Oliver and I grew up in the same village. Our moms were twin sisters, which makes us first cousins. Both our fathers worked at the quarry, until the big cave-in. Now both our families were... Do you have the expression "shit poor?"

Like his dad, Oliver was slender, with fair skin and dark hair. Like our moms, my hair is light blond. I'm built slightly stockier than Oliver but, as poor as we were, both of us were a bit on the lean side. He had two older sisters and I was an only child, so I'd adopted him as my older brother from as early as I can remember. A year and a half older, bigger, a kind and serious boy with a big heart. And a stammer. Not a really terrible one, but bad enough that he kept to himself a lot. Or spent time with me. That was my good luck. Oh, and he almost never stammered, talking to me.

In the summer, when we could, we'd spend a day at the lake, swimming and just being together. I didn't care if he stammered (so he rarely did) and he didn't care that I was younger (and no matter how hard I tried, I stubbornly remained a year and a half younger). Being together with Oliver always made me feel warm and protected, even though we were both still just boys.

The June before I turned 12, Oliver and I started out for the lake, strolling leisurely down the dirt lane that was the main road. We paused along the way to pick some sweet cherries, eating our fill and adding the rest to our lunch, for later. We were both dressed pretty raggedy. Our good clothes were for school, mostly, and social stuff like weddings.

Oliver's shorts were made from some light blue overalls cut off above where the knees had worn through. Mine were outgrown school uniform pants, cut off mid-calf. Both of us wore our long sleeve shirts open: they were just for bugs and sunburn. And, of course, Oliver wore his prize possession, his blue American cap with the "NY" on the front.

So, anyway, we're walking along with our chins all red and drippy from the cherries, when Mr. Kazlauskas comes by on this huge old tractor, looking like a something from a socialist mural. He stops to pick us up, passes the time chatting pleasantly, and drops us at the trail to the lake, saving us a couple of miles.

Ten minutes later, we are at our spot: a sandy patch by a cluster of rocks three times as tall as us. It was our favorite, because the rocks mostly surrounded it and kept the wind off. Also because we had no swimsuits to wear. We could hear if anyone was coming and decide if we needed to cover up. The other boys who occasionally showed up tended to skinny dip, too, either because they had no suits either, or because it felt a little bit naughty to go skinny dipping.

As usual, we spread out our blanket and shed the shorts to catch some sun and get heated up before daring each other into the cold lake. It was a running joke between us that our underwear had so many holes. How many this time, Pauli? We'd count them and compare. And of course we had the usual jokes about brown streaks matching his hair and yellow spots matching mine. Oliver always said it was all part of The Grand Plan: so you'd know which was the front.

Today, there was a breeze and it wasn't all that warm, I snuggled back into Oliver to keep my back warm, and we lay like that for a few minutes, with our tits shrunk up to little pointy crinkles, until the battle to stay warm began to turn in our favor. After a few minutes, I could feel Oliver's dick getting bigger, below my butt. It tickled a little and made me secretly happy, for some reason. It seemed like I could never get close enough to Oliver, to the safety and acceptance of Oliver. Somehow, having his body pressed against mine always made my soul peaceful and serene. Suddenly, he put his chin on my shoulder and ground his now full erection against me. I could hear him grin: those little bubble popping noises, and let out a little "Mmmm" of pleasure. Of course that made me start getting hard, too.

He kissed my neck and reached around to check, found my little bone poking out and gave it a squeeze. He'd done that before, but this time it felt extra super good. The touch of his fingers felt nice, of course, and filled me inside with sweet comfort, but his squeeze sent a sharp bolt of pleasure ringing through my body. I sort of yelped an "Ooom!" sound.

"Touch me there again," I ordered, grabbing his hand and placing it back on my stiff peter.

"Well, you should touch mine, too, then," said Oliver. He shoved his arm under me and rolled me on top of him. His warm chest felt good against my cold one. Our dicks felt great where they pressed together. I lifted myself up a little and looked into his smiling face, grinning back at the sparkling hazel eyes, the smooth peach fuzz boy cheeks, those white teeth of his. Oliver always had great teeth. So here I am, on top of Oliver's long slim boner, pumping my hips, smooshing against it, grinning and trying to get him to start making the sexy noises.

He arched his back and slid his undies down, then went for mine. Now we were skin to skin, his hot dick blazing away against me, pleasing me in some deep way. This was my Oliver and I was so close with him, right now. I laid my head on his shoulder and enjoyed the closeness. He turned his head and kissed the first thing he came to: my eyebrow. Then he put his hands on my butt and pressed into me. I could feel him pulse.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What was what?"

"I don't know. I think you ought to bite it and find out."

"Bite this," I said, grinding. There was that pulse again. He let out a little hum of approval.

"I've gotta see this," I said, rolling down next to him. I reached out and took his boner in my hand, making him groan for real. It pulsed again, in my hand, this time.

"See: I think you need to bite it."

"I think you want me to lick it. You want to take advantage of me."

"True. I'll lick yours first, if you'll lick mine afterwards."

"We could lick each other's at the same time," I said, wanting us to always be equal.

"Okay, flip around."

I did, and found myself facing his long, slender penis. His soft satiny bag draped across his pink hairless thigh. The head of his penis flared rosy purple, as I felt his lips and tongue exploring my own. Tentatively, I reached out my tongue, not knowing what to expect, and touched his tender flesh.

A tongue isn't really that useful for exploring things; lips are much better. Which is the way I ended up exploring him: taking the object of my explorations between my lips and gently feeling it from various angles, until it was wet and the head had found its way fully into my mouth. His bag drew up and became a wonderful, bouncy thing. By then, Oliver had all of me in his mouth and was beginning to suck rhythmically. The pleasure was spectacular. I groaned aloud and took to his dick like a calf to the teat, breaking out in goosebumps as he took my little pouch between his fingers.

My legs spread involuntarily, to give him better access. Tender fingers caressed the grooves next to my bag. Feeling how good that was, I took the softness of his big scrotum between my hands as I suckled on him. The pleasure of his touch raised me to a level of urgency I had never experienced. His fingers wandered back, behind the bag, almost to my hole, almost, almost. Then they arrived and the pleasure began to devour me. I felt my dick swell, as Oliver yanked his boner away and squirted four big gooshes of his cream onto the blanket. It smelled like chalk.

I was rapidly approaching something, something cataclysmic, something sweet and sharp that swept through me with shocking pleasure, making me clench my tummy and shove myself between Oliver's lips with no regard for whether I might be hurting him, shoving myself into the flame of pleasure, of arrival, of fulfillment. There they were: those pulses, just like Oliver's.

"Good thing you pulled your pecker away: I woulda bit it. Bit it right off."

We had a good swim and then had to walk all the way back. But I didn't mind, because it was with Oliver. My Oliver.

The next day, we were back at the lake, having run most of the way, 'till our sides hurt, stopping only to pick more cherries. We set down our stuff and peed together.

Once our blanket was set up, the shorts were off, and our lunch was safely chilling in the water where the ants couldn't get to it, I fell into Oliver's arms, reveling in the warmth and closeness of him. Looking into his face, I reached to touch his cheek, and then fumbled to get my hand into his undies. He pulled me on top of him and strained to kiss my face, while I pulled back and then darted in for the kill. Having stolen my kiss, I started thrusting my hips, like yesterday, figuring on a repeat performance. I'd liked what we did yesterday.

Instead, he rolled us back over and got up, pulling me after. "Let's go into the cove," he said, leading the way. We splashed through some warm, calf-deep water and turned the corner into the cove, a sort of roofless cave with its own rocky little beach. It was a nice secluded spot, but it only got about an hour of direct sunlight a day, so that wasn't where we usually pitched our blanket.

In the cove, he boosted me up out of the water and sat me on one of the rocks, a big smooth flat one, like a giant pebble. He gently took down my undies and, laying me back with my knees up, gave me his wadded up shirt to cushion my head. Seeing me comfortable, he gently urged my legs apart. I spread for him, thrilling a little at the wantonness of it. Still standing in the water, Oliver began kissing up my thighs, starting near my knees, then higher and slower, 'till he got to my tight little bag, drawn up in anticipation. Humming his approval, he mouthed them, kissing, tugging with his lips, then licking, working his way up to my hard little dick.

"You are my beautiful flower," he said, as the pleasure of his tongue blasted through me. "You smell like heaven. And your pee-pee is beautiful, Pauli."

"I love it when you kiss me, Oliver. Feels so good when you touch me there."

I could hear the water slosh, as he moved alongside to put my stiff little penis in his mouth. Humming his happiness, he tenderly sucked me 'till he had me whimpering with pleasure. His fingers ran tenderly around my bag, alongside in the grooves, making them tighten more, pull farther from my thighs, then around behind, plucking at the skin. He caressed behind, the sweetness spreading from my bag, my excitement increasing as he neared the spot that secretly most craved to be touched. He dragged his hand in the water and brought it up to moistly touch my secret place.

My head began filling with light, as he gave me the touch I needed so badly. The touch he knew I wanted only from Oliver, from my Oliver, the touch that said he loved and accepted me and wanted me to have this pleasure. Because he loved me, because he knew how a young boy craves a finger tenderly opening him as he's sucked.

It was over quickly, as the unbearable sweetness took me sharply, stabbing me through with joy, making me clench rigid from head to toe, as I gasped and thrashed in Oliver's tender hands. I fell limp, knowing in my bones I was loved. He kissed my knee and I could hear his smile as his shadow moved off of me and the warm sun again washed over my body.

"Do you want to nap or swim?" he asked, gently.

"Just give me a second to get back back in my body," I said. It was our joke, that you knew it was a really good orgasm when it made you leave your body.

"Actually, I want to suck you," I decided. "You need what you just gave me."

"Okay, I won't argue!"

"Help me down and get your butt up here."

He did, saying, "Nice: you got the suck rock warm for me."

"I love you, Oliver."

"You are my flower, Pauli," he reminded me, "I love you more than anything." Words so good to hear, so comfort-giving. How could I not love this boy?

Once he was settled, the sun hit him full on. I was struck by the beauty of his boy body, in the silver sunlight of the northern summer. The beautiful complexity between his legs called to me. His colors were exquisite, smooth, rosy. His skin sparkled with those tiny mirrors of body moisture just reaching the surface. I reached to take his bag, as I knew he needed, separating it from his thighs and holding it as it tightened, running my fingers to affirm their separateness from his thighs, giving them a little kiss and plucking the back, like I knew he liked. He hummed approval. His wonderful long slim dick finished extending and bobbed over his belly, straining in his pleasure at my touch.

I had to lick it, had to slosh around to the side, to get to the head, to lick its smoothness, to lick its voluptuous firmness, to take it into my mouth, humming together with Oliver, as this most intimate connection was made. The shape of him fascinated me; I had to explore it, take it inside me, feel its shape and texture with my lips, with the inside of my mouth. His moans were music to my heart, his arching back, his "Unnh!" of joy, as it was torn from him, the eruption of his cream, the thrill of eating each swallow, as he quickly made another and another.

His back relaxed. He wasn't done pulsing, but I already saw the tears. Oliver always cried just a little, right afterward. He said it was because his heart wasn't big enough to hold the love he was feeling.

I'm glad, because it went the only place it could: into mine.