Date: Fri, 24 Jan 2003 21:02:10 -0500 (EST) From: Clark Gaybull Subject: Mess-Around Buddies #1 The viewing of this work constitutes acceptance of all disclaimer and copyright verbage which benefits the author and Nifty Archives. I've been encouraged to come out with another series, so, this is installment #1. These are also based on actual experiences, spiced up a little to make for more interesting reading. One thing confuses me: The majority of e-mailers say, "Nothing like that ever happened to me." Yet I read many accounts that purport to be somewhat factual. My questions are, "Is the behavior depicted here really so rare that only a few lucky ones have first-hand involvement? Or, as I suspect, is this more prevalent but everybody isn't a writer? Or most people don't want to tell about what happened?" Here's an additional extension of the AUTHOR'S NOTES: My previous series went back only three summers - when I had just turned sixteen - not too hard to remember. Here, chapters two through six took place between three and eight years ago. So, forgive their shortness; or the foggy details. In fact, this first episode is ELEVEN years old... It's probably responsible for my liberal attitude toward homosexuality... When I was seven and in second grade, a kid named Ryan, who lived with his sister and grandparents across from my school, took me to a field atop a shale pit between our homes. He was eleven - in the sixth and highest level of our elementary building. Next year, he would go to junior high, at the other end of town. When Ryan would confront me, I was too scared not to accompany him. He'd lead us to the spot and we'd role-play each time: He'd clunk me harmlessly on the head and I would fake being out of it. Occasion #1 involved him undressing me except for my underwear. While he was slowly doing this - as if to wonder how far to go - he would talk about kidnapping me to his grandfather's trailer almost fourteen-hundred miles away. He knelt between my legs and repeatedly placed his palms on my tits and slid his hands down my skinny chest. Then he'd put a palm on each of my thighs and caressed down to my ankles. I remember how it tickled when his fingers were just above my knees. This was also my first recollection of connecting my uncontrolable boner with concurrent stimulation. When Ryan noticed my little bulge, he quickly rolled me over onto my belly - a move that I'm still trying to fathom. Did he not want me to be hard? By flipping me, was it something that he could no longer see and didn't want to - you know, outta sight, outta mind? Did he think that, by turning me face-down, he was hurting me and the pain would make my stiffie go away? Wrong! The pressure of the ground on my growing dick only prolonged its erection. Maybe that's it: He wanted to further arouse me. After all, he was now palming my shoulder blades down to my butt cheeks, then descending the backs of my legs. Perhaps he thought that this would "pull my woody back in." Regardless, when he put me on my back again, the pointing was still there. I think this worried him 'cause he said, "I hope he wakes up soon." Good captive that I was, when he sopke those words, I acted like I was regaining consciousness but I ignored my rigid prick. He ordered, "Get dressed and get outta here." So I hurriedly did both. Occasion #2 - about two weeks later - was a replay of occasion #1, except this time - all the way; that is, everything off, underpants and all. The counterfeit black-out from the light knock on the head. Same speech about grandpa's trailer several states distant. Same slowness while dispensing with my clothes. But much more curiosity now that the additional step had been taken. When I could steal a glance, Ryan's staring at my exposed thing was thorough. Again, the palms-on-nipples occurred along with the recurrant sliding down to my pelvis. Then the rubbing from my hips to my shins. My penis reacted similarly, too. But now he could watch it grow. And today, he let nothing interrupt his gaze. Last time I thought, "He's spooked." This time he showed lengthy fascination. Thank goodness, though, not on my stomach today. But much more inspection. October days can be warm. But October nights are usually cold. It's after school in October, so, the chill is beginning to effect my uncovered flesh. I've got goosebumps everywhere, including two big ones rising from my ariolae. And my nut sack is shrunk to the size of one small egg. Finally Ryan utters his "I-wish-he'd-wake-up" schpeel and I was glad to accomodate: I speedily dressed and ran away. I feared Ryan so much that I'd often linger after school helping my teacher and then walking home with her. She stayed with her sister and brother-in-law in a house just beyond mine five blocks from where she taught. But one day, we had a substitute who had driven from far away. And Ryan knew it. Our third - and final - enactment was unavoidable. It was just before Halloween. He would be waiting for me when I exited school. He would walk with me to the site. The slight conk on the head was followed by the pretend knock-out, the leisurely stripping, and the talk of the abduction to the grandfather's trailer far away. (I was more afraid of the threat to be stolen than anything else.) Another step happened today that constituted one more straw that might have broken the camel's back. My father says, "There's no harm in looking." So, being on exhibit didn't bother me. However, my mother says, "Look but don't touch." So, when today's new activity was done, it was her admonition which caused me to do what I did. The follwing ensued: I'm laying there naked, face-up, feigning unconsciousness, submitting to his arousal technique. After my weenie had been sticking up, mesmerizing him for a few minutes, down plunged his head and he treated my boy-meat as if it was a straw. He was very efficient at what he did! It felt super! Maybe a little too much suction but no teeth. He went up and down; up and down (to the extent available when you're working on a second-grader's penis). I remember a "popping" sound a couple of times when his mouth came off of the end of my dick and the air rushed in between his lips. With increasing difficulty I attempted to remain still. After all, I was supposed to be dead to the world. But I know that my little hips were bucking to meet his downward moves. I was way too young, though, to react beyond that. I could do this forever. The air temperature didn't matter any more. But Ryan must have tired. Or it was getting late. Or whatever, because he stopped and wondered aloud, "How much longer 'til he comes to?" (Maybe the "to" wasn't spoken.) In any event, I took this as my cue to wake up, which I did, and followed his instructions to "put your clothes back on and get lost." Even though that third session produced the best sensations yet, they were outweighed by my terror from that threatened kidnapping and the crossing of that "look-but-don't-touch" threshold. I was confused about the meaning of that phrase when such enjoyment resulted. But, if the cliche existed, then it might be wrong to touch. And Ryan sure did touch. So, I told my parents that Ryan was scaring me. My father then spoke to Ryan's grandfather. And Ryan never spoke to me again. A few weeks later, I felt that I actually missed that attention and I'll always be curious about how those sessions might have evolved.