Date: Sat, 19 Sep 2009 10:51:59 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pierre Guillotine <guillotineboulevard@ymail.com>
Subject: Fond Memories 3

Comments, criticism, appreciation: guillotineboulevard@ymail.com

Dear Reader,

This is a genuine narrative of something that happened when I was just a
kid.  It hasn't been altered in any way and it contains details that make
it very special for me. It may seem a bit odd, but life sometimes makes
less sense than fiction. I hope that you give this little story a chance,
as I believe that most people can relate to such early experiences. And in
case you wish to tell me about your own, you can do it over email.


"Fond Memories 3"


As previously mentioned in the first part of my story, I used to live in a
particularly children-friendly neighborhood, a quiet little street with a
few houses and a few old and low apartment buildings. I lived in one of
such buildings, three stories tall, no elevator, four apartments per story,
most of which occupied by lonely old ladies or old retired couples, one by
a young adult couple with no children, and finally one in which a family
with two children had just moved (just after that incident with C., I was
still 7).

The boy, M., was 6 years old, and we became good friends in a matter of
days (children are so quick to befriend each other... ). The girl was
noticeably older, 11 perhaps. She was already interested in older boys and
she certainly wouldn't waste her time playing with little kids like us.

There were about seven more kids living in our immediate neighborhood, but
it was just the two of us, me and M., in our building.  While I was friends
with most of those children and played with them pretty often, at times I
wouldn't be able to; on rainy days for example, or when mom said "I don't
want you to play outside now because lunch is almost ready". In such
occasions, I could still play with M., as we were only one flight of stairs
away from each other. We would sometimes play in each other's apartments,
but also along the large corridors of our building. There was enough space
for us to run, to kick a small ball or to race RC cars. The neighbors
didn't seem to mind the noise, most of them had grandchildren of their own
that visited sporadically, so they were sympathetic towards us.

We specially enjoyed wrestling one another.  Other than the fact that our
clothes would get absolutely filthy from rolling on the floor, our parents
didn't see anything wrong with it. They didn't foresee our daring
"misdeeds". How could they, anyway? I imagine my parents expected me to
behave like a nice christian boy, not only because God was watching me, but
also because of the four peepholes that surrounded those corridors. Once
our wrestling matches became less about competition, and more about
intimacy, the lack of privacy was indeed a concern, but we managed to get
around it. But let's not be too hasty, there's more to be explained.

Being older and taller, I used to win most of the time. M. never appeared
to be bothered about losing, though. I imagine it's because he looked up to
me with a certain admiration. Not that I ever did anything particularly
worthy of admiration, but it must have been the fact that I was one full
year older than him but I treated him like an equal, instead of assuming
the condescending (sometimes even abusing) attitude that older kids have
towards younger ones. Perhaps he wanted an older brother instead of an
older sister, who knows? The fact is that we got along very well and he was
always gracious in his conduct, winning or losing.

Me, on the other hand, I have always been a sore loser. As a child I always
gave sorry displays of bad sportsmanship:cheating to win, gloating in
victory, whining in defeat. I've struggled to change that sort of behavior
from the moment I learned how undesirable and antisocial it is. But I
intend to share with you the positive spin to this despicable trait of
mine.

I was about to lose that match. My limbs were immobilized under his weight
and by his tight grip. No matter how hard I tried, I could only make very
short ranged movements. It looked like there was nothing else that could be
done... until I decided to think outside the box. Don't ask what our
precise position was, I just remember reaching for his crotch and squeezing
his balls! He screamed in pain and released me. I immediately jumped on top
of him and pinned him down. That was pretty mean, I know, but M. himself
would learn how to take advantage of this pretty quickly, before I even
realized it.

Now he would ask me, before we started to wrestle, "No ball squeezing,
OK?". I always agreed, but, as soon as it started to look like he was going
to win, I would grab his nuts. Afraid that I was going to squeeze them, he
would then let me win. I learned that winning that way was no fun. It was
pretty boring to know the outcome before we even started: Who wins? Me!

Nevertheless, M. still wanted to wrestle. He seemed more enthusiastic about
it than ever, in fact. He started to put up much better fights. He would
now very frequently come close to winning, then I would touch his crotch
and he would beg me not to squeeze his testicles and let me pin him
down. Only to ask for a rematch right after! I couldn't understand.

But that wasn't all. He started a strange habit: suggesting he was going to
insult me. Like for example starting a sentence as "You are a ..." in such
a tone that one would expect something offensive to follow, or a few other
set phrases that I can't appropriately translate into English. He would
never actually pronounce the offensive word, and he was always smiling,
assuring me of the good-natured spirit of his prank, but still that was
really uncommon, given the admiration he had for me. Of course, having just
discovered an infallible way to keep him under control, I would use it in
situations like these as well. Whenever he started to tease me, my
threatening hands would get a good firm grip on his private parts, making
him promptly apologize to avoid the cruel pressure.

M.'s attitudes puzzled me. It was as if all he wanted was to get his balls
touched by me!

Perhaps I'm a little dim, yes. But once I figured what it was all about, I
was more than glad to offer him a helping hand, so to speak. But, we needed
our little excuse: I was doing it only to punish him! Otherwise it would be
gay.

I've seen the following process repeat itself many times in my life: first
I need an excuse to do something "wrong". Then I acknowledge the excuse as
a mere formality and start to skip it to save time. It wasn't long until we
reached that point. In other words, I started to openly massage his penis
and his testicles over his pants, without need for fake insults or
wrestling. It was a good thing that we were finally on the same page. Now,
whenever we had five seconds of privacy anywhere, I'd give him a rub or a
squeeze (a gentle one, he didn't need to fear anymore). And I do mean
anywhere, even when playing in my home, with my conservative parents
around. I just had to be brief.

For example, we would sit on the floor, facing one another, harmlessly
playing with our toy cars. Whenever I took my little car anywhere near his
crotch, I'd give him a grope. Or when meeting for the first time during the
day, it was like a secret handshake. The opportunities increased when later
on M.'s parents gave him his first video game, it was a good excuse to sit
side by side, holding joysticks more or less nearby that area. I would
touch his "joy stick" every chance I had.

We had a bit of a problem when we wanted to do it while playing in the
corridors, though. There wouldn't be anyone else there but us, so we'd be
inclined to take our sweet time. But there were the four dreaded
peepholes. What if someone decided to look through the peephole and saw a
boy standing there massaging the other boy's crotch? To be brief wouldn't
help any, what if someone looked just when we started it? There wouldn't be
any sound to warn us.

Our first solution was to get on the floor and pretend we were
wrestling. We'd change positions often to make it look realistic, but no
fighting would take place, just fondling. A close inspection would reveal
what we were actually up to, but we thought the image was pretty convincing
through a peephole. That worked just fine until I wanted to get some actual
meat in my hands. It started to get inconvenient to do all that fake
wrestling while I tried to get my hands inside his shorts. Not to mention
that I was curious and wanted to look at his dick. So we decided to take
our forbidden sessions to the stairs, at a certain point where we couldn't
be seen from the corridors, much less from the peepholes.

Now I was really getting my curiosity satisfied! M. would stand in front of
me with his pants down, or sit beside me sometimes. I got to look at his
dick and balls all I wanted. And I liked what I saw! Cute, uncut, pointing
upwards, the little hairless ballsack tight because of the excitement. I
could get my entire hand around his penis, but that left no space for me to
work it. So I would stroke it between my thumb, index and middle fingers,
while cupping his balls with my other hand.

The funny thing is that I didn't know about masturbation yet, I never
touched myself in that way. So I never asked him to reciprocate, and he was
probably too insecure to take initiative. But I didn't mind, after all, I
didn't know what I was missing. I would gladly masturbate him the entire
day. And the great thing about masturbating a 6 year old, is that he could
very well last the entire day, he had no cum. The inconvenient part is that
our sessions would last so long that we were frequently interrupted by the
sound of someone approaching. Case in which M. had to pull his pants up and
find a way to conceal his little boner.

If you read the first two parts of my Fond Memories before reading this,
you probably start to catch a pattern and to understand why "bottomless" is
so much more sexy for me than all naked.

Thanks to my friend C., I was already aware of the joys of caressing
another boy's bum, so I added that to my encounters with M. as well. I'd
sit on the stairs and have him stand with his back turned to me, one step
below, with his pants down, my mouth kissing his buttocks, one of my hands
stroking his penis, the other hand caressing his balls or pinching his
ass. The main difference is that with M. I didn't feel like I needed to
ask. I felt like I had the right to remove his shorts whenever I wanted,
and he never complained.

We managed to keep our little secret very well, nobody ever found out about
it. Our habit lasted a long time, a year, maybe more. But before I can
proceed, I have to tell you about another friend of ours, B., who
influenced us deeply and who deserves a chapter of his own. So I'll be
seeing you, dear reader, in the next installment.