Date: Thu, 21 Jul 2005 20:09:33 -0700
From: Joseph Farrin <bigblaise@hotmail.com>
Subject: A BOY IN THE ATTIC

My name is CJ, short for Clifford Jenson. I'm 26 years old, two weeks out
of college and, since last Friday, the office manager for Ralston
Construction Company, which is the largest in the state.  I stayed in
college to finish my second degree even after my dad had died.  Looking
back, I couldn't have pleased my dad whatever I did.  However, it was the
two construction related degrees that won my job for me.

I was a disappointment to my dad the minute I declined to follow him and my
grandfather into medicine.  From that moment on, no matter what I achieved,
I'd always be, in his mind anyway, an educated idiot.  I didn't want to be
a doctor because I knew I'd feint the first time I saw blood.  OK, so I'm
chicken – I just admitted it

SO!  That's enough introduction, except to say I'm totally into cocks.
I've never fondled tits or fucked a pussy because I was never interested in
girls that way.  I just like cocks.  For that matter, I've never seen a
girl naked except in a porn magazine.

I live in the house that both my parents and grandparents had lived in. My
parents and grandparents both conformed to the American mold.  The American
male want a current model of their favorite make of automobile.  Women want
a house just like their grandmother lived in but with all the modern
conveniences.

Consequently, the house was so old fashioned I couldn't take it.  So, I had
it redecorated and refurnished, after I'd given up the idea of selling.  It
was in a stable neighborhood of like homes, all of which, along with the
trees in the area, had aged gracefully and were increasing in value.  I had
thought of selling it because it was enormous – way to large for one person
– two stories with a basement and an unfinished attic.  I can remember how,
as a boy playing in the yard, I liked to look up at the attic windows from
the exterior, a huge, half-circle one in the front and back and smaller,
rectangular ones in the gable ends on each side of the house.  But
everything seems bigger to a child, doesn't it?

With the house I also inherited my father's housekeeper, Maria Ortega and
her husband George who takes care of the yard.  They come every Friday for
a full day and on those days Maria always fixes me a brown-bag lunch
because I'd complained about eating in restaurants.

So, It was in the lunchroom one Friday, while brown bagging it, that I
picked up the local newspaper and saw an article headed "BLONDE BOY
BANDIT". The heading was intriguing and so was the article. The writer was
obviously exaggerating and writing with "tongue in cheek".  It described a
small boy between 12 and 15 years old, with long blonde hair that was
upsetting merchants from one end of town to the other with petty thefts.

The boy would eat at a lunch counter and run out without paying.  He'd grab
a food item from the shelves of a convenience store and dash out.  He'd go
into K- Mart, take several garments into a changing room, rip the tags off
one he liked, put it on and run past the attendant saying, "There's my mom,
gotta go, she's looking for me."

He'd wait at a bus stop, ask some man for a dollar saying he'd lost his
money and needed bus fare.  Once he had the dollar he'd not board the bus.

The articles became more frequent for a while.  The kid was seemingly
getting braver or more desperate and the articles began making jokes about
the police department.  One was titled, "How Not to Catch a Thief."

Then they started to ebb and slowly tapered off to nothing.  After a while
I missed reading about him, I had grown to admire his spunk; I worried that
he might get caught and wondered what his fate would be when he did.  At
one point I even thought maybe I'd hire an attorney to defend him if he
went to court and scanned the paper every day for the appearance of another
article in the series.

It was only June but the temperatures inched a little higher each day, I
became busier at the office and more wiped out at the end of the workday -
less energetic for evening, leisure activities.  Gradually, I fell into a
routine of eating a big meal at lunchtime and a small, frozen dinner at
night.  I was not a good cook but at least my frozen dinners were eatable,
some were even tasty. The routine included a swim in the pool when I got,
home, eating and then lapsing into a couch potato, watching TV and drinking
beer or Scotch on the rocks, always with the doors and windows opened wide.
The house didn't have AC but the huge trees protected it from the sun and
once the sun went down it cooled off rapidly with the doors and windows
open and stayed that way until early afternoon the next day.

The routine was relaxing and helped me forget my problems at work.

My weekend routine was quite different; on Friday and Saturday nights I
went to the gay bars and Sundays I took a book to one of the parks, found a
shady parking space near a men's restroom and read. It's amazing how many
people will approach you in a park; ask for a light, a cigarette, or what
you're reading.

I always scored at least once every weekend, but you know how that goes, it
quenches your needs for a day or two and then sharpens them.  In those
sharpened periods, I'd sometimes get on the Internet, read Nifty stories or
look at some of the porn sites I liked enough that I could get off on some
of their pics, or get into a gay chat room.  I subscribed to so many gay
male sites that I finally started a "little black book" of User Names and
Passwords.

What kept me sane more than anything else, though, was meeting Nick in a
gay bar, a non-stereotyped, young Italian, tall, skinny as a rail and
prematurely gray.  Damn he was a looker.  One night after the bar closed,
he came back to the house with me, sat in an armchair and I got between his
legs and sucked him to climax.  His cock was the opposite of his body – not
too long but hefty and his cock head was huge.  He liked to get off in a
guy's mouth while he was being serviced and after the first time, he
appeared on the average of 2 times a week, unannounced, sometimes as soon
as I arrived home from work, sometimes he'd stagger in after the bars
closed at 2 AM and stay overnight.  So what; f you were going to be some
guy's regular cocksucker you had to suck his cock when he needed to have it
sucked, not when you were horny and wanted to suck it. As far as that goes,
I couldn't suck cock very long before I horned up anyway.

Work was going great insofar as my boss was concerned.  However, I was
having a problem with three of the office secretaries.  It was clear, even
to me, that they wanted to get a big, swinging cock to do the nasty with
them.  Damn, maybe I should wear a jockstrap to work; I did show a bulge.
I had a big one and there was a teenage, office boy that made me spring a
boner every time he came into my office to leave or pick up something.  I
didn't like any of the secretaries in the way they would have liked me to.
I only liked girls as friends.  And, being the office manager. I sure as
hell wasn't going to come out to them as a fag and I sure as hell wasn't
going to go out to dinner and tumble in the sack with them.  For the time
being that is the only thing I am certain of about the situation.

Then, one Saturday evening, almost midnight, on the way home from a bar,
when, I was approaching Sixth Street, a major, residential street, about
six blocks from the house, my eye caught a blonde boy stepping off the bus
at the corner.  Because of the streetlight, I was able to see him.  Holy
Cow! I wondered if he lived in the neighborhood; if so I'd have to keep a
lookout for him.  He was eye candy at it's sweetest!  A week later Maria
mentioned that a policeman had come to the door; he was canvassing the
neighborhood checking out a possible siting, by a resident in the area, of
the "Blonde Bandit".

"What did you tell him, Maria?"

"I told him I hadn't seen him and if you had, I knew you'd have mentioned
it."

"God, the police department is more concerned about a child that's
supposedly committed a couple of petty thefts than it is about major
crimes, or so it seems.  Maybe all those newspaper stories got to them."

It was late July, when I thought of the Blonde Bandit again.  I used one of
the first floor bedrooms and bath that my parents used as a guest rooms.
It saved going up and down stairs and was cooler than the second floor, but
that isn't what made him come into my thoughts.  I grocery shopped Saturday
mornings and bought non-perishable items in quantity if they were on sale,
including beer and somewhere, along the line, I began to wonder things
like:

"I thought I bought more frozen, meatloaf dinners than are left in the
freezer and I don't remember eating all of them."

"Where did all the grapes go I bought last Saturday?"

"Jeez, that beer disappeared in a hurry and so did that bottle of Johnny
Walker Scotch."

Now and then, I also wondered the same about bacon, orange juice, eggs,
cereal and other breakfast items.

I wondered if George was sneaking beers now and then and sipping at my
Johnny Walker.

I wondered if Maria was taking a few items home, now and then.

I couldn't believe they would be doing that.  Maybe I should pay them more?
They had a huge family, but they worked at five houses besides mine.  What
if they were, I couldn't do without them.  They sort of came with the house
and I couldn't cope without them.  So, I forgot it, it was no big deal
anyway and maybe it was my imagination.  I could have bought bacon the week
before I thought I did and maybe I forgot grapes last Saturday.  Shopping
was not an exact science for me.  It was something I hated and got over
with as quickly and painlessly as possible.

One Friday, going out to the garage to get my car, George said: "CJ, look
at the second floor and attic windows, they're all open a crack. I've never
noticed that before."

"Yea, when it got so hot I opened the second floor windows that way and I
guess the attic windows have always been that way.  It's not enough to
cause a problem with rain."

"Just thought I'd ask?"

"You know, I'm going to call the office and tell them I'm going to be a
half-hour late.  I've never, in my entire life, have been in the attic.
Wanta go with me?  We opened practically every door in the upstairs hall,
until we found the steep stair access to the attic between a linen closet
and a closet used to store a vacuum and other cleaning supplies.

George went up the stairs as I waited in the hall.  He called down as his
head reached over the top step and called down, "Just a couple of wooden
packing crates and an old trunk, want me to snoop all around?"

"Is there any indication of rain coming in the cracked windows?"

"Not up here and I think it would have caused stains on the 2nd. Floor
ceilings if there was."

"Thanks Frank, I better scoot.  I won't even be late for work, traffic
permitting."

In mid August, which, though mid September would be the hottest time of the
year, was when, one evening, I got into a chat room I'd joined my second
year at the University.  In addition to chatting, subscribers could leave
messages for other members they'd chatted with or whose profiles they'd
pulled out of the archives. I often just looked at the messages and deleted
them.  A lot of them just wanted to exchange cock pictures.

One, however, caught my attention, the chatter's screen name was "CK12" and
his message was "CJ if your screen name JC12080 refers to your house
number, I think I might know you.  Want to meet?"

I answered his message with "I've heard of adults soliciting minors on the
Internet.  Assuming 12 refers to your age, this is a switch.  Your knowing
me would be a long shot.  You're not with the police are you, not that
you'd tell me if you were."

After sending the reply to his mail box I was sorry I'd even made a reply,
but I felt I was OK so far. I'd subscribed to the room from an e-mail
address where I'd used a fictitious name.  I had another mail address in my
real name.

CK12's reply the next evening was "12 does refer to my age and I'm to young
to be a cop.  Saw your pic in your profile in the archives.  You're sure a
hot looking dude.  If you live where I think you do, I'll be sitting on
your front steps Friday night when you arrive home.  If I'm wrong I'm sorry
I got you all excited."

It made me smile, as if some 12-year-old kid could get me excited.  I damn
near forgot about the e-mail exchange until I drove into my driveway Friday
after work and a blonde boy, wearing only white Nikes and black, baggy
shorts was sitting on the top step of my porch.

I didn't drive on back to the garage, but stopped even with the front of
the house and walked over to the steps.  He was the cutest thing I'd ever
seen.  What was cute about him?  Ever thing about him was cute, from the
blonde hair atop his head to his ankles before they disappeared into his
shoes. And his smile was so infectious, I caught myself unconsciously
smiling back at him.  And he was sexy as hell.  What was sexy about him?
The same things that made him so fucking cute made him fucking sexy, too.

I told you I thought I knew where you lived, CJ.  Why don't you put on a
swimsuit and I'll meet you around back at the pool.

'It's fenced in, you can't get in."

"I'll go out to the alley, move the garbage can over by the fence, stand on
it and hop the fence.  Hey, CJ grab a couple of beers after you put on your
suit."

In my excitement, I didn't even think about how he knew that my garbage can
was in the alley in back of the garage, near to the fence.

I told you he sure was cute.  He sure was bossy, too.  Who in the hell does
he think he is?  After 45 minutes with him in the pool, I wondered who the
hell I was.

He pushed me in; we raced across the pool, threw a beach ball back and
forth, dunked each other and did every other rowdy thing he could think of
to instigate.  I began to think I was 12 years old the same as CK until he
wore me out. I shouted "Uncle" and was getting out of the pool when he
pulled my swimsuit off, climbed out of the pool and I went after him.  He
tried to sling my suit onto the garage roof but missed.  I grabbed him and
threw him back into the pool, put my suit back on, spread a towel on the
concrete, stretched out on my back and hollered, "Asshole!" actually
forgetting I had neighbors.

He said, "I'll go get some more beers, I assume they're in the fridge.  He
came back opened the beers, used my lighter to light two of my cigarettes
and sat down to one side of me, cross-legged. His swimsuit, which he must
have had on under his shorts, was old fashioned, baggy and had a net like
substitute for a jock strap and his boy-dick had worked out of it and was
in plain view on the inside of his left leg.  I didn't recognize it as one
of mine from 10 to 12 years ago.

Shit – no rest for the wicked.  The way he'd been coming onto me, I bet
myself that he'd be in my bed before the night was over and I sure hoped I
was right.  I'd never been interested in boys, but as I looked up the leg
of his swimsuit and saw that 12-year-old, probably virgin, boy cock, I
wanted it. I wanted to be the first person to have it and what was in it.
God, I had to get my mind on other things.  He broke my trance when he
asked,

"So what's the CJ stand for?"

"Clifford Jennings and the CK."

"Corky Kellian."

In unison, we said "Nice name" and smiled.

"You hungry CK?"

"Starved.  Didn't eat any lunch."

We made a truce and walked in the backdoor of the house and into the
kitchen.  I found two bowls and handed him a bag of potato chips.  He
opened the fridge and pulled out two more beers.

"Put one back, Corky.  I think I'll have a Scotch on the rocks."  He opened
the upper cabinet by the fridge, got out the Scotch and said he'd mix it
for me."

"How did you know where to find my Scotch?"

"Well, the beer was in the fridge.  The glass-fronted cabinets have glasses
and china, so I guessed the wood-fronted cabinet next to the fridge would
be where you kept your Scotch, if you were logical."

I didn't want to appear illogical, so I didn't pursue it but asked instead
"Would you settle for a microwave Lasagna, CK?"

"Love it, can I help you?"

I went to my bedroom and brought back two terry cloth robes and we changed
into them.  The little prick got out of his still damp swimsuit in full
view of me.  He had the beginning of pubic hair; I guessed he had passed
through puberty.  He was fast turning into my sexual nemesis.

I fixed a salad, we ate and I gave into his having a glass of red wine with
the meal.  After we'd finished he went back to the kitchen and returned
with my pack of cigarettes, my lighter and an ashtray.

"Corky, I'm glad you e-mailed me at the gay chat room.  I'm glad you came
over tonight."

"Me too, as I told you, I was really taken with your pic."

"How did you know where I lived?"

"I'm staying with a guy who lives six blocks from here and I biked by one
evening when you pulled into your driveway."

"Lets see, the streets are alphabetical and named after trees, bushes or
flowers.  I'm on Iris, so where are you staying on Dahlia or Nasturtium?"

I caught him off guard and he goofed, he said Dahlia, which is west of here
but pointed east.

He realized he'd goofed, saw the expression on my face and got out of his
chair; before he could leave, though, I reacted quickly and grabbed him.
He began to cry; I pushed his head onto my chest and let him cry.

"I'm sorry CJ."

"Why?"

"I lied."

"Every one does once in a while. Why not just tell me the truth?"

"I live in your attic."

"My God.  I sometimes thought there was another person in the house or
someone who had access to it."

"Again, why?"

"I needed a place to live real bad.  I cruised around the neighborhood
looking and by a process of elimination settled on a few where I'd observed
people worked all day and selected you because I guessed you were single
and I'd have one less person to worry about."

"Why were you so desperate.  Are you all alone."

"Yes, and the cops are looking for me."

"Why?"

"Do you remember the newspaper articles about the Blonde Bandit?"

"And that's who you are?"

"Yes, and after a while I got to sort of know you and wanted to meet you so
badly.  So, I sent those messages to your chat room."

"How did you do that?"

"I found your book of sites and passwords."

"How did you get access to a computer?"

"I used yours."

That was as far as we got, at least concerning conversation.

Our robes had separated; I was still holding his head against my chest and
our cocks began to intrude into our conversation as well as into the
private, intimate parts of our near naked bodies.  I thought of the times
I'd read the articles about him and the compassion they aroused in me.  I
thought of my weak attempts to suppress the sexual desires that they
aroused in me.  And now I was holding him in my arms.

I couldn't help myself; I put one hand on each side of his head, held it
and kissed him on the lips.  He wrapped his arms around me and returned my
passion.  Then our hands began to slide down to explore the other's symbol
of manhood, which until this electrifying moment we had not touched with
our hands.

If it had ended there it would have still remained the most powerful and
exciting moment of my life.  As it was though, we managed without losing
lip contact to reach my unmade bed and for the first time in my life I had
sex with a beautiful, soft skinned boy with a five inch cock who was as
eager for sex with me as I was for him.

It was a very special moment, an undreamed of adventure abounding in
spontaneous advances born of lust and answered with responses of the same
origin. Yet, I knew I was racing roughshod over things forbidden by law, by
religion and by society, but I hadn't the strength to stop.

In what seemed like only a short, blurred moment, his eagerness and
spontaneity changed into an accepting, yielding posture and he said,

"Do me, do what men do to boys."

I felt certain that this was his first time with another male, man or boy.
That sharpened both my lust and my anxieties but, at the same time, made me
acutely aware of my responsibilities as an adult toward a minor.  It was
after fondling and kissing every inch of his teenage body that I took his
grape sizes testicle into my mouth, one at a time, and then pulled his
erect penis down from where it was aligned next to his stomach and took it
into my mouth.

After he had his wet climax in my mouth, he put his hands under my armpits
and pulled. He wanted me to move up.  After that he grabbed my buns and
pulled up.  I finally guessed what he was after.  He wanted my cock in his
mouth.

I was hung eight and a lot of guys couldn't take it, but not Corky, he
swallowed it and serviced it as if he'd been a cocksucker for years.  I
erupted.  He swallowed.  We shifted positions.  We were facing each other
and after a while we softened.

But that was not to last for long.

The kid was unbelievably sexy, unbelievably hot.  It was around two in the
morning, after he'd climaxed for the third time that things settled down.
Never before had I thought of myself as an old man at 23, but I sure as
hell was not 12, either, and, as far as that goes, I couldn't remember so
being so fucking sexed up at 12, either. I was ready to go to sleep for
what remained of the night, thankful that tomorrow was Saturday and that
Nick hadn't rang the doorbell after the gay bars had closed.  Maybe he'd
picked up another cocksucker at one of the bars.

After breakfast and before going to the supermarket, I quizzed CK about
where he'd come from before ending up in my attic.  He'd already told me
how he'd selected me.

He was from Arlington Heights, a suburb of Chicago.  His father had died,
his mother remarried and his stepfather evidently hated him.  He ran away
and hitchhiked to Denver, where he began stealing stuff after his money ran
out.
  He tried to call home but the phone had been disconnected, he wrote and
the letter was returned, stamped, NO FORWARDING ADDRESS.  Later on I had
him write the Department of Vital Statistics for the State of Illinois in
Springfield for a birth certificate.  He had been born in Schaumburg,
Illinois on February15, 1993.  And, with my help, he was able to get his
school records sent to St. Joseph's School, the closest to where I lived. I
called them and asked them to phone me upon their arrival as I wanted Corky
enroll immediately after receipt of his school records.

I know you're wondering why, as the person telling this story, I inserted
all this information at this time.

Because I knew while having breakfast that I was in love with Corky.  As
crazy as it seemed for a man to be in love with a 12-year-old boy, that's
the way it was.  I wanted to keep him, love him, protect him, provide for
him, and to do that I realized there were a lot of semi-legal matters to
identify and settle before someone came to try and take him away.

I guess there was no way I was going to keep Corky all to myself, though
because Nick came in, earlier than usual, one night a few days after I'd
found Corky sitting on my front steps.  Corky and I looked at each other
and I knew Corky was aware of what Nick was after, so we took him to bed
and took turns.  After he passed out and was asleep for the night, we kept
on taking turns, as one or the other of us woke up during the night or went
into the second bedroom that was downstairs.

I really had to think hard about justifying Corky to Maria and George.
Fortunately Maria had been hired after my mother died and I assumed that my
dad hadn't talked to her too much about family, so I passed him off as a
second cousin on my mother's site of the family.

The day after Labor Day, Classes began at St. Josephs, with Corky in
attendance, without any snafus, but before September ended, the school
nurse called me at work one afternoon to come and pickup Corky, he wasn't
feeling well.  His legs hurt, it was difficult for him to walk and he had a
fever of 102.

I told my head secretary where I was going and on the way called Dr. John
Lukens on my cell phone and asked him to meet me at the Presbyterian
Hospital, as it was the closest to Corky's school and that I'd explain
later.  He was one of the two remaining partner's in my dads partnership.

He thought it was me that was having the emergency, but when I arrived with
Corky in tow, I explained the situation, briefly, and after Dr. Lukens
examined him he helped me fill out all the crap of admittance forms and had
Corky admitted, taken up to the third floor, where we caught up with him
coming out of the elevator.

I was a bundle of nerves.  The hospital staff was giving me all kinds of
shit because I was not Corky's parent, even though I was willing to be
responsible for hospital billings.  John took a heavy hand and told them I
was the son of Dr.  Hugh Jennings who was chief of staff for 10 years
before his death, which I knew, and I was office manager for Ralston
Construction, and Al Ralston was on the board of the hospital directors,
which I did not know.  In fact I didn't realize that Dr. Lukens even knew I
had graduated or was back in town working for Ralston.

Damn, I was glad he was on my side.  He carried a lot of weight and didn't
care whom he stepped on.  He cleared a lot of shit out of my path in a
short time and he didn't leave any room for rebuttal.  He had Corky
assigned to a private room right across the corridor from the nurses'
station on the third floor and ordered a cot be provided in the room for me
to sleep on because he didn't want Corky anxious about anything.

An IV was placed in his left arm in case it might be required later.  He
ordered tests, starting at 8AM and told me he'd see me later during his
evening rounds at the hospital.  He didn't have a diagnosis at the present
time, but felt it was nothing serious.  I worried just the same.

Before leaving he told the nurse Corky could have whatever he wanted to
drink, as long as it was cold and that included sodas.  For dinner he
wanted him limited to chocolate, tapioca or similar puddings.  Too, he was
to get sponge baths on the hour until bedtime and his bedding changed after
each bath and if his temperature should rise he was to be called
immediately if it reached 103.

The tests, the following morning, didn't reveal much, but Dr. Lukens
decided that Corky had Rheumatic Fever and started a schedule for injection
of antibiotics.

I remarked that I hadn't heard of that for a long time.  He replied it was
not common, not serious but Corky was in the right age span to get it.

Two days later he was discharged with instructions to rest for two more
days and they avoid strenuous activity for another week.  Dr. Lukens also
gave me the name of a young partner, Corbin Davis, in the law firm that had
represented the medical practice partnership of which he and my dad
belonged.  He wanted me to get in touch with him to effect legal
guardianship or adoption of Corky before any more serious complications
occurred in our living together.

We weren't even home when Corky said, "God I got a boner you wouldn't
believe.  Can you drive faster?  I can't wait to get home and 69."

The doctor said "No strenuous exercise."

"OK, you can suck me off then."

"I don't even know for sure about that."

"I do, if I'm supposed to remain calm.  Did you know Dr. Lukens was gay?"

"No!"

"Yes."

"How are you so sure?"

"When they rolled me into that exam room before they took me upstairs, he
had me undress.  When he started examining me I sprung a boner and I
thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. I don't know much about
what would cause fever and aching joints, but he had his finger in my
crotch, right next to my prick, telling me to cough, had his finger up my
ass, he was rolling my nuts around in his fingers and he began sort of
milking my cock.  By that time he had a boner, it was so obvious, despite
his dark grey, dress pants.  So what do you think?"

"The examination wouldn't necessarily indicate so, but I wonder if it was
appropriate for your symptoms.  But if he popped a boner, "I think you're
right."

"And I think you're going to empty my balls for me the minute we get home."

He was right.  His balls had stored up a big load.  For the two days of
continued rest and the one-week of avoiding strenuous exercise, we never
missed one day of sex.  I guessed the reason the two of us got along so
well was that we were both ape shit about cocks.

As I thought of the whole situation at the hospital, I decided Corky was
right about Dr. Lukens and decided that was why he had given me the name of
Corbin Davis and urged me to call him.  I did and he agreed to meet us the
following Saturday morning, even though the office was not normally open on
Saturdays.

After half an hour into the conversation, I decided he, too, was gay.  He
was just too obliging, too solicitous and too personally interested in both
Corry and me.  After meetings with the District Attorney, an inspection of
the house by a social worker, for which we prepared by moving our sleeping
quarters upstairs, Corky in a large bedroom with a private bath and me in
the master bedroom, and after filling out a ton of forms and having several
interviews, some of which I made them compromise on answering because I
felt the financial ones would subject me to identity theft, we finally
settled on my showing adequate assets to meet the County's requirements and
no more.  Finally, in one year I was appointed as Corky' guardian.  After
two more years I adopted him.

Whereas guardianship took a year, it took only one month before Corky began
asking me to fuck him, which I steadfastly refused to do, being afraid I
would hurt him.  He negotiated the deadlock by getting me to let him sit on
my cock if it didn't hurt either him or me.

It didn't hurt me, but the first few attempts hurt Corky, but he was
determined and never stopped trying.  With me on my back, he'd bend his
legs, face the foot of the bed, grab his ass cheeks and lower his fuck hole
down onto my cock.  He kept getting it in deeper, little by little, until
one night; I was amazed as I watched how easily my eight inches disappeared
from my sight all the way into his tight, little boy pussy.

It was the beginning of a new world for the both of us.  Corky knew more
about how to do it than I did, through porno movies, or something.  The
next time He laid on his back, held his legs up and I became as a man
partner and he became as a woman partner in the sex act.  My lubricated
eight inches slipped easily into his lubricated boy pussy.  It was so
slippery inside, yet, at the same time, so tight.

I'm at a loss for words, I don't know how to describe how my big hard cock
felt in his 12 year old, virgin pussy after it had gotten all the way
in. First, I couldn't believe he had taken the whole thing and then I
couldn't believe it seemed such a perfect fit. It was as if it was meant to
be. Then, all I could think of was fucking him.  I wanted to show him how
much I loved him.  I wanted to take his virginity, I wanted to pop his teen
cherry, I wanted make him happy, I somehow wanted to brand him as my
property.

I fucked him hard and deep and ejaculated the biggest load that had ever
shot out of the end of my cock, I felt it and Cory felt it and his love
juice shot almost to his neck.  I turned so I wouldn't collapse on top of
him.

We hugged, we kissed, we cried.

Corky spoke first, "It was beautiful."

"It really was, beautiful is the right word for it."

"It didn't hurt this time."

"I know."

THANKS FOR READING MY STORY.  I HOPE YOU EN0YED IT.