This story is a glimpse into loving hearts and into the lives of teenagers who are drawn together to celebrate that love sexually. It is a work of erotic fiction involving teenage boys. If such depictions offend you or violate local restrictions, I respectfully ask you to leave. Please don't display this in such manner as to offend others. These stories are Copyright 2004 by the author, who has placed a single copy in the Nifty Archives. No other reproduction or distribution than Nifty Archives is permitted, without the author's permission.

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.


How We Were


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.


Chapter 23

Merkids



I pull back a trifle to look at him, his face, eyes, brows, hair. His lips, and back to his eyes. Kindness, there. Sparkling eyed lust. Sweet breath and his trembling: Derek.

He kisses me, touches my face, hands tender, cool, lips trembling. His body presses to me. The fullness against me and the heat of his beautiful dick against my skin. His pulse and groan. The thrill of my sack scrunching and the hard rush of my own need for him. Pressing, pressing. Another trembling kiss. Tender hands on my face, warm, now. Fingers, lips touching my lips. Mind blank, and the glory, glory of Dare and his beautiful clean young maleness. Too intense, his downy boy perfection. Cherry cheeks and lips reaching, wanting, finding, submerging. One of  us, almost... almost. Exquisite incompleteness. Gladly letting my boundaries fall away, to stretch in joy, to reach, to touch, to almost enter the glory of him. The smoothness. The tenderness. Sweet smell, fuzzy, indistinct, hypnotic, merging. To touch and tremble in the sweetness of almost, almost merging. A hitch, a momentary blankness. To reach, to touch, to nuzzle. Not one. Not complete. Not quite. Needing, reaching. Another momentary gap. Safe, that gap. Safe to reach, to touch, to trust, to die for an instant. Zooming in to merge with the lips and taste. Crawling into him. Joyous self-surrender and the sound of a shuddering moan. Mine, I guess: the tears a barely noticed fact. And having worshipped him, trembly, with my mouth, his benediction fresh in my soul, I descend, transcendent and complete, into a healing sleep.



A wonderful rush of well-being. Dick ecstatic and so full of urgent cream, I stretch and, for the first time hear his voice: "Bra-and... Bran-dy. Time to wake uh-up!"

Then his mouth on me. Toothpaste. The wetness and heat. His cool fingers surrounding my sack. The mounting tickly shriek of ecstasy. Whipsawed to the edge -- a hissing growl -- and over the top. Into it hard, hard, hurty-sweet. Soul-searing: a big, harsh piercing pleasure, invading my deepest place -- an invading thing of fulfillment. Tummy jerking, jerking and him still holding me in his hand, safe. Loving. Milking the remaining joy from me. Yellow summer sunlight of being in this life together with him. The piquancy of the physical joy fading. Gratitude and benediction lying, now gentle, in my heart.

"Good morning, sleep-oid."

"Ooh. Fu-u-uck, Love-oid! C'mere." Pulling him, rolling, up and to me. Scooting to spoon him from behind. Kissing, breathing, behind his ear. The light fragrance of his skin, as my breath warms it. A hint of molasses. A thrill at this deep knowing of him.

"Mmmmm!" then, the intensity clutching me, the words emerging, rasping: "I love you, Derek."

Derek grabbing my hands to cross them -- the one arm under his head and the other around his chest -- to cross them over his heart and snuggle back into me, tighter: "Mmmmm!"

Then, the soft melody of his teen voice: "Brand, my dad wants to play the other tape tonight."


"I'm hot. Let's jump in," says Brand from his towel on the aka deck. That's the flat deck connecting the main hull to the outer one (where our cabin is).

"Last one in's ..."

I grab the rail and do this sort of  hand-stand fall-off-the back thing. It's supposed to be cool.

"... a, a -- Aiyeee! -- rotten bbbtg." (Oh, well, can't always get your timing right on the first try.) I swim away fast, so Brand won't fuck up and jump on top of me.

"Fucker!" Ba-doosh! Laughing, as he surfaces.

Looking at the hulls in the shadow beneath the aka deck, they have all this green crap on them and seem sorta creepy, so I swim my ass off, out the back, between the hulls and all the way around the outer hull on "our" side of the boat. Sometimes Brand is a little braver than me. He just swims forward and meets me at the bow of the center hull. I'm sort of out of breath, so I head right for the thing he's holding onto: the anchor line, where it comes up out of the water.

Instead of grabbing it myself, I swim alongside Brand and wrap myself around his waist. Since I'm mostly floating, it doesn't put that much extra weight on him, but it does force him to grab the line with both hands, to keep from flipping onto his back. Umm! The smoothness of his skin. The long, slender waist. His warmth. (The little line of un-tanned butt!). I feel the sudden scrunch and tickle of arousal.

Checking: the bow looms over us, concealing us from above. I slide one hand lower on his hip, and the other down his belly, beneath his suit, down to cup his tightening nuts. To touch and stroke him and then hold and squeeze his thickening bone. Just thinking of the tender ridge of the rosy head in the dancing underwater sunlight makes me seethe with desire for him. Too much: I have to dive and have him. I have to stroke him and make him ready. Have to loosen his suit string and float the front lower, to let the cool water in, making him draw up, firm and snug. I have to take a deep breath and reach down the anchor line, pulling myself down. Have to take him into the warmth of my mouth. His tenderness lodges in my throat, sending a shivery thrill over me. Goose bumps and urgent boners.

Even under water I can hear his little squeal, in that teen raspy voice. His nuts so firm and beautiful. Perfect folds near the top, where they swoop to join the proudness of his joyous bone. And there! There in the dancing webs of sunlight: the beautiful softness of that ridge. The ridge that glides, sweet and urgent, out and back, between my lusting lips. The head that firms and swells and becomes impossibly big. Just as he shudders, I have to surface, jacking, jacking, jacking him as his butt clenches and his tummy jerks, jerks again, jerks, relaxes, and he sighs to me: "Oh, God... ." Grinning, he turns his face close to me: "I kinda like swimming with you!"

I slide up and grab hold of the anchor line, letting Brand relax, holding onto me, instead. Unable to resist, I rub against him, our smooth skin sliding with impossible eroticism.

"Brand?"

Tenderly: "Yeah?"

"Bite me, dolphin boy!" dunking him and swimming as fast as I can. Of course I know he'll catch me, and the battle is on, both of us using the mesmerizing sensation of our bodies sliding together to catch the other off guard. Brand finally sticks his finger 'way into my crack, making me squeal and clench my butt, while he takes off in that fast crawl of his, headed for the ladder.

I surface to look up and see Jake looking down at us from the foredeck, with a wistful expression.

"Heap shit foul dog comin' to kick yer ass!" I yell, jerking Jake back from memory lane or wherever he's been. He grins and shakes his head, chuckling. I take off for the ladder, doing my best to do the crawl the way Brand has shown me. I guess it works, cuz I get there pretty fast, climb on deck and run after Brand.

After a vicious tickle fight that somehow becomes a long trembly kiss, I come to my senses on top of Brand on the floor of the passage outside our cabin door.

"Let's get something to eat."


About 50 pounds of chips later, Dad shows up.

"Hey you two! Don't wreck your appetites. After we hear the other tape, we are going to the Buccaneer for din-din."

"Cool! Is Jake playing?"

"Yup. He's gonna do a couple of sets with that same group of guys from the other day."

"Ex-cell-ent!" says Dare. "I really enjoyed myself."

"Yeah, like there was any doubt about that!"

"Whaddya mean?" he asks innocently.

"You mean you don't remember?" I torment him.

"Remember?" with exaggerated sweetness.

"Yeah, blowing that old guy?"

"What!?"

"Yeah, in the men's room? That guy missing all his teeth? God, I knew you wouldn't remember. He smelled like piss, too."

"Bull... arrrh..." he yawned, "...shit!" he finished, as his jaws snapped shut and he blinked goofily.

"He wasn't missing that many teeth." He got up and stumbled to the reefer, as John looked on, shaking his head.

"Wanna Coke?"

"C'mon you two. Let's hear the tape and then we'll get ready to go out.



John stood in front of us. There was a peculiar formality about him. Almost a sense of ceremony.

"I want to say something before we get started, here. There is a very similar tape that I made for you, Derek. If you listen to what Jacob tells Brand, it'll pretty much apply identically to you. If you are interested, I'll retrieve your tape when we are back home and play it, but it's all the same stuff."


"My name is Jacob Brand Coulter. Today's date is January 22, 1983. This tape is for my eldest son, Brand. It remains my sole property until my death, at which point it becomes the sole property of my son, Brand Jacob Coulter.

Brand, John may have played another tape for you, already. This one is about business, and I'm not going to get into the personal stuff here.

Unless and until you receive the required education, training and security clearances and, in any case, until you attain to your majority -- turn 21 -- you cannot be given the full details. However, Brand, the truth is that Coulter and Associates was really just a hobby of mine. Something for the two of us to share. Ever since shortly after John Bardwell and I got out of grad school, we have had another business that does a lot of classified contracting and that's all I can say about that.

That business exists... elsewhere and is owned and operated mostly by its employee shareholders. Since... actually somewhat before you were born, a certain percentage of the profits from my shares in that corporation have gone into a foundation that was created to see to it that you and, now,  your little brother, would never have any impediments to your receiving a first-rate education, no matter what. John has made similar arrangements for his son, and any other offspring he might eventually have.

I don't think that either John or I had any idea, when we started our company, that it would ever go in this direction, exactly, or ever become quite this successful. Nor, when the foundation was set up, did we realize how well funded it was eventually to become. Because of the way we set it up, there is no practical way to change the structure of the foundation or its endowment, without some pretty devastating tax consequences, so the foundation has simply continued to accumulate wealth, well beyond anything you, your brother or a few dozen others could conceivably spend on an education.

However, the trustees are empowered to make whatever disbursements they may see fit, to further your development and get you started on a career, including -- if the trustees so decide -- investing in a business you may decide to start. Once you have attained to the age of thirty five, the management of the funds will be yours to control. I am confident that both of you will grow up to be fine men and first-rate citizens, and that you will see to it that the foundation goes on to benefit many other deserving young people and that its endowment is protected, managed intelligently, and continues to grow.

The trustees have been instructed to make sure that you live well, that you have the opportunity to travel widely and to study pretty much wherever you choose, but that you are not, under any circumstances to be allowed to become a dysfunctional trust fund brat.

Know that I love you with all my heart, Brand. Know also that I am your father and that I have a duty to see to it that you are raised to reach your potential, intellectually and ethically. From what I see, the foundation is there and it is solid. I only wish I could have stayed to be by your side and help you along your way. This is what I have been able to arrange. Take with you my love, son, forever and ever, and help your mom raise your little brother to fulfill his promise, too."



When it was done, John switched off the tape deck, leaving Brand and me to stare into space for a bit.

"You two young men have any questions?"

"Does this mean that I don't have to skate professionally, if I don't feel that it's what I want to do?" I asked.

"Absolutely."

"Umm... uhh... how much money are we... is the... uh... "

"Way more than enough. You have some idea what it's intended for. Way, way more than enough. There's a reason we didn't want you guys living off it. There's a reason we didn't retire early and live off of it, ourselves. Money can be two edged, and there's way more than enough to mess you up, if you decided to become idle rich kids. As it's set up, that is not possible, though I guess you could turn into grad school junkies, if nobody steered you away from it.

"Are we still going out to eat?"


soaringtoad@hotmail.com.