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 (1999) 2000 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 8


I can't say I was sure where all this was carrying me.

Lying there with Brand's soft cock by my face, rising and falling with his breathing. Moving gently, slowly. Another one of our late-afternoon cuddle naps. Something pleasurable just seeing -- being with -- his beautiful penis. A high feeling inside my head. How did it have such power? To make me feel rich.

Magnetic, drawing my lips to touch it, graze it ever so gently. Feeling the warmth and fullness of it, even soft. Soft. So soft. Brand's sleeping breath on my own tender sack. Pulling back, just a little, so my mounting erectness wouldn't spring loose and slap him awake.

Breathing him in. Not so much a smell. Some sort of power. Male power. Brand power. In through my nostrils, speaking directly to me, in a tongue I can understand but cannot hear. Speaking directly to my body, my emotions. Speaking joy deep within my head. Something inside my body willing, galvanized. Wanton. Impelled deeply, wordlessly, to move closer, ever closer. Drawn to become part of him.

My lips, pressing oh-so-lightly, exploring, deeply appreciating. Moving it, feeling his resilience. Secret delight in the mass of it. Worshipful celebration of his slowly thickening boyhood. My lips: wider, now. Opening to mouth him from the side, feeling his... tubularity. The experience filling a void somewhere in me, a hungry spot. Incomplete. Needing this penis to fill it. Grasping the truth of his penis. My mouth: bringing his truth to touch my hungry soul.

How is it? That as fast as my lips can feel him, take from his tumescent flesh the contact, the knowledge they seek -- as fast as I can fill that hungry little void -- somehow my mind forgets, my heart hungers anew, and I am driven back, again and again, to suckle at the source of the knowledge of his... plenty. Mouthing him anew. Soothing the empty place that needs him.

His sack now tightening, just a trifle. The sacred boy-tissue thickening, becoming rounder, more plump, more ruddy. Bouncier: the mystery of his cherished nuts, rising as Brand's body rises, fills. To become the eternal boy. The archetype: beautiful, plump, clean. Male. Living expression of the essence of boy-ness. Clean, rosy prick, erect along the taut, smooth belly. Nuts, beneath, drawn up in a frank statement of arousal and desire. Someone's arousal, someone's desire. The Eternal Boy's.

Since the dawn. Wave after fresh wave, clean and tender. An eternal wave of sparkling boys. Rising, filling, proudly swelling. Each coming to bloom in his own time. Several, coming into magic bloom together. Joyous celebrants in the dance of boylust. Exultant upthrusting erectness. Joy-curved-up-against-the-belly, sack tight in delight beneath. Eternal phallus truth. Joyous straining upwards from the nuts to touch heaven.

He was every boy. Boyness itself. The Icon of boyness. Did I have a choice but to kiss that sack? Worship beneath the altar of his boyness? Caress their cool softness, the mystery within, the exquisite skin behind? Inhale the mystery of his incense?

Brand's breathing different. Clearly awake, now, but so still... Fully with me, in my tender celebration of the essence of him. I ran a finger delicately alongside, enticing his sack to tighten and pull loose from his thigh. Remarkable life, motion. Ran my fingers behind, on the skin there. Caressing the ridge, so very, very gently, provoking him to greater tightness. Then alongside, making him feel these balls, separate from these legs, separate from this body, separate from this penis. The truth of his sack standing out: generous, protruding. The energy rushing to his sack. Him straining to press his sack out, away, separate: into my hand. I take it, accepting it, accepting the essence of him, holding them for him, safe and accepted, as my lips caress the wonder of his tube prize, press in reverence, to the head. Opening, to grasp the head: dry between my lips, mouthing, feeling the solidity, the fullness. Having, having, filling that emptiness in my innermost place. Having, as the head slips between my lips, pleasuring them, and the shaft. The truth of having him. As the sacred penis enters me, sliding home to rest in my mouth. Home in me. Worshipping him as he swells, filling my mouth, my throat. My throat with its own need. Swallowing, to feel him. Swallowing, to have him, to take him, for him to lodge there, stretching, filling, completing. His cock: the thing my mouth has always been missing, my throat. Home, there, halfway down my throat.

Throat full. Caressing the base, where it joins his body, with my gripping lips. His scent. Exploring, appreciating the mystery of his penis. Pheromone truths spoken to my soul. Connected there, my secret void filling. Knowing: the minute he withdrew, the mystery of this completeness would be broken. The magic of the truth of his penis would be lost. Only to be restored by this act. The holiness of this one, only this one, communion.

Somehow, mine in his mouth, as well. His touch, his motions, ample proof that he, too, suckled at this sacred source. His mouth so tender, so tender, so very tender, so exquisitely tender, too tender, very too tender, burning tender, the climax approaching, swooping down upon me, the car sailing off the edge, no one at the wheel, to tumble, crashing joyously, flaming, to lie burning in sacred fulfillment among the tender rocks below.

My mouth, full: speaking my love with the tightness of my throat. To Brand, now: I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. As his need rises, as he swells and blossoms. As he, too, is blown apart. Tumbles joyously, helplessly, coming to rest beside me, tender now. My lover.

Send comments to: I hope you enjoyed this story. In contemplation of the mystery which, by love's decree, we may touch only when we lay aside our selves and kneel before his altar. A knowledge which slips our grasp, even as we rise to turn and leave. Wan things, indeed, words are before this truth. Any constructive feedback will be appreciated and gratefully reviewed. I intend to answer any messages received. Flames... are simply irrelevant.