These events occurred somewhere in a place I've been. A place where time passes dreamily. A place where our heart's desires are fulfilled. Where every yearning heart is held and kept and lifted up in loving embrace. Please play safe and be kind to yourselves and to one-another.
Our community always felt like a small town. In truth, it is a semi-rural enclave on the outskirts of a large northern city. But it is one of those places that people don't seem to move away from. Or they do, but only for a while, and then they're back again. Our parents and grandparents came here and put down roots -- and boy, what roots! Most of the people in this story still live in the same houses, these grand old cozy big homes that once rang out with the shouts of their parents' voices as children. Grandma's cooking smells are still there, in the walls somewhere, if your nose is keen enough.
Anyway, a few years have passed -- not a lot -- and some of us have moved away. But the place just keeps drawing us back. Some to raise a family, some to heal. And I still see these people in the course of a day and often we have a moment to stop, perhaps to touch, and to look each other in the face and smile, remembering how we were.
Did I ever say what always attracted me so much to boys? No, it's not the tight bodies and round buns. No, it's not the young nuts in their plump and tender skin. Not the delicious complexity of his penis or the curve of his neck. Not the clean line where his scalp becomes his face. Not the tender coolness of his earlobe, not the little line behind his nuts. No. Noooo, never. Naaah!
Okay. Well, anyway.
What always really stood out for me about boys -- about Brand -- was the sharpness, the intensity of focus. The flashing gaze. That and his lips. So expressive. So perfectly shaped and tender and articulate even without speaking. And how they came closer, closer and hovered before touching mine. And how my heartbeat raced at that promise and that touch. About to burst, and the need to melt into him. Catching myself moaning. Hearing my own voice saying words, outside me: "I love you," unbidden.
How did I come to trust him so?
I know he was babbling away about something.
"Umm-Numm... ummmm," kissing his lips lightly, lingeringly, to silence him.
"And I, thwwmm... Ummm..." kissing him again, "Shhhh... " Smoothing his hair from his face.
Kissing his eyes shut, kissing his cheek and his ear, making little voiceless lip sounds, kissing sounds, nibbling the lobe, down his jaw and his neck to the little hollow by his collar bone, down the tender flesh of his chest to his nipple, erect and sweet. A peck on the tummy, grazing, a tender peck for the belly button and nuzzling and humming into the underside of his toasty meat. His smell. Like the first drops of rain. Musky and clean and perfectly boy.
Groaning, he made a grinding motion with his cock, pressing my lips with the fat underside. A little painful pleasure groan. His nuts in my hand, a quick touch of my lips to them, and nuzzling down in the groove where they meet his thigh. Straightening, kissing the inside of his knee. Not because it was erotic: because I loved him. Because it was his knee, was connected to him. Because I wanted him.
I remember straightening up and grabbing his right leg, then his left, and doing a short, deep massage, squeezing the large leg muscles, then the insides of both thighs, to relax the deep muscles there, his nuts drawing up suddenly, as I moved up. He crooned and got a lot harder, when I did that.
Moving up, I nuzzled his sack, snuffling his boy scent, feeling a near shudder in the core of me as I took a deep secret pleasure in that so essentially boyish fact of him. Kissing the underside of the beautiful head. Running the side of my tongue in the groove around the side, under the ridge, then back. Then the other side. And he trembled, lightly.
Such a moment of frankness. Such a moment of trembling intimacy, as I relished his penis. Relished the place a man is most a man. Gave him the friction and wet tenderness we all so crave. And swallowed him, wet and tender. Swallowed him, pulsing, only to pull slowly off, tormenting the top of his beautiful helmet. Grasping him tenderly down at the base -- knowing my own likes -- I bent Brand's dick quickly, firmly sideways. Full right rudder, suddenly, triggering a raptured groan and a spasm of thanks. A sharp intake of breath. Then, when he wasn't expecting it, to the other side, for the same result. Making him surrender so sweetly, whimper to me so trustingly, then sigh.
That funny little exchange, the bent dick -- and that sharp pang of pleasure deep in the muscles where the phallus attaches -- and then the other side, seemed to bring about a new level of trust between us.
Trust me to care how you feel. Trust me not to judge you. Trust me to take care of you. Trust me with your body, with your dignity, with your urgency and vulnerability. Trust me to give you a torment of tenderness. To relieve you of your burning seed. To bring you back in for a soft landing. That little mini orgasm thing with the bent dick somehow seemed to seal some pact, for Brand and me. He was joyously unself-conscious after that. Really free. And it changed something.
You know how people will get that pained look on their face as they reach for their release? Not Brand, after that one episode. He always had this simple look of joy, of transformation, sometimes effort, as he reached for the ring. Sometimes his eyes would open and his pupils would be so huge with joy. And when it came, it would take him so completely, with a shudder to the depths of his bones, as he erupted. You could just feel how deep it was. At first I sort of envied that! But then he took me with him, there.
Dad and Jake were off in town. Jake had a band gig at The Buccaneer that night and Dad was doing some errands. The sunshine of early afternoon and the cooling breeze just evoked some need in us for outdoor sex, I guess. We had boarded Nadine, where she was temporarily tied up between the trimaran's outer hulls. Brand popped the sail locker hatch in the foredeck and crawled in, lying on the bagged sails down inside. When I tried to follow, he stopped me halfway, leaving my arms and shoulders sticking out, as he groped me to full urgency, as he made me fully boy naked. As he pulled and kissed my nuts to tightness, then to joy at the touch of his lips at the top and the sides. As he made me groan just from his breath in my hair. And bending me -- but only a little.
I heard a tupperware sound and felt a cool and creamy flow on me. Down my shaft and on my sack. My nuts so slippery in his hand. Gripped a little tight, then soft and sticky-tickly. Fingers loose on my shaft. Sticky tender: too loose. Too loose. And a wandering finger. Wandering, wandering, back, behind my balls, tweaking the little ridge. And I smelled the stuff he had spread on me: Pina Colada mix from the ship's bar. White coconut cream, strong and sweet and a little bit greasy. And his finger, stroking now. Stroking with a little pressure, next to the ridge. And my hole, suddenly hungry. Hungry for something. Almost aching: afraid to say it. Up, deep, inside: lonely for him, hungry for, for, for... for the finger... to slowly, glide, across... across the secret territory, slowly glide past, only to return, to seek, to pass over again, to seek and find and go past, until I heard my groan and the finger came back to rest at the very gate, to press, to softly caress the very... very... center. To apply the tiniest, fluttery tender, sticky pressure. Then firmer: a promise of more aggressive attention. My hole begging for... demanding... something more, and the finger, the finger... His hand grasping my nuts, gripping them entirely, taking them, as the finger returned. Returned to center, pressing, pressing, right on the center, pressing enough to dimple it in the very heart of my desire, to threaten to break through, threatening not to break through. My own eager moan. Moan inviting the finger to return, and to press. Begging it to come, to release me from the unbearable itch of desire deep inside. Embarrassment at the desire. The desire to have something -- anything -- penetrate me, anything to fuck me, to make me have him in me, to have his boner deep inside, deep within me, the itch for a strong, hard tender boy to enter me. An internal magnet drawing, begging, pulling him, pulling the finger to break through, moaning as the finger touching the center became the finger, one with me, with my internal desire, with my need to be skewered, with my need for the hardness and the heat and the boyness of him, with my need for his bigness and his strength, with my need to surrender everything to him, to be penetrated and possessed, as the finger slipped, slipped, slid home to my joyous recognition and acceptance. As it moved. As I groaned my surrender and approval. As his hand slid up to grip my begging balls and his other to grasp my hard and screaming need. To make them his. To stroke me once, twice, three, a million sweet, slow, voluptuous times, before I shuddered and came between his lips. Came blindingly, lingeringly, around his kind, tender, writhing digit, clenching until my nuts and belly ached with the outrageous satisfaction of a need as mental as physical. And I became so drowsy then, and his.