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.
"Ahgg! That tickles!" cried Brand, using his bottom teeth to scratch his lips.
I smirk and keep at it, running my finger from the corner, across his lips. Tracing the twin lines above his upper lip. The margin of his lower lip. Across and back. The corners, again, 'till he groans. Touching my lips to his and giggling, snorty, when he squirms.
My hand on his thigh, now. Very light. Tiny, gentle kisses. His lips parting, involuntarily. I know his body: he is rapidly hardening, beneath his shorts. That's what those moans always mean. They mean, "I am helpless, and when I open my eyes, they will be dilated."
I move my hand so lightly. Lightly, toward his treasure, and stop. Another tiny, tiny touch of my lips on his. My fingers sneaking up to tickle the corners and then so gently back to his thigh, a little higher. His eyes: open for an moment. Unfocused. Pupils huge and dark.
"Ummm!" Ending in a groan. Tiny, tiny kiss, and the anguished sound, again. Hand moving higher, rising and brushing his firming bulge. Just a tiny nudge. Another kiss and a longer nudge, a firm pressure, making him pulse, eliciting a sharp snort of breath and his rising to roll on top of me, eyes still closed. To lie on me and groan, as he drags his silken cheek across mine, his downy cheek across my lips. To pause, centered, and descend to touch lips to mine. A groan, as he cradles my head and kisses along the margins of my hair, as he rises and pulls my tee-shirt free, to kiss my belly, my thigh, to spread me and press his face to my bulge and hum a groan of delight, pressing with his face to make me pulse and groan, myself.
Pulling aside my shorts to reach the groove of my inner leg, then the cotton of my briefs stretching, lifting away and his lips on my boy sack. Reverently exploring, caressing and plucking. The cool tickle of his breath, and then its warmth, and the caress of his cheek, as he drags it across my firming tickly bag.
A nameless want, a craving for something intense directed to my nuts. But instead, this tender, cool, caress of his cheek, from the groove to the apex of the mound of my begging bag.
His cool hands taking my shorts away. His cheek, now, on the other side. His lips touching, caressing. His nose against my penis. The cheeks, the lips on my sack.
"You know you are beautiful. You know smelling you makes me crazy. You know sucking you gives me a boner for you."
His words a drone of hypnotic worship. His lips caressing my balls, my grooves, rising to caress the bottom of my eager, straining dick. His nose, first, then his lips, rising to caress the groove of the head. Lips mouthing me. The shaft. Then licking. At first the globes of the head, then along the head-groove. Halfway around: first one side, then the other. Then his lips taking half the head, sliding off again, so sweetly. So tenderly. Back to take more, and away and back to take almost the whole head. Almost: not the top ridge. And away, and cheeks caressing my eager sack, and me spread helplessly, languid and wanton.
Spread to accept his worship of the boyness of me. His groans a pure
music of celebration, of worship. His lips upon my shaft, on the head,
now. Satisfaction in his humming of delight, as my shaft slips in, to be
engulfed in his wetness, as his lips slide sweetly, sweetly on my shaft,
to rest pressing, so lightly, against my sack. The singleness of his focus,
as his lips slide to release and then engulf me, as the tender lips slip
over, over the top ridge of the head, and along the top of my shaft. And
again, as his hand touches and cups my nuts. And my hole trembling, as
he grips me, grips my sack in his tender hand, safe. And my shaft in his
mouth and I am taken. Taken. Taken and held and worshipped. This boy wants
me. Adores my sack, my penis. The head. My smell. My taste. Adores feeling
the delight rise in me. Adores me and awaits my cream, as his lips welcome
my shaft the final time and he drags me with a cry, to a hard, sharp, sweet,
rough-textured come. As he sucks again the same, and then gripping, stroking
my shaft, makes me pump my cream from the very depths of the well, and
my satisfaction is hard and lingering and harshly sweet and his love and
acceptance is complete. Completes me. And his moans are those of tenderness