Date: Fri, 18 Jul 2014 18:14:50 +0800 From: DD Subject: I Am Beautiful? (Gay male - adult/youth) I AM BEAUTIFUL? The author does not claim to be kid. The story is based on true experiences but has been elaborated and all names have been changed. Copyright belongs to the author. I AM BEAUTIFUL? Deniz is a sixteen year old boy in one of my classes. He is strikingly handsome, with black hair cut short, parted on one side with a large straight mop crossing over, a fine-boned face with fine dark eyebrows, high cheekbones and a sharp nose with fine lips, and his body is like a swimmer's, tall with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He ap-pears to be good-natured, but subdued in class. He hardly ever says anything and his essays are very humdrum, so I often ask him to read aloud, in order that I may pass him. One day, he asks me why I always ask him to read aloud, and I tell him why. And I add: 'You are also very handsome, Deniz. We all like to hear a handsome boy read aloud.' I'm not surprised that he doesn't blush, but he does smile: 'I am a handsome boy?' In spite of his striking good looks, he does not arouse any desire in me; it is, I think, because he is devoid of charm. 'Deniz, you're so handsome, you could become an international model. You should go to Paris, I'm sure you'd succeed.' Now he blushes slightly, and the whole class laughs. Afterwards, whenever he meets me, he says: 'I am a handsome boy?' Sometimes I meet him in my neighbourhood, and he is always together with another boy, who I do not know. He is not as tall as Deniz and is more delicate. He has thick, flowing, fine brown hair (also cut short) and a wide mouth with pouty lips that glisten where they meet. His school trousers are very light grey, and hug the kind of tight shapely bottom that is unique to boys. One day I pass them, and as Deniz says 'I am a handsome boy?', they both smile. I smile widely and make sure to only glance at his gorgeous friend. I pass on and then Deniz calls me: 'Teacher!' I turn, and he's blushing slightly as he introduces his friend: 'Teacher, this is my friend Tayfun.' I nod and we stand smiling at each other. Then Deniz asks: 'Tayfun is a handsome boy?' Now it's my turn to blush, not sure what to do. This is no doubt a joke, but I decide to go along with it. So tilting my head and gazing at him from his feet to the top of his head, I study him. Unfortunately, they're both watching, so I cannot linger at his crotch or ask him to turn round and show me his tight little bum. It crosses my mind to examine him with my hands, and I make a point of studying his delicate hands. After an exaggerated study of this lovely specimen of boyhood, I wag my head slowly, rub my chin with a finger and pronounce: 'No, Deniz, Tayfun is not handsome.' They've been watching me with some delighted bemusement. Deniz grins at me: 'Not handsome?' 'No, Deniz, your good friend Tayfun is not handsome, he is beautiful. You are handsome, he is beautiful.' And they laugh. I've got to get away now before I say too much, so I smile and turn away. Further on, I turn to look back at Tayfun and catch him looking back at me. Now what? After this incident, my life is somewhat improved in that now Tayfun smiles at me when he meets me in the corridor, but repeatedly I am embarrassed by his catching me gaze at him. A bit like Tadzio catching out Aschenbach. One day, I meet him coming down the stairs in small baggy shorts and bare boyish thighs, and I'm not sure if I merely imagine that he gives me a knowing smile as he passes, although I'm sure I do not merely imagine his looking up at me at the turning of the stair, as I look over the railing at his shapely bum and legs in those shorts. All this adds a thrill to life, but it is not altogether welcome, for it has to be kept secret. The unattainable has moved within range, but I must do nothing. I shall not make passes at boys with shapely arses. During a fellow-teacher's birthday party, however, I meet Tayfun, and he sits down next to me on a sofa and we talk. He has those enchanting qualities that Deniz is without, and he is far more confident than Deniz. He doesn't ask me about Turkey or any other of the usual questions, but why I've come to teach in Turkey. And we have an interesting conversation about the relation between work, money, and satisfaction. He is remarkably thoughtful, and his English is very good. He comments on my youth and my youthful appearance, obviously thinking I am a good deal younger than I actually am. (This happens not infrequently.) I can almost see his tongue in his cheek when he asks: 'You are handsome or beautiful, Mr Quentin?' I blush. 'I hope I'm both, Tayfun.' He asks me what the difference is. I'm sticking my neck out, but I answer him. 'A handsome boy strikes the mind, like a flower or a sunset. It is a beauty of the intellect. The beautiful boy strikes the heart, like music or poetry. It is a beauty of the emotions.' Now I'm sure my face is beet red, and more so as Tayfun looks at me with a seraphic smile that seems to gaze straight at the longing in my heart. He puts his hand on my thigh, and I can feel it in my crotch: 'Intellectual beauty and emotional beauty, Mr Quentin. Where did you read this explanation?' 'In my heart. It is my own experience.' He rubs my thigh gently, in an innocent and socially acceptable way, but it makes my loins throb with desire. I want to slobber over that delicate hand. The next day, I meet him in the corridor. He looks at me slyly: 'I am beautiful, Mr Quentin?' I dare only smile and pass on. Two days later, I meet him on my climb home. He's sitting on the low wall that I pass. He greets me. He's sitting lengthwise on the wall, leaning on the next step of wall. 'I am beautiful, Mr Quentin?' Oh, God, ravishing, ravishing. I dare him: 'I need to see first, Tayfun.' And I go over and stand before him. He looks up with an expectant smile, as if he knows only too well that I desire him. I feel like the doting schoolboy trying to befriend the glamour girl. I sit down and study him. He's wearing his small baggy white athletic shorts and the blue school T-shirt. His left leg is drawn up and out, his hand on the knee, his right leg's spread out to the other side, so I am looking straight down into his crotch. I can see his silken inner thighs, and the white fabric inside his shorts, visibly encasing his two testicles with his penis to the right; I see the curve of a bare buttock, because (as he tells me later), he has pulled the inside fabric up between his buttocks. His left hand rests on his upper thigh, casually, the fingers pointing inwards, luring the eye into the crannies of his shorts. (Later he tells me he practised arranging himself this way in front of a mirror.) He's blushing under my scrutiny, as if he's been found out, and I let him blush as I look him straight in the face, giving him the glad eye: 'Yes, Tayfun, you are beautiful.' He shifts slightly, his shoes scratch on the wall, as he spreads his thighs even more. I catch my breath. 'You too are beautiful, Mr Quentin.' 'I'm older than you, Tayfun.' A frisson runs through me as I watch him lazily adjust his crotch: 'My father is twenty years older than my mother.' This is getting dangerous. I light a cigarette and we chat. I feel an overwhelming urge to rub my face up and down those smooth thighs, to bury my face in his warm crotch, and make him sigh with desire, but instead I engage in idle, friendly conversation, concentrating on his pretty face. He tells me his last lesson on Thursdays is gym, and he's on his way home to bathe. After a while, we loiter homewards, and he asks me to see where I live. I invite him in and he checks all the empty rooms. Since I don't expect to stay there long, I live in one of the bedrooms, and the other three rooms are left unused. I sit at my desk and he puts his bag down. He looks at my books. I tremble at his very close presence, the scent of his warm body, those bare thighs, oh, and those tight buttocks, and those fine ears with no earlobe. He stands like a gazelle: one foot flat, the other with the heel raised. 'I want to take a shower.' Oh God, a classical stratagem. 'Here?' 'I saw a shower in the bathroom, no?' I get flustered. 'Yes, yes... yes, of course.... D'you need a towel?' 'No, I have my own.' He sits on the bed and removes his shoes. Oh, the delicate feet. Stands up and pulls off his T-shirt, smooth chest, flat stomach, and please don't remove your shorts -- oh, please do -- please don't. He squats and retrieves a towel from the bag, and smiling goes into the bathroom. Leaves the door ajar. I want to look in at him bathing -- I don't want to look in at him bathing. I tremble as I pass, forcing myself not to look. I breathe heavily as I prepare coffee, my heart in my mouth, my ears listen eagerly to the sound of him naked in the shower. The door's ajar, it's almost unbearable. A week ago, my life was one of continuous peaceful passivity. My longing was shallow, for he was out of reach. Now he's in my bathroom naked, and I don't know if it's all coincidental. He has turned off the shower. The kettle is nearly boiling. What shall I do? Watch him dress? Wait? Try, oh, try to behave as if it was perfectly normal for a thirty-two year old man to have a sixteen year-old angel naked in his bathroom, smiling. Now the kettle's boiling. Where is he? In the bathroom or in my room? What was it? Yes, two sugars for him. I walk out into the corridor, wobbly legs. Be natural. He's in my room. I go in. Sweet Mary Mother of God, he's wearing only white underpants, and is drying his hair with the towel. White high-waisted schoolboy underpants with a fly, slightly awry, making them the most alluring garment on the planet. I can see the form of his penis curving to one side and his balls underneath; above, his little navel, his flat stomach, and no hair except a tuft in his armpits. Heart pounding, I sit down in the armchair, with trembling cups of coffee on the armrest. He looks at me with tousled hair and smiles and turns to bend down to rummage in the bag; his underpants tighten over his buttocks; I can see his buttocks spread, and his scrotum. I tremble at what appears to be his brazen strategy of seduction. My lad, are your intentions quite impure? He straightens up and stands before my large mirror and combs his hair. Goodness, how gorgeous he is with damp combed hair and innocent white underpants. The fine skin of his face. He bends over, puts the comb back, and stands before the mirror, adjusts his hair. He turns and stands beside me, looking down his snub nose, delicate lips forming a grin. Again I almost gag as he lazily adjusts the bulge in his underpants, and then stretches his leg back like a gazelle, to pull at the leg of his underpants. His crotch is about a foot from my face -- from my mouth. I look up at him. 'I am beautiful, Mr Quentin?' Oh God, give me strength. I smile: 'No, Tayfun, you are gorgeous. Gorgeous.' He turns round and again bends over to rummage in his bag. His arse is so near, it's as if he's stuck it in my face, inviting me to bury my face in the widened gap. He pulls out a dictionary and stands up. I spell 'gorgeous', he flips pages, and then says some Turkish words. He looks at me with a smile, 'Gorgeous, Mr Quentin, I am beautiful and gorgeous.' As he says that, his gorgeousness inexplicably reaches a peak, and I'm spellbound. He drops the dictionary into the open bag and stands watching me, his mouth slightly ajar, lips glistening. Puts his hand on my shoulder. Yes, Tayfun, bend down and kiss me, lean forward and rub your warm crotch in my face. Then he blushes. I smile as if it were an everyday event for me to have a gorgeous boy in my room in just his underpants: 'Coffee?' I hand him his cup. He lounges on my bed, legs apart as before, with one knee up, but now bare feet and revealing underpants. What's his game? I have a sense of being watched. Is he trying to make me lose control? 'You live here alone?' 'Yes.' 'You are not unhappy?' 'Why?' 'In your house alone.' 'I like to be alone. The whole day, I see many people, and I like to come home to silence.' 'Today you are not alone. I am disturbing you?' 'A gorgeous boy can never disturb me.' He smiles widely, glisten, twinkle, twinkle. 'Gorgeous boy, gorgeous boy. I am a gorgeous boy on my teacher's bed.' Is this innocent innuendo or? He puts his empty cup on my bedside table and then lies full length on his side, his head on my pillow, smiling at me. Those thighs! Now he slips his hand inside the waist-band of his underpants and lazily arranges the bulge. Has it swollen? Shall I faint? The interrogation continues. 'Do you have a girlfriend?' I smile. 'Do you?' 'No. I am a gorgeous boy, a gorgeous schoolboy; you are a gorgeous man, Mr Quentin.' 'Some gorgeous schoolboys have girlfriends.' 'It is rare in Turkey.' 'Is there a girl you love?' He laughs: 'I was asking you. Now you are asking me.' 'Are you asking me as a teacher in your school or as a friend?' 'I am asking you as a friend.' 'If your friend tells you something private about himself, do you tell others?' He blushes. 'No, of course not.' 'OK. I don't have a girlfriend, and there is no girl I love.' 'Why not? Many girls love you.' 'I know.' And we are silent. If I look at him, I'll slaver, so I don't look at him. 'Do you love Deniz?' Now it's out. Is he a spy sent to find out if the English teacher is a homo? 'No, I do not love Deniz.' 'You said he is very handsome.' 'He is very handsome.... Like a flower.' 'Or a sunset. Beauty of the intellect.... It is not love?' I shake my head. 'Is there anyone you love?' I blush. 'I love the younger boys, but they are too pure... too innocent. I see them only as an elder brother does, not as a lover.' 'Is there an older boy you love?' 'More than one year ago, I met a boy shining shoes down ¬town. He was sixteen, very charming and beautiful. He came and talked to me. He asked me if I wanted to make love. I wanted to, but a man came and wanted money. So I walked away. That was more than a year ago....' 'He wanted to make love. You and him?' I nod. I manage not to blush. Now his sits up and clasps his knees, his ankles conceal his crotch. 'How does a boy make love to a boy?' 'As with a girl, nearly.' He laughs: 'That's impossible!' 'All right. What do you with a girl?' 'I don't know, I've never done nothing.' I don't correct his English. 'All right, but you know what boys do with girls.' He nods. 'The boy fucks the girl in her vagina.' Should I tell him the f-word's really bad English? No. 'The boy penetrates the girl's vagina. Only that? What is the first thing a boy does with a girl? The first time they sit together alone.' 'He kisses her.' 'All right, can you kiss a boy?' He laughs: 'In Turkey it is normal for boys to kiss each other.' 'No, I mean kiss on the mouth... like lovers. Can boys do that?' 'I kissed a boy one time on the mouth.' What's he trying to tell me? 'What else can boys do, apart from kissing?' He lies down on his side, knees pulled up, showing his buttocks, giggles. 'They can use their hand.' 'Yes, another boy can wank you.' Now he blushes and laughs. 'Masturbate?' He's looked up all the words in the dictionary. 'Wank is slang.' 'Wank?' I nod. 'Ok, a boy can wank me!' I want to ask him if one ever has, but control myself. 'What else can he do?' 'He can use his mouth.' 'Yes, he can suck your penis.' He wriggles on the bed. And he giggles quietly. 'And he can fuck me in the ass, no?' He's not as innocent as he makes out. '"Ass" is American English, "arse" is British English.' He giggles. 'Arse. Aaaarse. He can fuck me in the aaarse. In the aaaarse.' We both laugh and laugh. He rolls about on the bed. I want to leap over and ravish him. Then he lies still. 'A boy can kiss and... wank and suck and fuck me!' I laugh out loud. 'And I can kiss and wank and suck and fuck him!' 'Clever boy, Tayfun, you've learned your lesson well!' 'Wait, teacher, wait! A man can kiss and wank and suck and fuck me... a man!' Now I just smile. He lies on the bed in the foetal position, his underpants stretched over his buttocks. He giggles. 'A boy can do sex with a man. Kissing... wanking... sucking and fucking.' He looks at me with half-open mouth and glistening lips, as if waiting for confirmation. I remain silent. He sits up. 'Look!' A tent in his underpants. I can see the outline of his glans. I can barely breathe. 'Very nice, Tayfun. Lovely.' 'Lovely. I am beautiful, gorgeous and lovely.' He flips his erection with his hand. It sways. 'You will masturbate me? Wank me?' 'D'you want me to?' He stands up and comes close, pushing his hips forward, towards my face. 'Catch!' I raise my eyebrows, and he giggles. Pulls his hips back. The moment's gone. Touch and go. Again he giggles. He's more nervous than amused. 'I must return. My mother will worry.' He squats and pulls out his trousers and pulls them on, his underpants still tented in front. Giggles as he squeezes it into his trousers and zips them up. I don't let him see my hard-on. The seduction must be all his. When he's dressed, I see him to the door. He turns and puts out his hand: 'I was happy to talk with you, Mr Quen ¬tin.' I take his hand, and he kisses me on the cheek. He giggles: 'It is Turkish tradition to kiss.' So I kiss him on the cheek, and then the other cheek. His kiss is definitely more wet than Turkish tradition demands. He then looks me in the face and with a giggle he kisses me on the lips. My heart jumps. 'Is that Turkish tradition?' He giggles again and blushes. I open the door and push him out. Bye-bye. He runs down the stairs. I stand in the hall breathless and aroused. The next day, he locates me in another building and announces that he will take me to the bazaar on Saturday morning, to get the Turkish coffee and things that I had mentioned. I am delighted but uneasy. That I'm infatuated is beyond question; I fancied him the first time I saw him, but that's not the same as putting it into action. Being secretly in love is nice and safe. I should've guessed he'd come well before the appointed time. I pull on my Calvins and let him in. 'I brought breakfast. Oooh! Mr Quentin, you are very sexy!' I almost blurt out that he's perfectly luscious. He's wearing tight jeans that set off his shapely bum to a mouth-watering degree, and a big loose white T-shirt. Through the sleeves, I can see his delectable armpits. I run into the bathroom, and through the door tell him to make coffee. Having showered, I slip on my Calvins and re-enter my room. He's got coffee ready and pastries from his mother. He watches me as I get dressed: 'You have a body like a boy Mr Quentin. Tall like Deniz, thin like me. No hair on your breast, no fat. A boy's ass. A beautiful boy, Mr Quentin, a gorgeous boy.' 'Arse.' 'Sorry. You have a beautiful boy's aaarse. Gorgeous aaarse.' I begin to giggle uncontrollably, and he goes on like a bird. 'A boy's aaarse! Boy's aaarse!' And we both roar with laughter. Pulling my T-shirt over my head, I tell him to call me Quentin when we're outside school. 'Quentin', he runs a hand down the back of my bare thigh. If he touches my bum, I'll pounce. We breakfast and then take the trolley bus into town. I'm in a perpetual state of arrested arousal, looking at him, and feeling his thigh against mine as we sit side by side. He keeps on touching my arm and my thigh, which doesn't make matters any better. We spend a very enjoyable morning in the bazaar, with many giggles, have a kebab lunch, and then stroll back to my flat. It takes more than an hour, and he does it under protest. Thankfully, we part in the streets, as he has to go home to do his homework. I'm dying to make love to him, but at the same time, I'd rather be left alone. Goodness knows what heart aches it'll lead to. And though I'm sure he's up to something, I'm not absolutely sure he's not just playing around.   I WANT LOVE The next Thursday he's there again on the low wall in small shorts, thighs spread wide, and I sit down again and tremble again, and again he asks me if he is gorgeous, but I tell him he is ravishing, and again he looks the word up in the dictionary. I gag as he slips a finger through a leg in his shorts, lazily adjusts a semi-hard phallus, and lets the tent out of the leg hole. He glances at me with a blush, and biting his lip pushes his phallus back in. Again he comes to my flat (holding his bag before his crotch), and again he takes a shower, and again I make coffee, and again he's wearing just his white schoolboy underpants, lazily adjusting the bulge, long and swollen at an angle across his groin. That belly-button in his inward curving stomach, the faint outline of his ribs, the brown aureoles of his nipples, the smooth thighs, the curve of his buttocks, the stretched creases in his underpants because of the bulge, all these highly erotic images make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, make my heart palpitate, and produce a slight film of perspiration on my forehead. The only intelligent thing to do seems to pull down his underpants and mouth his crotch. He takes his coffee but does not sit on the bed. Instead, he sits on the armrest of my chair. Then he slips down to sit sideways on my knee, his legs resting on the armrest. He blushes as he glances at me nervously. His hard-on is straining against the fabric of his underpants, and he adjusts it, and then looks away, sipping dutifully. The silence is intensely erotic. He's practically offered himself to me in a state of arousal. I can hear his breath. What will he do next? He finishes his coffee and stretches back to put the cup on my desk. I finish my coffee and he takes it and puts it on my desk. My heart is beating so hard, I imagine he can hear it. Now he's looking at me, eyes shining with shyness. My hand is on the armrest. He puts his hand over it. So soft his hand, and hot. We smile at each other. 'I am ravishing, Mr Quentin?' 'Quentin, and you are ravishing, Tayfun.' He blushes and looks down, plays with my hand. 'Quentin.' He's decided to make a move, but doesn't know how to go about it. Quietly, I speak: 'What d'you want, Tayfun?' He smiles shyly. He leans forward and whispers into my ear: 'I want....' And he looks at me very shy. Giggles. I pull his face back to my ear. His lips are wet on my ear: '... love.... I want... love.' I stroke his cheek with the back of my fingers. He presses my hand against his face. Places my hand on his thigh. I squeeze it. Then he places my hand on the straining bulge. Very hard it is and damp at the tip. I squeeze it gently. He moves eagerly up onto my lap, his breath erratic, his bum pressing against my phallus; I fondle his balls. He puts his arm about my neck and looks into my eyes, kisses me on the lips. Again and again. His breath is hot and erratic. He smiles: 'You said one begins with kisses. Now I don't know what to do.' Again a cul-de-sac. He strokes my hair back, presses his forehead against mine. I stroke the back of his head: 'Open your mouth.' He opens his mouth and I pull his face close and then cover his open mouth with my open mouth and stick my tongue in. And then we snog. He breathes heavily, every out-breath a sigh through the nose. I've slipped my fingers inside the leg of his underpants and am caressing his phallus skin to skin. He pulls away and rubs his face in my neck, giggling lightly; rocks his hips so his bum rubs against my hard-on. I can feel his anus. I manoeuvre my fingers into the fly of his underpants and ease out his swollen phallus, then his balls. His breath is fast and shallow now, and he's trembling. He's circumcised, poor boy, the glans tacky with pre-cum. I squeeze out more, it trickles down, and I rub it round with my thumb, and he whines. Then I grip his phallus and wank him slowly and he moans into my shoulder. His phallus is neither big nor small. It is perfectly proportioned, in perfect proportion to his body, and apart from the mutilation, it is, of course, smooth and beautiful. I press my lips against his cheek as I gently wank him, and mere seconds later, he gasps and gasps and gasps and shoots onto his chest, onto his shoulder, flowing down my fingers. And then he whimpers and stops my hand. He leans back and looks at me with half-open mouth and tenderness, and again we snog. He still whines softly, and I move my head down to lap up the semen from his neck, and then push him back and lick the semen off his chest. He's caressing my hair as I lap and swallow. Then I raise my hand and lick it clean. He watches me with boyish interest, and with his fingers scoops up semen from his stomach and genitals and offers them to me to suck dry. And then I cover his mouth with my cum-covered mouth and we snog in long, slow sighs. Eagerly, he tastes his own sperm in my mouth, and we sit and look at each other, our grins shiny with spit and sperm. He strokes my hair back and kisses my forehead. Cradles my head in his neck and nuzzles my hair, moaning gently. He stands up, his phallus still hard, protruding from his fly. He pulls me over to the bed and sits me down. Grinning he pulls off my clothes, down to my white Calvins. Gleefully, he manoeuvres my phallus out through the fly, and carefully my balls, one at a time, glancing at me again and again. He fingers my foreskin, smiling: 'This is called a foreskin. It covers the glans penis. My foreskin was cut when I was a small boy, because my father and mother are Turkish atheists. You know? Circumcise. Turkish atheists circumcise their boys. They say they are not Muslims but they circumcise their little boys. I was very frightened and it was very painful. I ran away. They had to catch me like a robber. "Why do they torture me like this?" I thought. Everybody smiling and happy at the torture of their beloved little boy.... Have you seen the faces on the boys when they are driving around with music? Well, look. They are unhappy... ashamed... confused. I hate it. I hate it.' I can understand his anger. He watches his fingers delicately fondle my foreskin. The smile returns: 'It is soft and beautiful. I have only seen it on young boys. My little cousin has a long one, but I don't touch it.' He rolls it up and down slowly. Then he grasps my phallus in his soft hand and wanks me, each time slowly all the way up till the foreskin covers the glans, and then all the way down, till the foreskin is stretched. His mouth is half-open, his lips wet, and he glances at me again and again. Finally, he lowers his pretty face, pulls back the foreskin lazily and those pretty lips kiss my glans at the frenulum. And I give a deep sigh, as I watch in disbelief the ravishing boy lean his arms onto my thighs and gingerly lick and suck my phallus. I watch his pretty lips slide up and down my phallus, his silken locks slide back and forth, tickling my thighs, the elfin ears, the long eye-lashes, and the quiet slurp and suck. I stroke back his hair to see the gorgeous face, his tongue, lips, and my glans all a-glistening. I reach over and pull at his legs till we lie on our sides in a soixante-neuf, thighs in a V. I nuzzle my face in the thigh that is raised, and then rest my cheek on his inner thigh. The scent of his lap is freshly baked bread, his balls are hairless, there is but a tuft of dark brown lightly curled hair at the base of his phallus, and his underpants are warm and soft. Gently and dreamily, I mouth his phallus and his balls, sucking them gently, kissing them, pressing my lips to his hairless thighs, to his soft underpants, sniffing them like flowers, and slip a hand through a leg to caress his smooth and hard buttocks, the crevice between them, and gently rub his hairless anus. He imitates me in everything I do, as if he'd done it all before. I move my face further in between his thighs and pull aside the fabric to expose his anus. Golden pink without hair and I kiss it and kiss it and kiss it, and then suck and probe with my tongue; he shifts abruptly and his sobs become louder. And again he imitates me, pressing his tongue to my anus, eagerly. Then I move back and begin rhythmically to suck his phallus, and he follows suit. Only seconds later he gasps and I taste his semen in my mouth, and then I groan and spurt into his. I continue sucking till again he whimpers and stops me, and soon I stop his sucking too. Then I study his glistening glans, squeeze out the last drops of semen, lap them up, and rest my head lazily on his thigh, savouring the scent and the sight, pressing my gooey lips to his scrotum. We lie thus silent and lazy and loving till I remember reality. It must soon be time for him to go home. I pull him up beside me, and we lie side by side, our phalluses still hard, sticking out of our white underpants. We caress each other and snog, gooey tongues in hot and gooey mouths. He smiles lazily, fine strings of sperm glistening between his lips. 'I cannot believe you, Quentin... too gentle... too much love.' He plays with my foreskin, then raises his hand and strokes my face. 'Too beautiful... too lovely... perfect.' He stresses '--fect' instead of 'per-'. He looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 'You need to go home?' He nods quietly and then moves over and presses his face against my chest, cooing lightly. 'I want to stay here.' I stroke his silken hair. 'You know it must be secret.' 'I know....' He sighs dramatically: 'I must love a girl, I must marry, I must make children. Boys must love girls.' 'You have to pretend.' 'I know. My parents would die if they knew I am gay.' He sits up with desolate glistening face. 'I knew when I was ten.' He kisses me, looking down as he strokes my phallus. 'I was ten, and I kissed a boy. His name was Onur. I kissed him on the mouth, and I wanted to kiss him all over. I had a ten year-old erection. Then I knew.' He leans down and kisses my glans again, at the frenulum. 'I did not know about sex or love or fucking or the meaning of homosexual. But the way I wanted to touch him and smell him, and kiss him, I knew.' He rolls my foreskin between his lips. 'Better wash your face before you go home.' He laughs. 'I don't want to. I want to go home with my face full of sperma, smelling of sperma. This is me, Mummy.' He opens his mouth and proceeds to fellate me, more determined, slipping a finger through the leg to rub my anus. His hair's silken in my fingers. He's learned very quickly how to make love. Soon, I begin to gasp, and then he lays his head on my stomach and wanks me, aiming at his face. I cum three times and hear it splash onto his face. He raises his head and turns with a grin, gobs of sperm on his lips and nose, on his eyebrow. He squeezes out the remainder then smears it all over his face. 'Hello, Mummy, I am Tayfun, whom you say you love.' And we laugh. He bends down to kiss me. 'I am ravishing?' I lick his face clean. We snog and he rubs his face in my hair, moaning and whining. 'I love you, I love you, Quentin, I love you.' Is it me he loves, or the sensations? It is difficult to know. And now what? When I allow someone to love me, it entails a responsibility. It's his first time, so it's an enormous responsibility. If he was a girl, we could get engaged and marry, everyone would be pleased, he could even move into my school flat, but he's a boy, and it has to be secret. How will he cope? How shall we love? What heartbreaks await him? Me?   MORE, PLEASE, MORE The next day, we pass each other in the corridor, we both blush, not sure what to do. I turn to look at him, and he turns and catches my eye, pats his bum with his hand. We both smile and blush. In the commotion after assembly, he tells me he will come and see me Saturday morning. He is early again, and again I'm still asleep. I get up, slip on my underpants, open the door, and then slip under my sheets again. He's wearing his tight jeans and a striped T-shirt like a sailor. He sits on my bed and holds my hand, stroking my face. Then he goes out into the kitchen to make coffee. Again, he's brought pastries made by his mother. I bathe and return to find he has again stripped to his white schoolboy underpants, and breakfast ready for me. 'I am beautiful?' 'You are gorgeous.' He sits me down in the armchair and then sits on my lap, rubbing his bum against my crotch. 'I am gorgeous?' 'You are ravishing.' He throws his arms about my neck, we snog, and he hugs me, stroking my head. He nuzzles my shoulder, chanting: 'Eat me for breakfast. Eat me, eat me, drink my milk.... my delicious milk.' Again, we embrace, fondling each other, and then I drink coffee and eat pastries with him on my lap, his hand inside my fly, fondling my swollen crotch, playing with my foreskin. He rubs my perinaeum: 'Soft, so soft. So soft.' And he rests his head on my shoulder, his hair tickles. 'I've told Deniz.' 'Why?' His looks at me, beaming. 'I told him on Thursday. I was so happy, I had to tell somebody... sing like a bird. I can't tell my mother, I can't tell my sister. So I told Deniz, my oldest friend. I love him.... You know, he told me to try to love you. I was shy, but he encouraged me. Deniz was the... the catalysator.' 'Will he tell anyone?' 'No. He is my oldest friend. He wants my happiness.' He kisses me. 'He says I look very happy now. He says my face is like the sun.' 'Deniz is a nice boy.' 'He's not very clever, but he is good. You know? Good.' We embrace and then he pulls me over to the bed. He doesn't want to sixty-nine: 'I cannot see your face. I want to see you.' So I roll him back with his knees on his shoulders, pull aside the soft fabric between his legs, and rim him, while keeping eye-contact. He sobs with pleasure, caressing my head, his mouth ajar. When it seems he's had enough, I move up but he pushes me down: 'More, please; more, more.' I suck and probe, he sighs and moans, a big patch of pre-cum has stained his underpants, and once there's a big patch of my spit on the sheet, I pull down his underpants, suck his perinaeum and his balls and then proceed to fellate him. He's moaning and rubbing his hands round and round my head until he gives a deep gasp and shoots into my mouth, all the while keeping eye-contact. I savour the flavour of his sperm, squeeze out the last drops, and then suck him clean. I pull up his underpants and pull him over so we lie side by side. I'm perfectly content, but he insists that he must reciprocate. 'It's not need, I want to. I love you, Quentin! I want to love you!' And I watch in disbelief as he rims me and lovingly sucks me off, ever so often smiling at me with glistening lips. When I've cum, he plays with the semen in his mouth, pushing it out between his lips, and finally swallowing it with a big gulp and an exaggerated 'Aaah!' And then we lie side by side, legs entwined, kissing and caressing, his head on my chest. 'You are very different.' 'Sucking a boy's arse is different from what most men do in Turkey.' And he giggles. And we both giggle and giggle and giggle, and laugh out loud. 'You always make me laugh, Quentin.' 'It takes two to make someone laugh.' 'No, I mean you're so different from all the other teachers.... All the students say so. The other teachers don't talk to us as us, but you do. When you talk to us, we feel you want to hear us. The other teachers don't.' 'I'm sure some of them do.' 'Yes, but they talk to us like children.' 'You are children.' 'Yes, but you never make us feel like children. That's why so many pupils love you.' 'Why are you telling me this?' He raises himself onto his elbows, and looks down at me. 'I want to know why. You're the same age as the other teachers.' 'It's because I'm a free agent and I've never had children.... The other teachers are married, they have children, and that is a burden. Once they have children, they think they know everything. They take on a persona of responsibility and wisdom, and they make a wide gap between themselves and you. They don't see themselves in you anymore. They've forgotten their own youth.' 'I want you to fuck me, Quentin. In my aaaarse.' 'What?' And I giggle. 'I want you to fuck me in my aaaarse.' And I'm giggling uncontrollably. I hug him and kiss his hair and laugh. 'Gorgeous boy! Gorgeous boy!' And we lie quietly, he giggles into my chest. 'Please fuck me, Quentin.' 'We're talking and suddenly you ask me to fuck you. Out of the blue!' He grins slyly. 'Whenever I see you, I want you to fuck me. Whenever I lie here with you, I want you to fuck me. I don't care why the other teachers talk to us as children, I just want you to fuck me.' 'OK, this is obviously a serious matter. You've obviously given it some serious thought.' He giggles. 'No, I haven't given it serious thought, I just want you to fuck me in the aaarse! In the aaaarse!' And we both roll about laughing. 'Have you tried it before?' 'You are the first. I never did anything before.' 'Never?' 'I tried with Deniz but he did not want.' 'You tried to fuck him up the arse?' 'Noooo! I put my hand on his penis. On the beach.' 'Was he angry?' 'No. He said me he knew I loved him. He said he loved me, but only as a friend. Not sex.' 'Did you try again?' He laughs. 'I tried many times, in dreams.' 'Were you successful?' 'In dreams, I was always successful. We kissed and I masturbated him and he masturbated me.... I didn't know anything else.' 'You knew about fucking a boy up the arse.' 'Up the arse or in the arse? Which is correct?' 'Up the arse is better. Fucking a boy up the arse.' And again I giggle. And he giggles: 'Up the aaarse.' 'When did you know about fucking a boy up the arse?' 'Up the arse? Oh, I was maybe fifteen. I learned to masturbate, mm, wank, when I was twelve.' 'Who taught you to wank?' 'My cousin Volkan. He's two years older than me. We wanked each other.' 'Did you love him?' 'I liked the feelings, but I didn't like him. He wanted to kiss me, but I didn't want.' 'Who told you about fucking a boy up the arse?' 'Volkan told me some years later. A man in a park wanted to give him money to fuck him up the arse. Up the aaarse.' 'Did he?' 'He was afraid of Aids.' 'And you?' 'Me?' 'Are you afraid of Aids?' 'Yes.' 'I could have Aids.' 'You don't have Aids.' 'How d'you know?' 'You don't.' 'As a matter of fact, I had a test before I came to Turkey.' 'Have you had sex before me?' 'I'm thirty-two years old, what d'you think?' 'Many?' 'No, very few in fact.' 'Why?' 'I don't run after boys. I don't like men running after boys. I don't like men seducing boys. They have no respect for the boy. They just want to have sex.' 'So what do you do?' 'Nothing. If we have contact, I talk to the beautiful boy as a human being. I don't talk to him as a sex object that I want to fuck. I've never chatted anyone up in my life. I refuse to talk to anyone with the ulterior motive of having sex. I've loved boys who didn't know I loved them.' 'Then how does the boy know?' 'He doesn't. If he wants it, he'll let me know.... You let me know, didn't you?' 'I almost stopped.' 'Why?' 'Because you never did nothing. I did everything. It was so long till you said "What do you want?".' 'That was when you had done everything you could. You had reached the point where you no longer knew what to do, but still wanted to do it. Then, you see, it was not my seduction of you but your seduction of me.' 'Seduction?' 'Seduction is persuading someone to have sex with you. If a boy seduces a girl, he persuades her to have sex before they're married. Sometimes a man may seduce a younger girl or boy to have sex with him.' 'Seduce?' I nod. 'But you didn't seduce me?' 'That's what I was saying. You seduced me.' 'Why didn't you seduce me? You loved me?' 'Oh, yes, but I don't like it when the man seduces the boy. It has to come from the boy. And I have to be absolutely sure that he really wants to, and that he knows what he wants.' 'When were you sure I wanted to?' 'When you sat on the wall in your shorts, I wasn't sure. You could just be playing around. When you sat on my bed in your underpants, it was the same. Even when you showed me your hard-on, and kissed me on the mouth, I wasn't sure.' 'Sitting in my underpants was not my plan.' 'I thought it was. I thought you were very daring.' 'No, I wanted to put on my clothes, but you gave me coffee to drink. So I thought you wanted me like that.' 'I thought it was part of your seduction plan.' 'I did not understand you and you did not understand me.' He kisses me. 'Very lucky.' He giggles. 'Very sexy.' 'And showing me your erection?' He giggles. 'Oh, Quentin, I was so excited lying on your bed, and we talked about boys kissing and wanking and sucking and fucking. I wanted to shout: "Kiss me! Wank me! Suck me! Fuck me! Come on, pleeese!" but I was too nervous.... It was so exciting, because everything I did, everything I said, you didn't get angry and scold me. You only smiled and laughed.' 'So you wanted to see "How far can I go?".' He shrieks with laughter. 'Yes, yes. I was saying more and more crazy things, and you just smiled. That made me very excited.' He hugs me and we laugh. 'When were you sure?' 'When you sat on my knee, with an erection in your underpants.' 'That was not my plan. It was last second decision. Sitting on your armchair was my plan, on the arm. I sat down and I got excited. I thought, "Down on his knee.... Must do today or never."... Why did you know?' 'Because you were very quiet and shy.' He shrieks again. 'I was confused! Aaah! What to do now? What to do? Why he doesn't do anything?' 'Then you put your hand on my hand.' 'You remember? I wanted to put my hand on your penis, but I was afraid.' 'Aaah, Tayfun, you were so sweet and vulnerable. I knew you wanted to act but didn't know what to do.' 'True, true!' We embrace in silence. I listen to his breath, feel his chest rise and fall, his hair tickle, his lips on my neck, his buttocks on my thighs. I press my lips gently to his neck. Outside, a girl is calling: 'AyÅŸe! AyÅŸe!' He raises one arm and strokes my head, combing my hair with his fingers. Such intimacy is sweeter than any sex. I repeat the question quietly: 'What d'you want, Tayfun?' And he whispers: 'Love, Quentin. I want love.' And we both chuckle quietly. 'I want love, Quentin, up my aaarse.' And we giggle and hug tightly. 'Up my aaarse.' He takes my hand and pulls it back onto his arse, rubbing it between is buttocks, grinning all the while. 'My aaarse is lovely?' 'Ravishing, Tayfun.' 'Did you fuck another Turkish boy's arse?' I shake my head. 'I've been here two years. I haven't had sex in all that time. The shoeshine boy came up to me and said: "You want to suck big dick?" He made the first move.' 'He was ravishing?' 'Yes. Very. But I met him only once. So I don't know if he was so sweet as the ravishing Tayfun.' 'No other boy?' 'A younger boy in this school asked me if he could come to my flat at night.' 'Who?' 'I'm not telling.' 'Did you let him come?' 'No. I didn't answer him.' 'Why not?' 'He was very pretty. Is very pretty. He's old enough, but I don't trust him. He's tried several times to involve himself with me, but there's something corrupt about him. I'm sure if I had sex with him, he would blackmail me afterwards or do something else.... I don't like him, so even though he's very pretty, I don't want to have sex with him. D'you understand?' He nods. 'You loved the shoeshine boy; have you loved another boy too?' 'Yes, I have.' He smiles and squeezes my hand. 'Whom have you loved?' 'Sometimes I saw Deniz walking home with another boy.' He smiles and blushes. 'The first time I saw him, I fell in love. I thought he was beautiful. No, I thought he was ravishing.' His eyes twinkle. 'What was his name?' 'For a long time, I didn't know. But one day Deniz introduced him. His name was Tayfun.' He pulls himself up, strokes back my hair, and eyes inches from mine: 'Is it true? Are you just pretending? To make me happy?' 'No, Tayfun, it's true.' He kisses me. And we lie cheek to cheek in silence. I whisper: 'He was not as tall as Deniz, and more delicate. His face gentle and expressive, his hair brown and fine. His lips pouty and wet, always ready to smile and laugh. His hands also more delicate. His trousers were tight, and I could see his bum very clearly: small and beautiful. I imagined his bum, imagined that I would kiss his buttocks, spread them and suck his arse, make him sigh and moan with pleasure.' 'Would you fuck him?' 'Yes, gently fuck him and kiss his pretty mouth.' He sucks my ear: 'I want to make your dream come true.' He sits up and pulls off his underpants. He moves back and then pulls off my underpants. I'm lying down and manoeuvre his body round so he is on his knees arsy-versy, his arse in my face, and his face in my crotch, and then I rim him while he fellates me. We slurp quietly. It's so beautiful, it's lyrical. I press my face against his buttocks, kiss them, lick his perinaeum, snog his arsehole, savour the scent and fine texture. The only sound is our sobs and sighs. Then he giggles: 'Fuck me now, please.' And again he giggles: 'Up my aaarse, up my aaarse!' I manoeuvre him round so he kneels before me, his arse above my crotch. 'This is very important, Tayfun, lubricant. You can use Vaseline,' he nods knowingly, 'K-Y jelly, and butter. Spit is not very good. But you can also use pre-cum.' I squeeze pre-cum from his glans and apply it to his anus, again and again till my fingers slide easily in and out. He squeezes pre-cum from my glans and smears my phallus in it. And then I hold my phallus upright and he positions himself with his anus on my glans. He giggles nervously. 'No hurry, Tayfun, no hurry. Gently, gently.' And he presses his anus down. There is some resistance. He giggles again. 'I am too narrow?' 'Relax your anus, Tayfun. Relax.' He presses again, there is resistance, and then he just slides down with a deep sigh. He's all the way down. His rectum is intensely hot, and it grips my phallus like a vice. He is panting and I sit up and embrace him. He looks at me with half-closed eyes, smiling and moaning. 'Does it hurt?' 'No, no!' and he looks at me in wonder. He moans, looking down, feeling his anus, feeling my balls. He whispers, 'Aaaah!' He rests his forearms on my shoulders and snogs me wildly. Then he sits back on my phallus with a grin. 'I don't know what to do.' 'Slide up and down, Tayfun.' And he slides up and down, moaning, pressing his forehead into my neck, and then he's riding me gently and rhythmically. He gasps and gasps and then stops moving. He giggles into my neck. I caress the back of his head. 'Ejaculation! Automatic ejaculation.' He leans back and shows me gobs of sperm on his cheek, on his chest, running down his stomach. I lick his face clean and we snog and he whispers: 'I want to lie down; I want to lie down and you fuck me.' Slowly we roll over so he's on his back, his thighs about my waist, and we lie there, one above the other, looking at each other. He moans: 'Up my aaarse! Up my aaaaaarse!' And I fuck him slowly. He moans and groans, and we snog as my phallus slides in and out of his tight, hot, virgin arse. The sight of him naked beneath me, the sound of his sighs, his pretty face, and the intense sensation of his rectum clamping onto my phallus, brings me quickly to an orgasm. It is heart-wrenching, and I fear I'm having a heart attack. The spurt of sperm is so strong it stings, and I lose my breath entirely. Then I lie on top of him panting, and he purrs as we lie spent and hot and sweaty. He's gripping my penis with his arse. I reach down and rub his anus as it grips me. He whispers: 'Up my aaarse!' And he hugs me tightly about the neck, kissing my face, whispering: 'Up my aaarse! Up my aaarse!' He clenches his anus repeatedly. 'Now I understand.' 'What?' 'Now I understand why boys like being fucked up the arse. Up the aaarse.' I chuckle: 'You wanted it, so you did not resist. Then it's good.' We do not move till my phallus has shrunk a bit and slipped out. He is still as hard as ever. He asks me to bring the mirror, so he can look at his newly fucked arsehole. It is slightly puffy and he can wink it. 'Look!' He giggles as he opens and closes his arsehole. The eroticism of this gorgeous boy delightedly studying his arsehole makes me fully hard again, and he grips my slippery phallus, wanking it: 'Again, Quentin, again! Up my aaarse!' I put back the mirror, he pulls his knees back in a wide V, his arse open and inviting, and I slide in. This time I fuck him even more slowly, and it goes on for at least half an hour. He's moaning and groaning and sobbing and sighing, and hugging me, and kissing me and snogging me, and then: 'Faster! Faster!' I speed up, he wanks himself, and soon he gasps as he spurts onto his face and abdomen, and then I have my third breath-stopping orgasm.   SPECIAL LESSONS On Thursdays now, when his last lesson is gym, there is role play. I go home and await him. He runs from school to my flat, arriving hot, sweaty and out of breath. 'I am ravishing?' 'Yes, my sweet, dazzling.' He smiles and kisses me, and sits on the floor of the drawing room as he sat on the wall. When he's arranged himself, he calls. I walk in carrying my briefcase, and we greet each other as before. 'I am beautiful, Mr Quentin?' 'I need to see first, Tayfun.' And he asks: 'My face is beautiful, Mr Quentin?' And I come up close and lick the sweat off his face. 'Yes, Tayfun, your face is beautiful.' And he asks about his ears, his mouth, his neck, his arms, and hands, and when he asks about his armpits, he pulls back the sleeve to expose each, and I suck it dry. 'Yes, Tayfun, your left armpit is beautiful.' He lifts his shirt up so I can lick his chest and suck his nipples and his navel, and then his legs and his thighs. I spend a lot of time rubbing my face in his thighs. Then he pulls out his steelyard phallus through the leg of his shorts, and I suck and lick it. Then one testicle, then the other. Finally, he slides forward from the wall and rolls back to hold his thighs under his arms, and he pulls the shorts to one side, to expose his arse. 'My perinaeum is beautiful, Mr Quentin?' And I suck and lick his perinaeum. 'Yes, Tayfun, your perinaeum is beautiful.' And then his anus, which he wants me to suck for much longer, his feet resting on my shoulders, his sobs long and deep. Every now and then I suck his phallus clean of the pre-cum that is flowing down. Finally, he whispers 'Fuck me, Mr Quentin, please. Up my arsehole.' An important part of the game is that we both remain fully clothed, and he undoes my trousers, pulls my phallus out through my now very wet underpants, and then he smears my phallus with my pre-cum, while I squeeze pre-cum from his phallus and apply it to his anus, sliding two fingers in and out. Then I rub his anus with my glans penis, he moans and relaxes his anus, and I slide my phallus quietly into his rectum. He reaches out and holds my hips, and then we rock. I am still dressed, so there is only the swish of friction on fabric, and he sighs every time I slide in. As always, I watch in amazement as my glistening phallus slides in and out between his beautiful boy buttocks, as his phallus lies glistening and dripping on top of his shorts, as his pretty face watches me tenderly, sighing with glistening lips ajar. During this entire game, he every now and then calls out to an imaginary teacher passing by: 'Oh, hello, Ahmet Bey! Yes, special lessons. I am learning about parts of the body in English... by direct contact. It is called climactic English lessons.' He's very good at studying the dictionary for new words. And I call out: 'A very good student! Top marks!' We giggle and then resume our languorous lovemaking. I keep it slow and gentle in order to prolong it, but eventually the intense sensations bring me to an orgasm, and I gasp and groan as I spurt into his hot, tight rectum. Sometimes he splashes onto his T-shirt and face as I fuck him, sometimes he doesn't, but he always sobs and sighs. Panting and spent, I lean over and kiss his face and ears and ruffle my face in his hair, and then I withdraw. Ever agog I watch my swollen phallus slide out of his anus, shining with sperm, and at the moment of withdrawal, his anus is a perfect open circle. He's watching, and with a grin, he winks his arse. I squat down and suck the soaked fabric of his shorts, suck his glistening perinaeum, and rim his spermy anus. He's moaning and caressing my head, and then I move up and suck his phallus, two or three fingers squelching softly in and out of his stretched and dripping arsehole. There is no sound except the soft sucking of my mouth, his sobs, and the swish of his shorts. Very soon he gasps and holding my head in his hands, he fills my mouth with warm boy sperm, which tastes so fresh and almost sweet. I wish he could give me a pint or more. I suck him dry till he stops me and then we snog. He whines softly as his sperm swishes around our gooey tongues, and then we both swallow. Still whining softly he covers my face with sticky kisses and then we cuddle on my bed, me in my suit and tie, he in his shorts and T-shirt, and sighs and whispers, the scent of sperm and arse and spit and sweat. He strokes my head like a mother her child's: 'What shall I do? What shall I do?' The eternal lament of the homosexual beloved. Again and again he tells me he wants to wake up in the morning with my arms about him, he wants us to get dressed together, to have breakfast together, to walk about arm in arm, to sit on my lap with my arms about his waist. 'I want to be your beloved', 'But you are my beloved', 'Yes, but I want us to be beloved like my mother and father'. It cannot be. I've asked him not to say he loves me or to ask me to say I love him, for it makes it all the more painful. 'Just love, my dear, no words.' Often, as we cuddle, he hugs me, and whines like a forlorn puppy. Tayfun also gets a kick out of our swapping underpants, and my wearing his school uniform. A few times, I put on his gym clothes and he my suit and tie. Then I am the seductive schoolboy. But the end is different, because he insists that the seductive schoolboy then fuck the teacher up the arse. 'I want the fucking up my arse, not yours.' A few times, we go to the beach, and he complains that when he looks at the bulge in my Speedos, he gets a hard-on. 'I can't even read a book.' I tell him I don't have his problem, because I've spent years controlling myself. 'The most important thing is to control your eyes. If I look at your bum, I get a hard-on, so when I'm in public, I don't look at it.' 'Don't look at it at all?' 'Yes, but only a glance, no more.' 'Like a kiss. Not like a snog.' And we laugh. One time, we go back at dusk, and it's semi-dark in the bus. The bus is only half-full, and we sit at the back. Our swim trunks are wet in our bags, so we are bare underneath our jeans, and he slides his hand into my hip pocket and fondles my genitalia. I slide my hand down between his buttocks and fondle his anus. He leans over, raises his arse, and pretends to look out of the window. I spit on my finger and then probe his anus. He puts his hand in his pocket and moves it back to pull his buttock aside, giving me more access, and slowly I insert the first joint of my forefinger. He's rocking his hips, and my finger slides in and out, further and further into the soft, tight, mucous heat of his rectum. After a while, I slide in another finger, and for the next half-hour, he sits on my two wriggling fingers, his anus tightening and relaxing. He whispers: 'My crotch is wet.' 'So is mine'. When we disembark, we both hide our erections behind our bags. We take another bus back to my flat, but it is full. When we return home, he runs into my room, pulls down his jeans and kneels on the bed with knees wide apart, his hands spreading his buttocks. I kneel behind him and suck and rim his winking anus till he begs me to fuck him and as I slide my phallus in and out of his hot rectum, almost at once, he ejaculates. Then we topple over onto the bed, hot and panting. When we've caught our breath he turns his head and laughs: 'That was soooo sexy! The best!' Now he's forever begging me to fuck him, so I restrict it to three times a week. And I teach him to clench his anus many times a day, not to lose the tone. Sometimes, he complains: 'Nooo! We haven't done it three times!' And I list them, and he complains: 'Yesterday doesn't count, it was so fast!' Sometimes I relent, sometimes I don't. Sometimes, he creeps into my flat, strips, and crawls into my bed without waking me up. And we spend the day dozing in one another's arms, moaning quietly as we cuddle, without any sex, not even a kiss. These are the sweetest times of all, but few. One Saturday morning, he arrives as always with breakfast. He strips to his underpants and then tells me he needs to piss. I sit up and tell him to come over. I pull his phallus out of the fly. It is not yet swollen. 'Into my mouth, Tayfun. Piss into my mouth.' Obediently he inserts his flaccid penis into my mouth. 'Slowly Tayfun', and I hold it in my mouth, he holds my head gently in his hands, and lets the warm piss flow and I swallow. I swallow it all, not a drop is spilt. It is almost tasteless, slightly sweet only. I am completely aroused and hard. When he is finished, he is hard and I proceed to fellate him. He caresses my head as he sobs and sighs, and then ejaculates into my hot mouth. After this, he regularly pisses into my mouth. 'D'you want the golden tea of Tayfun?' And I drink his warm piss. Sometimes it is tasteless, sometimes it is a little acrid, sometimes it is sweet. According to ancient Indian medicine, it is healthy to drink a healthy young boy's piss. Sometimes, he lies down on his stomach, with a pillow under his hips, legs spread, and I spend what seems ages kissing and caressing his bum, sucking and licking and probing his arse. It is perhaps his favourite activity. His sighs become moans become groans. When I begin, he lies still, then begins to shift his head, and then his body, and then he squirms about as he groans. 'Why do you like sucking my bum?' 'Maybe it's for the same reason that you like my sucking your bum. I don't know, but I think a boy's bum is the most erotic part of his body. I like to suck his dick and have him cum in my mouth, but there is something much more erotic about his bum. I don't know why. It's the most intimate act of all. I'm a real bumsucker.' And I explain that a bumsucker is the word for a sycophant. 'Like elephant?' I laugh out loud. 'Yes, like elephant.' And he looks the word up in the dictionary. There is 'sycophant' but not 'bumsucker'. I show him the word in my dictionary. I also show him 'arse-licker'. 'Quentin the bumsucker, the arselicker; the elephant.' Another day, I tell him about how I read Winnie the Pooh as a boy, and about the heffalump. 'Quentin the bumsucker heffalump.' After this, he calls me Heffalump. One day, he lies on my desk fully clothed, and pushes his jeans and underpants down to his ankles. Then he leans back against the wall, his arms holding his knees back against his shoulders, his feet in the air, shoes and socks and jeans and underpants still on, his hands spreading his buttocks, stretching his anus, exposing the winking pink tissue. It's the sexiest sight I have ever seen, and gleefully I sit on my chair and kiss and suck and rim his anus. He wants me to rim him for an hour with eye contact. He times it on a clock, between moaning and groaning and sobbing and sighing, pre-cum flowing down his phallus, till there's a pool on the floor of my spit and his pre-cum. His anus quivers and is wet, and when the hour is up, he says: 'Quick, quick, Heffalump, fuck me. Fuck me! I can't wait!' And I stand up, feverishly undo my trousers, pull them down, pull down my underpants, and then slide my dripping phallus in to the hilt, and he rests his feet on my back, his bunched up trousers resting on the back of my neck. After only a few thrusts he gasps and cums violently on his own face, in his own hair, and on his shirt. Almost at once, I gasp as if in suffocation, and groan almost painfully as I shoot again and again up his hot, tight rectum. I lean forward, burying my face in his neck, and we lie there panting as if possessed. My phallus slides out and I manoeuvre myself down into a crouching position, and lap up the cum that trickles out of his arse, lick and suck his crotch clean. Then I lift him up and carry him over to the bed, and climb over him and place my glistening phallus on his half open mouth. He looks up at me and grins, and then sucks my phallus clean of cum and his own anal juices. It is the first time he sucks my phallus after buggery. And then we snog, and I lick his face clean. Again we cuddle fully clothed. 'Why do I love so much anal sex? Even when I was a young boy, I put my fingers inside.' 'Because the way to a boy's heart is through his arsehole, Tayfun.' And we giggle and laugh like schoolboys.   HEFFALUMP It is nineteen years since I left Turkey, I'm sitting in a transit café in Frankfurt airport, and hear the unlikely epithet: 'Heffalump.' There he is before me, Tayfun grinning like a Cheshire cat. 'I am beautiful?' I stand up and tears rush to my eyes. I cannot answer, just tears. We hug and kiss in the socially accept ¬able way. I drop into my chair, and pull out my handkerchief, tears streaming down. He smiles lovingly and rubs my knee under the table. 'I am beautiful?' 'Still beautiful, Tayfun,' I croak, 'still beautiful.' He is. Not as spectacular as he was, but still gorgeous, still the fine features, the flowing hair as thick as ever (down to his shoulders now), and thank God no Turkish moustache. 'I remember you, Heffalump, every day. I love my sons more than everyone in the whole world. I love my wife, but every day I want you sleeping by me.' 'You are frequently in my mind, Tayfun. It was the sweetest time of my life.' I tell him his picture is on my desk. 'Which one?' 'On the beach.' 'In my Speedos? You can see my bum and everything?' 'No.' I shake my head. 'Just your head, leaning on your hand. Your hair is wet, your face is wet, and you're smiling. You have sand on your nose.' That's what I remember of him. The sweet smile, the innocent delight. 'That's not a sexy picture!' 'It was not the sex I loved, Tayfun. It was you.' He looks at me with a soft smile. 'You always liked to cuddle more. I was too young to understand. Too hot.' He strokes my damp cheek with the back of his fingers. 'Now I understand, you know? Now I understand.' And he shows me pictures of his sons. They have the same delicate features and luscious lips. 'I had a big fight with my father and mother. Either you are Muslims pretending to be atheists, so you are liars, or you will not ask me to circumcise my sons.' 'Who won?' He grins. 'They have not been mutilated. The first sons of Turkish atheists who are not mutilated.' He looks round. 'My flight is boarding, Heffalump. I must run.' Hurriedly, he pulls out his wallet and extracts a business card and puts it on the table. 'Write to me, Heffalump. I miss you. Too much.' And he kisses me on the cheek, and runs off. He turns to see me watch him walk away. He raises his jacket and pats his bottom. Still the shapely bottom unique to boys. Again I see the ravishing schoolboy grin at me from down the school corridor.