. I had just always felt that I identified much more readily with people five, even ten years older than I was—I'd see college students drinking Starbucks in silver Jettas and I'd think: Why can't I be like them? And then I'd have to remind myself that, frustratingly, I had only turned fifteen not even a month before—I couldn't be like them, not yet, no matter how hard I tried.

That night my parents, both exhausted from work, went to bed at exactly ten o'clock—just like always. I sat in my room, listening to music and IMing with my friends back home. When I got up to go to the bathroom, I made an exhilarating but somehow uncomfortable discovery.

My window faced directly into Eli's. I had never noticed before, because I usually kept the blinds drawn. Tonight, for some reason, they had been opened (Mom meddling again, I thought), and I watched him sitting on the floor of his room, playing with tanks and helicopters he'd built himself out of Lego. He raised a multicolored interpretation of a fighter jet high over his head, and let it down in a slow arc until it smashed into the carpet.

I smiled a bit. I went to the bathroom, and on my way back I watched a bit more. It occurred to me with a flash of guilt that if he were to turn around he would see me staring at him, so I shut off the computer monitor and the lights, and then I returned to peek through the blinds.

After a while, he stopped playing momentarily and shot a suspicious glance over his shoulder. I was filled with terror, certain that I'd been discovered—but he just turned around and continued playing. Through the blinds and in my dark room, he hadn't seen me. I was invisible.

This gave me mixed feelings: on one hand, I could watch this sexy little boy as much as I wanted, but on the other hand, I was a fucking pervert. I shoved those guilty thoughts out of my mind—there would be time for that later.

He played for a few minutes longer until his dad poked his head in the door. They spoke briefly, and then the door was shut.

Eli stood up to put away his creations, and then I felt my cock start to stir when I realized that he was getting ready for bed. He peeled off his sleeveless shirt and kicked off his silky shorts, and by the time he was down to his little white briefs, my cock was fully hard. This was absolutely exhilarating. So dirty... so hot... so wrong...

He was tanned all over: his skin was so rich and so smooth and so vibrant. He had a glowing tan line whose smooth gradient peeked from the waistband and legs of his underwear, but every inch of skin that I could see was bronzed to perfection. The contours of his narrow chest and perfectly flat belly and prominent hipbones seemed as subtly intricate as any passage from Shakespeare. His skinny limbs and prominent joints, his sinewy arms and neck spoke of youthful athleticism and all the joyful, guiltless, no-strings-attached fun of summer through the eyes of a boy.

He approached the window, gazing out, straight at me, a confused expression on his face. I was momentarily frozen with terror, but still he did not see me. I studied him in the short time I had, and I knew that this image would be forever burnt into my mind's eye: this boy from the Holy Land had the face of an angel. His features were soft and subtle and as exquisitely formed as the Mona Lisa's, and I was certain that the way they were proportioned was close to mathematically perfect. His blond hair, lighter and more vibrant and more richly colored than my own, was worn in the not-quite-jawline-length shaggy style that made a perfect frame for his face, and it was exactingly tousled—every messy lock seemed studiously designed to fall just so. His radiant, expressive eyes were the stunning hue of a glass of strong tea held up to the light. Framed by dark eyelashes, these eyes drew a breathtaking contrast to his face, and they seemed to speak to me, saying love me, I'm lonely, but please don't hurt me, I'm fragile. His sublime beauty seemed almost engineered—like the Pantheon, designed to be physically flawless. I thought that beauty this precise belonged in a museum.

He started heading for the door beside his bed. I had assumed this was the closet, given the narrow doorframe, but when he clicked on the lights I could see a toilet.

Oh please, I silently begged, please let me watch you!

In his childish oblivion, he answered my prayers. I watched, my hand absently rubbing the crotch of my jeans, as he approached the toilet. He pulled his briefs halfway down his thighs, just like I did at that age, and I could feel the testosterone flooding my veins when I saw his butt—small and firm and round—creamy and fair in color, such a stark contrast to the rich tan over the rest of his flawless skin. I watched his arms move to his front as he took his penis—tragically out of my view—into the fingers of both hands, and he looked up at the ceiling as I imagined his flow starting. After a moment he looked back down, and I could see him shake it well before flushing and pulling his underwear back up.

He moved to the right, to the sink. I watched, and he did an adorable little dance as he brushed his teeth. Then he moved swiftly to the left—out of my sight.

For a minute I wondered what he was doing, but when I looked at the mirror over the sink I saw that it was starting to fog. He was taking a shower.

I took the opportunity to strip naked and lie back on my bed, and I masturbated furiously at what I had just witnessed. He was so sexy, and the fact that I had watched him doing such private things while he was completely unaware turned me on immensely.

I was excited when the fog on the mirror started to lift. Soon he would emerge from the shower... but would he...

He came back into his bedroom with an olive green towel around his waist. His hair was dripping, and his freshly-scrubbed bronze skin seemed to glow.

He walked slowly to the middle of his bedroom. He dropped his towel and then jumped into bed, into the pile of covers—but in that instant I saw it. I SAW it! And that was it—I came forcefully, spraying heat all the way up to my chest.

This image, too, was immediately burnt into my mind. That perfect smooth tan, and then a sudden stark transition to pale, untouched skin a few inches below his bellybutton... And I had seen it. It was no more than a nub, dominated by a lavender head, just long enough to dangle over a tight sac that I didn't quite see.

I deliriously wiped the mess off myself with the towel I kept hidden under my bed. I knew that this would be my new favorite show, one that I would never miss an episode of, and I pushed the creeping feelings of overwhelming guilt and desperation away just in time to fall asleep.

I woke up the next day sometime after noon. The house was silent—Mom and Dad were out.

I could hear Eli's voice outside, shouting in Hebrew. I jumped out of bed and quickly dressed in black shorts and a white T-shirt, and then I headed for the garage. Surely Dad would be very pleased to come home and find the lawn already mowed, without even having to nag me, but I didn't care about that—I just had to see him.

We carefully ignored each other as I fired up the lawnmower and started pushing it across the yard. Every time I turned the mower, I snuck a glimpse at the perfect boy in the next yard over.

I was amazed at how sweltering summer could be here in Houston: my white t-shirt had already started to soak through. I shut off the mower, and I was sure to wait until Eli was looking to slowly peel off my shirt. It was with great, well-hidden glee that I observed, out of the corner of my eye, that Eli stood and stared as I took off my shirt and used it to mop the sweat from my face and armpits. With that last part I was slow and deliberate in showing off the almond-sized patches of hair that were so new and exotic even to me, and I prayed that they had grown dark enough that he could see them. Hair meant maturity, and maturity meant respect.

I resumed my yardwork, and Eli resumed his play, but he was half-hearted about it. More and more regularly I would sneak glances over to the next yard, hoping to see just another inch of that amazing skin, and I was fully aware that Eli would break from machine-gunning imaginary Palestinians to take a long and studied look at my shirtless body, glistening with a sweet sheen of sweat. He seemed to pause in thought a while, and then he shucked off his own shirt. It was with immense deliberation that, in his play, he slowly inched closer and closer to the short hedge separating the lawns.

As I grew close to finishing, I was unable to stop myself from taking intoxicating glances at the blond boy's smooth, tanned body. I caught him watching me—this time he was the one to flush with horror, and, not knowing what else to do, he pointed his imaginary rifle at me, so I smiled at him and continued on my way.

I finally finished, shut off the mower, and sat down panting on the sweet-smelling lawn.

Eli was no longer talking to himself. He ran around aimlessly for no more than two minutes, and then he cautiously stepped over the hedge and approached me with the intimidation I'd expect from a boy approaching a caged tiger. The freshly cut grass whispered as it crunched below his small feet.

I looked up at him, and he blurted out, in flawlessly unaccented English: "D'you wanna popsicle?"

I smiled at him—I was careful to keep it cool and detached. "Yeah," I panted, "that would be awesome."

He ran back towards his house, and I watched as his silky shorts hugged the contour of that perfectly round butt with each step he took.

Even in the sticky heat, I shivered with excitement. I stifled a laugh as I realized: I've seen him naked, and now I'm finally talking to him!

He returned with two popsicles, one green and one orange. He handed me the orange one and sat cross-legged next to me—so close his bare knee was no more than a millimeter from mine. I could almost feel his skin against mine. I badly needed a shower and deodorant, but Eli didn't seem to mind. I, for one, was intoxicated by his smell—the complex smell of a boy who lived in a house filled with sage and oils and exotic foods like hummus and tabbouleh, a boy who would work up a good sweat all day before winding down with a long steamy shower. I wanted so badly to taste his skin...

He asked, in his sweet soprano: "You're Tyler, right?"

I nodded.

"I'm Eli," he said, "Eli Kovacs. Where did you move from?"

"Boston."

"That's cool. I'm from Israel."

"I know."

His inquisitive eyes met mine and shot a surge of electricity through my whole body.

"I uh—I mean our parents have talked before. That's how I know."

He nodded and inspected the flecks of dirt between his toes.

"How old are you?"

"I'm nine and a half," he said. "What about you?"

"I'm fifteen... um, you'll be in fourth grade?"

"Yep."

"I'll be a sophomore."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"I have an older sister. She's in college." Eli didn't offer any input here, and as I had only ever seen him playing by himself I guessed he was an only child.

We chatted and ate our popsicles. I watched, trying to hide my arousal, as he licked at it, sucked at it, licked green drips off his fingers and even his legs. It was incredibly seductive, whether he knew it or not. I imagined it was my cock that he was working at so lovingly, and I shifted my legs to conceal a now aching erection.

I watched, mouth agape, as he touched his lips to the tip of the popsicle, and then slid them all the way down—no more than an inch away from the stick—and then he gagged a bit and came up laughing. "What do you think happens if you eat a popsicle in one bite?"

I forced myself to laugh, but I was in shock. "Uh... you probably get a really bad brain freeze."

He laughed loudly, and I gaped. He had no idea what he was doing to me. All I could think of was that if he could get that far down me, his lips would have touched pubes. I felt my cock pulse, and I knew that a spot of pre-cum was starting to form inside my shorts.

I leaned back a bit, trying to clear my thoughts, and I jumped a mile when I felt something touching dangerously low on my belly. I looked at him, and he showed me his fingers pinched together: "You had a piece of grass."

I nodded a bit. It took every ounce of self-control I could muster to not just pounce on him, rip his clothes off, and run my tongue over every inch of his perspiring bronze skin. I could imagine how he would taste...

I snapped out of my trance and blurted stupidly: "What?"

"I said, don't you have a pool?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Can I come over and swim?"

"Of course!" I chided myself for sounding so eager. As he followed me into the backyard I asked: "Don't you have a bathing suit?"

"It's in the wash," he said, casually pushing down his shorts with an invigorating lack of self-consciousness. He ran for the pool and cannonballed in, and I went inside to change.

I had several bathing suits, and I was sure to choose the baggiest one. I examined myself in the mirror for a few minutes to make sure that my erection was not visible.

When I returned to the backyard I saw him on the diving board, and the water had made his little white briefs translucent—all except for that double-thick spot at the very front. My erection raged, and I slipped into the warm pool as he jumped and hit the water flailing.

We swam and played in the water, and my cock finally went down. I actually got to touch him—on the arms and back, just playful shoves—and I was surprised to find that I was having enough fun that I didn't find these innocent touches erotic. But when his fingers gently brushed my chest under the water—a caress, almost—that sent me into overdrive, and I nearly ejaculated into my bathing suit.

We swam late into the afternoon, and finally got out when the water started feeling uncomfortably chilly. We toweled off, and he wrapped his towel around his waist and giggled at me as his saturated briefs hit the patio with a wet smack.

I was in awe. He was fully aware, no doubt, that his towel might slip off at any time. I looked at it—it was wrapped tight around his waist, and I could just make out the tiny bulge where his prepubescent package was.

We went inside to watch TV, and as Eli subconsciously shifted on the couch, the towel shifted lower. It was now well below his glowing tan line, and I realized that were it only two inches lower it would be at the... oh God...

My heart pounded for hours—but it was not to be. After a while he got up, carefully holding the towel around him, and he said: "I hafta go get ready for temple." I hazily recalled from my civics class that the Jewish sabbath started on Friday evening. "Thanks for letting me swim with you!"

"It's no problem," I said, smiling and drinking in his exquisite form. "You can come over tomorrow, if you want."

"Okay, yeah!" he gave me a big smile, and then he headed out the door.

I looked out the window and watched him disappear out the gate into the front yard, and that's when I saw it: he had left his underwear, in a little pile, on the flagstone.

I immediately raced out to retrieve them. The briefs—white Fruit of the Looms—had been dried by the sun, and I brought them inside with devious and filthy thoughts flooding my mind.

I immediately went up to my room and buried my face in my prize—unfortunately, all I could smell was chlorine. I stripped naked and laid on my bed, stroking myself with one hand as I played with Eli's briefs with the other. I slipped my own feet through the leg holes and pulled up to the sound of seams bursting: they were so small and tight on me that my cock threatened to explode out of them. I fished one hand under the waistband and brought myself to an explosive orgasm, and I panted and watched as my cum seeped through the front of the boy's briefs.

I peeled the soiled underwear off and tossed them under my bed, thinking that Eli would never see them again, and that they would soon be stiff and starchy.

It was with a sick, heavy guilt that I eyed the little silver crucifix on the wall by my door—a relic of my Catholic private school upbringing. Jesus's tarnished face looked sad—disappointed in me. Feeling nauseous, I recalled having to memorize, in Aramaic, His last words: Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?

My God, My God. Eli, Eli.

I thought: What kind of a goddamn perverted deviant steals a little boy's underwear? And then goes and jerks off to them? And watches the boy pee and get naked? You are a very bad person, my mind screamed, you are a pervert and you are evil and your desires are twisted and wrong, your sins are the worst kind. You are a cosmic mistake, your very existence is a sin against nature. There is no place in God's Kingdom for pedophiles.

I wasn't—I never—Oh God (I choked on a sob)—what the hell was wrong with me?

My tears flowed freely, and slowly I drifted into a troubled sleep.

+ + +

One morning six weeks later, I was awoken by the doorbell. I was aware of three things: it was Saturday, my parents had probably already left, and I knew exactly who was at the door. I pulled on a pair of shorts and went to let him in.

Eli was dressed as usual in a sleeveless shirt and cargo shorts, and he greeted me with a smile. I yawned and stretched and let him in.

We sat down in front of the TV—he sat very, very close to me, like he always did. I laced my fingers behind my head, and he carefully scooted a bit closer, just in the right position for me to put an arm around those narrow shoulders...

"You know," I said, my mouth dry with the exhilarating anticipation of my hideously evil scheming: "my parents are out of town tonight. You could... you could spend the night if you want."

"Really?!"

"Yeah," I said, "why not? I mean I just moved here, so I haven't had a chance to... you're the only friend I've got, Eli."

Those richly colored eyes grew big, and his face was framed by a huge grin. "Oh man, Tyler, that would be so totally awesome. Lemme go ask my mom." He sprinted out the front door, and came back less than a minute later dancing: "She said yes!"

The day was bright and happy, filled with swimming and movies and chips and ice cream and long conversations, and it went by so fast that I wasn't even aware that time was passing.

That night, as I laid back in my bed, Eli stood next to me, looking over my body that was clad in only a pair of grey briefs. He said: "Should I sleep on the couch?"

"No," I said the words that I had rehearsed: "You'll get a crick in your back if you do. My bed's big enough for both of us, why don't we sleep together?"

He smiled. "Yeah," he said, "that sounds nice." He pushed off his shorts, and a small warm body crawled under the covers next to me.

Everything was going so perfectly!

He turned over and curled up, so close to me that I could feel his warmth, and he took in a deep breath and then sighed.

"Eli," I said slowly.

"Yeah?"

"Why do you keep doing that?"

I couldn't see his face, but he paused. "I like the way you smell," he said. I was shocked, but then he continued: "because it reminds me of my older brother Uriel."

I was let down a little bit. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"He died," Eli said, "two years ago."

"Oh," I sputtered an apology.

He shook his head a bit. "In Israel, you have to be the army for three years when you grow up. We already lived here but Uriel decided to go back anyway. So he went when he graduated from high school, and he got blown up in Gaza."

"Oh, God, Eli, that's terrible... I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he said. "It doesn't make me sad the way it used to. But I still miss him. And you smell like he did, so... it's kinda comforting, I guess."

I could empathetically feel his sense of loss and longing then, so I turned onto my side and put an arm around him. He gave a voiced sigh of pleasure: "Tyler, you're really awesome."

I buried my face in his shaggy hair—the smell was wonderful, and his warmth was incredible.

I let my hand slip down to his waist. "Here," I said softly, almost a whisper, "why don't we..." He wordlessly put his arms up and let me pull off his shirt. I felt a rush of pleasure when he allowed me to run my palm down his bare silky skin, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, gradually pulling him into me. He was like me—he was a learner—he draped an arm over me, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I pulled him in, holding him close—his small hand squeezed my shoulder slightly, he sighed contentedly, and his warm breath on my chest melted me.

And then came a question that exhilarated me—unexpected but so very welcome: "Tyler, does your... p-penis ever get hard?"

"Yeah," I breathed into his sweet-smelling hair, "quite a lot."

"Yeah," he said back, and his tone sounded relieved.

I decided to poke around a bit: "When does it get like that?"

He sighed. "A lot of the time it's for no reason at all, sometimes I don't even notice it. But also... like... when we're really close together? And you're really warm and... that makes it get stiff too."

I swallowed hard. "Like right now?"

He nodded a bit: "Uh-huh."

"It's okay," I said. My hand returned to the small of his back, pulling him deeper into me, and when I pulled our hips together he gasped and my cock leaked. I gently ground against him: "See? It's okay. It feels good when you touch it."

"It feels good," he echoed, his voice a breathy whisper.

My hand found its way to the gentle curve of his buttocks—I was amazed at what I felt. I squeezed gently, inciting him to rub his crotch against mine.

"It would feel good," he said, his voice dry, "if we—" and then, as if realizing what he was about to say, he jerked away from me and buried his face in the pillow.

"If we what, Eli?" I prodded. "If we were naked?"

His face in the pillow, he nodded—subtly, almost imperceptibly.

I ran my fingers through his soft hair, and I said: "If you want to get naked, I'll get naked with you." I pushed the covers off myself and got up to my knees, and slowly his face emerged.

I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my underwear, and I took in the golden sunny hair and tawny skin of the precious treasure below me. His lustrous brown eyes betrayed anticipation, captivation, fascination.

My cock sprang free and snapped up to my belly, and he examined it it with wide eyes. I was proud of it, I was almost eager for Eli to see it: only a year ago it wasn't even four inches, and now it was getting dangerously close to five. I liked to think that its place on my narrow hips below the tuft of soft, sandy-colored hair made it appear bigger than it really was.

Eli's breathing was shallow and rapid and noisy. His lips were parted slightly, and his eyes were wide as he studied my pubescence.

I realized that Eli was probably too intimidated to take the next step, so I helped him: I pulled gently at the waistband of his white briefs, I held just below that glowing tan line, and cautiously he pulled his underwear down. My glorious prize was revealed: a plump erection of little more than two inches, straining so achingly hard that the shaft was slightly purple against the pure white of his groin, the tiny head twitching with every pounding beat of Eli's heart.

I froze a moment in silent worship of the glowing boy before me, and I saw something in those dark eyes just then—could it have been need, could it have been pleading—and with a surge of some unplaceable but urgent emotion I gave into my unholy desires. I dove into him, hungrily, greedily, voraciously devouring everything I could reach with my fingers and lips and tongue—the taste of his skin was indescribable, it was more delicious than I could have imagined—creamy and smooth, salty and very slightly sweet, rich and sun-dried and delicately spicy—it was the divine ambrosia—and under me he squeaked and twitched and gasped and cooed.

I closed my eyes and my lips met his, I kissed him hard and with blinding lust, and at first he didn't do anything, he just lay stock-still beneath me—but slowly he began to respond, cautiously kissing back with the trepidation of one learning through experience. I slipped my tongue between his lips and invaded him, exploring everything I could reach—I tasted the chill of toothpaste—and I played with his tongue, molding it like a sculptor would mold clay, inciting it—come play with me.

I kissed his jawline down to his ear—I lovingly ran my tongue down the sinews of his neck and the across sharp curves of his collarbone, down the shallow depression of his breastbone. I latched onto a tiny brown nipple, I desperately licked at it and sucked at it and nibbled at it, and Eli vocalized loudly as his back arched and his fingers ran through my hair. I kissed my way down the almost imperceptibly convex curve of his belly—my tongue flicked momentarily into his bellybutton. I explored places I never thought I would feel the need to explore: my lips and tongue tasted and savored the creamy and tender skin of his underarms, the thick and pliable skin of his knees, the taut and callused skin of the bottoms of his feet—and I sucked each of his fingers and toes. In every moment of my exploration, I was astonished and invigorated to discover that each new part of this perfect body tasted subtly different—exotic and new but still exquisitely Eli.

Without warning, I took both of his tiny balls into my mouth, my lips delighted in rolling and pulling on the velvety skin of his loosened scrotum, and he produced a low, strangled moan. My tongue found the cleft between his legs and I pushed them apart, I licked downward, and just as I realized where I was, the response was a cry of equal parts shock and utter delight. I licked and prodded at this hot and tight and tender new spot—it tasted slightly tangy and like nothing I would have ever expected. His whole body shuddered like Jello as I rimmed him, and although this was something that I had never even imagined doing to anyone, I found myself enamoured of the sheer intimacy of it all—licking a boy's most intensely private place—his trust in me was complete and total as he revealed his last possible secret—and I loved it.

Finally my lips found his tiny cock—he took in a sharp lungful of air—and I sucked so hard it might have just popped off, and my head spun with its awesome taste, texture, the way it seemed to vibrate as the suction pulled blood into the tiny sensitive cockhead. I worked on it lovingly, but also lustily, voraciously, and my middle finger caressed and prodded the spot where my tongue had been only moments before. I pushed a bit, and it was so slick that I felt its tightness give way a bit—just a little bit—and my finger slipped in, just to the first knuckle. I goggled at how hot and smooth and incredibly tight it was.

Eli gasped and writhed and pulled my hair and made noisy guttural sounds, and I sucked his cock desperately, pushing my lips hard into the soft skin at its root, furiously kissing the smooth base as I tried to get just a little bit more inside my mouth—my middle finger slipped deeper and deeper inside the boy's body, I swirled over his cockhead with my tongue and twisted my head left and right—and as Eli bucked and cried out in the ecstasy of his first orgasm, I felt its rhythm around my finger.

I came up panting and looked over what I had done: his crotch was slick and glistening with my saliva, that little cock still pulsing, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy and his eyelids heavy, his mouth agape.

I trembled violently as I smeared freely-flowing precum all over my cock, and Eli started when I lifted his legs and touched my head to his entrance—so tight and welcoming—I couldn't control myself now even if I wanted to—I thrusted hard and it slid in so quickly and smoothly and easily—but Eli screamed in agony, I breathed Oh God baby I'm so sorry I didn't—and he cut me off, slurring back Agh it hurts it hurts oh God ahhhh—okay agh no it's okay aghh keep going—

Eli was so hot and tight and moist and smooth on the inside—I reeled at the intensity of the sensation and the situation, I looked down and I reeled again at the sight of my pubic hair curling around Eli's tight sac, oh fuck it was actually in, it was all the way in, I was inside him—I thought this is so good, this is so amazing, nothing could ever feel half as good as this feels, physically, emotionally, spiritually—and I only got in half a dozen thrusts before I tightened, swelled, every muscle in my body went rigid and I plunged deeper than I thought I could go and I held myself there, and my fingers and toes tingled and curled and my eyes and teeth and anus clenched—and I exploded.

And then I was a dead weight on top of him, suffocating him, crushing him, and when I was able to breathe and move again I propped myself up on my elbows. My vision returned and I let myself slip out of him, and below me his eyes and mouth were wide with shock, begging of me Tyler, what did you just DO?!

Cautiously he touched my chest, sticky with sweat. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, a painful lump in my throat, and I opened my mouth and it was a rushing river of slurred apologies—oh God I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry baby please please I didn't mean to hurt you Eli I just—I don't know oh my God I can't—I didn't—I'm sorry—please don't—

But he just sighed with contentment—maybe even smiled a little. "It's okay," he whispered deliriously. "It doesn't hurt that bad. At first it did. But then it was..."

I wiped my eyes. "Intense?"

"Yeah. It was..." He chose his words carefully: "it was f-fucking intense."

I laughed weakly and looked him in the eyes. He looked peaceful and full and content. Not hurt or abused or empty. I felt that surge of emotion again—only this time I knew what it was -

"I love you Eli, I just... I just love you so much."

He leaned in and kissed me once on the lips. "I love you too Tyler."

I don't know if he meant it. I'm sure he did, in his own way, but I just don't know if a kid that young is capable of experiencing something as powerful as I felt for him just then. I played with his hair as he drifted to sleep—he looked so perfectly angelic as his little chest gently rose and fell—and I was filled with hot, sick, heavy guilt, it lurched within me as I got up to go into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, I gazed in at my messy, damp hair and flushed cheeks and when I looked myself in the eyes I felt an intense, seething, desperate hatred—I hated myself for what I had just done. In the bathroom mirror I caught a glimpse of moonlight glinting off my silver crucifix, and then I lurched for the toilet and I threw up. I waited until the shaking subsided—I drank a glass of water and brushed my teeth, and then I got dressed.

I slipped out the front door, I got on my bike and tears streamed down my face as I pedaled hard. Only minutes later I reached my destination, I jumped off my bike and let it crash silently into the grass, and for the first time in two years I stepped into a house of God.

I crossed myself as I entered the booth. "Bless me, Father," I choked out through my sobs, "for I have sinned."

+ + +

When I woke up, Eli was still sleeping. He didn't know I'd even left the night before. Sleeping peacefully, he looked more beautiful than ever. I just watched him until he woke up, and when his eyes slowly fluttered open he greeted me with a tender smile.

"Morning," I said, my voice hoarse. "Sleep well?"

Eli yawned and stretched—as he moved I found the sweet, sticky scent of the previous night's sweat floating up to me, and it was somehow inviting. His voice had never sounded so sweet and crystalline as when he said: "What do you wanna do today, Tyler? D'you wanna go swimming?" He reached under the covers to fondle himself, and he said: "Can you do that thing with your mouth again? That felt so good."

I smiled the most genuine smile I'd ever given anyone. I felt absolved. I felt fresh and clean and new, I felt the immensely powerful touch of relief and release, of forgiveness. I breathed deeply: I breathed in the healing love of the universe, and breathed out the sickness which had taken me. I had begun a new chapter in my life, one that was titled Eli, and for the first time in my life I was certain that I was going to be okay.

+ + +