Date: Mon, 17 Dec 2007 11:59:55 -0800 (PST) From: Rob Hoek Subject: Boy Alone (An Epilogue) Note: Following the recent posting at Nifty.org of my original Boy Alone series, this masteful epilogue was penned and sent me by my friend and fellow author, Tapshorts. I found it both first rate, and a serious inspiration for a possible continuation of Boy Alone,perhaps a telling of the boy's adventures following his arrival in Decency, Utah. Any comments that you might feel motivated to offer will be shared with the author. storyguy22@yahoo.com Boy alone....(an epilogue.) I always dutifully chuckle when someone relates what they think is a newfound adage that "oldage and cunning will outwit youthful ability and enthusiasm every time". My inner amusement is the private certainty that its truth is immutable. I am indeed old, but honest enough to admit to a near certainty that for guile and subtlety, my skills in both those and related fields are unparallelled. I long ago left the cloudy skies and seeming unceasing rain of my native England, blessed as I was with a substantial lifetime income from an uncle, who incidentally had introduced me to the delights of boylove in which I have indulged myself ever since. In addition to my pleasant apartment in San Diego and a spacious Cadillac I am free to roam the wide US at my leisure. I also actually have a job as a salesman for a European manufacturer of sports clothing. This in reality is merely a cover since the salary involved is meaningless but it allows me frequent opportunities to be in close proximity to those involved with my great passion, boys' intimite wear. I had spent an uneventful night in an unremarkable motel on my way west and was somewhat apprehensive at the prospect of breakfast in the even more unimpressive facility advertised by a neon sign stating simply 'DINER'. However I put on a brave face, and pushed open the door amused by the quaint tinkling of its small bell announcing my entry. I am not conceited by nature but am well aware that I do have a certain 'presence' or what the English call 'poise'. I was not surprised to find myself on entry being studied intently by a dozen breakfasters attired mainly in 'bomber' jackets, lumberjack shirts and baseball caps,many with a forkful of pancakes or other delicacies half way to their mouths. I pride myself on being able to engender an affinity with all kinds and conditions of men. Had my mother not once said "you get on as well with the dustman* as you do with our titled neighbours"? I was acutely aware that with my white hair, immaculate pinstripe suit with regimental tie, patrician features and real veteran's limp I was certainly a 'rara avis' in this neck of the woods. Anyway with a slight inclination of the head I murmured "Gentlemen...a very good morning to you all". (* garbage collector in Britspeak) Instead of the possible stony silence I knew was possible, there was a variety of genial responses that confirmed my belief that good manners will often deflect animosity. "Hi".."yeah"... "mornin".."uhuh"..and even the odd "Sir" or two. So, encouraged by the prospect of a pleasant day I sat and ordered what is known commonly as 'steak strine' which is a common breakfast order in that land of koalas and kangaroos and consists of a steak topped with four fried eggs . This as usual confirmed suspicions that I was an eccentric of the first water and therefore someone to be treated with kindness as one would to a genial drunk or village idiot. What ensued has already been most succintly and deliciously described in these pages but at the risk of 'gilding the lily' I would add some observations and sensations of my own. 13 year old Brett was the epitome of the all american boy with his tousled hair, fresh face and sturdy smooth legs. His white shorts had seen better days, creased as they were and grubby rather than actually dirty. Their ultrashort legs betrayed the fact that they included a much whiter inner sort of nylon panty with the soft but distinct outline of two ample orbs surmounted by a no-longer childish tube of firm youthful flesh. When his companion, a ruffianlike trucker left on some errand, I threw caution to the winds and approached him with my simple offer which was readily accepted and in passing permitted myself a small frottage of the soft wellworn material containing the treasure I sought. In my room I relished his innate shyness and seeming innocence, even knowing it to be a fantasy of my own making.He was in awe of the expensive items I offered to trade for his pathetic garment but I was charmed with his reluctance to make such a one-sided deal. In truth I would have given my samples and car too for what I yearned for; those darling little shorts that had contained his young pubes,thighs and soft curved buttocks and the treasure they protected. I was breathing hard as he slowly pulled down his shorts and as I ordered left them wide open and slightly above his knees I made my additional proposal and was delighted with his acceptance and enchanted by the use of his private word I had never heard before. "you mean you want my cums"!!! neither 'jizz', 'baby batter','stuff' 'boyjuice' or even the english 'spunk'. Just the lovely 'my cums'. It seemed almost a pity that my so experienced manual ministrations brought ' his cums' so quickly but time was of the essence. My usual careful cunning in the placement of his old shorts paid dividends in that every drop of every strong jet was forcibly ejected exactly into the thin worn crotch as I had intended and firmly preserved by their careful removal. If I say so myself my farewell to the boy was accomplished in expert fashion. My many years have taught me just how sensitive a young prick can be after ejaculation so I ensured that his softening tube was allowed to merely rest gently in my warm wet mouth. I knew that one sudden rasp of my tongue under the head or the vacuum of any form of sucking motion would likely cause its instant removal. Virtue has its own rewards they say and mine was a slow delicate continuation as the last of his nectar seeped steadily onto my patient tongue. As I watched him pull on his new dark blue satin shorts I quietly savoured the delicate flavour his young testicles had manufactured. Maintaining my oldworld charm I escorted him to the door and we gravely shook hands after which I had to firmly fix in my memory those smoothly flexing buttock muscles as he walked away. It was with both heavy heart and some satisfaction that I returned to my armchair. The former because I had perhaps set my sights too low when I should have engineered his abduction and eventually his presence in my bed. The latter because I did at least have a trophy of the encounter that I could now enjoy. the crotch of the little shorts held a copious pool of rich creamy boy's spunk which I took infinite care not to spill as I tasted and relished a large mouthful of its fragrant smooth contents. It virtually slithered down my gullet reminiscent of a fresh oyster and I could sense my stomach appreciate the influx of what must be almost pure rich protein. Wetting my lips gently with the last vestiges in my mouth, I quickly stripped and pulling the object of my odyssey up my thin shanks I sank back on the unmade sheets with the remaining contents of the shorts providing a luscious bath for my aging genitals and a sensation that caused a rare erection and even a rarer but miniscule discharge of my own watery seed to join that of the healthy young boy now departed. It was pure chance that my occupation as a salesman of boy's scanty clothing took me next day to the small town of Decency in Utah, a preposterous misnomer as I quickly learned from a synod of three elders in that sex-rife community with whom I had made instant friends. They were all married to several wives and thoroughly bored with their humdrum marital duties. I soon detected in my subtle steering of our conversation that all three had a distinct interest in my own field of lust. At the usual post-worship habit of 'fellowship' on sunday,a middleaged woman of the congregation asked the town to be ready to welcome a nephew due to visit any day and the photo they showed me, to my astonishment turned out to be that of young Brett. I mentioned casually to the synod that I had seen the boy a few days earlier at a highway restaurant. My passing observations on his physical attributes was met with great enthusiasm and my subtle implication that I had enjoyed some physical contact evoked many enquiries as to what had actually transpired. They were all eager and pressed me for details which I imparted, delicately of course, in my non-pareil fashion with my Cambridge abilities of lexicon and perfect syntax. Needless to say I omitted any mention of the fact that my luggage contained, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, a wellworn and considerably stained pair of paperthin boys shorts, the crotch no longer stiff with his emissions due to my frequent lingual ministrations. I was given no peace and forced to reiterate my observations of the sturdy milkwhite thighs,muscular buttocks, boyish fresh looks, slightly openmouthed innocence and even my opinion that he obviously was of an age to permit procreation (a private certainty). It was difficult not to notice that my simple phraseology caused all three to quite overtly fondle their groins through their best sunday-go-to-meeting black trousers which certainly by then contained the usual precoital juices nature had thoughtfully provided. Various plans were suggested for the coercing of the unsuspecting boy to their individual or collective desires. The elderly relative apparently could easily be persuaded to ensure that young Brett be subjugated to the training and ministrations of the church elders under the guise of religious instruction in which their authority was unchallenged. They seemed genuinely disappointed that an upcoming boys' swim meet in California necessitated my leaving but were ecstatic at my Parthian gift to them of a pair of wellworn and badly stained once pure-white shorts. I have always wondered what ensued after my departure. Perhaps in some secret canonical archive an account of young Brett's experience in Decency will survive. I like to think that the account will be couched in religous terms and begin ' And so it came to pass.......'