Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2019 05:15:17 +0000
From: Derek HERFORTH <pacificrimshot@hotmail.com>
Subject: Learning the basics, from a sexpert: 1

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Learning the Basics, from a sexpert: 1

Time: early 1960s

Place: a large city in the American midwest, with the standard (for the
period) black ghetto; daily life still largely segregated for most
residents of both races

Characters: Kent (writing in the first person), white, just turned 16;
Rodney, black, 37


Coming across the park on my way to the bus stop, I spotted a lone guy some
distance away, jogging towards me. I'd just finished my Sunday morning job
at the VA Hospital's inter-faith chapel, where my uncle was Chaplain, and
this was the route, across the park, I always took to get home in time for
lunch. As the jogger approached, I could make out he was black and going at
a pretty good pace. Jogging must have been something he did regularly. Not
sure quite what it was, but something got me to sit down on a stone bench
so I could watch him as he approached then ran past me.

I guess what happened was, I probably stared at him just a little too long,
and that got him to decrease his pace and lope past me more slowly, taking
a look at me as he went by. The weather had begun to warm up, but he was in
a track suit; a mid-April morning was not yet the season to be outside in
shorts here in my Midwestern hometown.

As he loped by, one thing was abundantly clear, even to me, who'd just
turned 16: he was obviously free-balling, running commando in those jogging
pants, where I could see a lot of internal movement. He gave me a curious
look, a half-smile, as he passed, went on about 50 yards down the path,
turned round and headed back towards me.

I guess I must have been watching him pretty intently as he approached the
second time; he took note, slowed down and came to a halt in front of
me. Nobody else was anywhere around.

"Hey, good morning! What brings you out here so early on a Sunday morning?"

It was actually about 10:45, not that early at all for a lad who'd done a
morning paper route before he'd started his present job at the Chapel. I
could not help scanning him up and down, as he stood there just a few feet
away. And yeah, there was something clearly outlined in the left leg of his
joggers -- what I'd seen bouncing around the first time he ran past. Afraid
he might notice, I didn't leave my eyes there too long.

"I'm on my way home from work – heading for my bus stop."

He was short-haired and `stached, about 5'9", so not that much taller than
myself. His skin was quite dark, almost ebony in hue, his features
finely-sculpted, an especially superb nose with sensuous nostrils. In
build, he was solid, broad-shouldered, but at the same time gave the
appearance of being a bit lanky, a look regular jogging no doubt helped him
retain. He might have weighed in at 170 lbs. of very solid male, I guess.

"Ah, I see. You live up the hill?"

He was referring to the all-white suburbs which started a couple miles up
the road, up from the basin where the park was located, on land between the
university district and the eastern fringe of the ghetto.

"Yup, I live up there and come down here to help my uncle out every Sunday
morning. And you?"

"Home on a family visit. I live in New York now, where I work for a
newspaper, but I've come back to where I grew up for a big family
wedding. And what does your uncle do?"

"He's the Chaplain at the Inter-faith chapel in the VA Hospital, over
there," I gestured.

I cast another glance at his loins – yup, still there and pretty damn
obvious. In my naivete, I started out by assuming he was totally unaware
that he was "showing" big-time. But that impression changed when I saw that
he noticed, every time I took a quick look in that direction. His eyes were
on my eyes a lot.

"Ah, so it's kind of like going to church for you, is it?"

"Not really. It's just a job. I help him set up before and take down after,
pass the collection plate around – stuff like that."

"I see", he said, seating himself beside me. "You don't mind chatting here
for a bit? Or do you have to run?"

"Naw, as long as I'm home for lunch ..."

"Ah, and when's that?"

"Bout 12:30"

"We have some time then."

"Uh-huh"

We got into conversation on various topics: my school life, his growing up
and schooling in a very different part of that same city, then, his
"escape", as he called it, to New York seventeen years ago, when he was
20. He'd been back a number of times since, of course, but had never lived
here again, hadn't even made it a regular practice to revisit around the
holidays or anything. He was not, he said, a "family man, not really that
family-oriented at all".

"I feel kind of detached from people here," he remarked, "always have, I
think. I have a very different kind of life in New York, one I know my
folks here would not appreciate. When I come home to visit them, I have to
kind of hold back, keep myself on a leash, if you know what I mean."

"Great that you could get away then," I offered, warming to the idea of
moving away from home. "I'd love to go to college somewhere a long way from
here, frankly – maybe for some of the same reasons. You know, treat it
like a total life adventure, as well as my higher education, of course."

"I think I know exactly what you mean; was already feeling that way myself
at your age, I'd say."

His speech was gentle, educated, persuasive, almost as if he was working on
drawing me to him, getting my trust, confidence.

His hand went to his crotch, where he "straightened things out" for a few
seconds. I could not help looking over at what he was doing there. Again,
he did not fail to pick up on my line of sight.

"How long does it take you to get home from here?"

"Bout 20 minutes, once I get on a bus"

"Ok, I promise I won't keep you one minute past 12 noon, if you'd like to
come to a coffee shop with me so we could continue our conversation a
little."

"Sounds ok; how far's the coffee shop?"

"Just over there, on the edge of the park."

We sauntered on over, continuing to chat with ease. He was full of topics
he knew would be of some interest to me, having judged my intellectual
level accurately ("advanced", for a fresh 16 year-old), but he also offered
information about his life and career in New York without me even asking
for it. I lapped it up, and followed up by asking for details, keeping up
my side of the conversation, displaying my interest. Under the
circumstances, as they were to evolve that morning, I was sending him all
the right signals.

The gent was well-spoken, could easily have been on a newspaper desk, I
decided, as either a journalist or an editor. He might also have made an
excellent instructor, or counsellor, I thought, at high school-level:
laid-back, insightful, sympathetic, good listener ... exceptional at
explaining things to a boy my age, I found, as we got deeper and deeper
into conversation. To me, he exuded worldly expertise in a number of areas,
one of which, not yet obvious from our conversation, he would display,
masterfully, before that day we first met was done.

[After I got to know him and his predilections, I sometimes fantasized
about him as a counsellor in a big boy's-only high school, student
population 85% white. Once when I mentioned this fantasy to him, he
guffawed: "Way, w-a-y too much temptation! I'd not have lasted a single
semester there, not to mention, the whole set-up would have been an easy
road to prison for me! I'm much better looking after myself and my
interests than being in a job that throws them in my lap, literally!"

"But it's only a fantasy, one in which I see you having free access to as
many white teen boys as you feel you need, that's all."

"Appreciate the thought, Kent. It does sound pretty hot to you, I bet."

"It sure does! But not to you?"

"I could get into it, Kent, w-a-y into it, I assure you!"]

The shop we entered was still only about half-full that memorable Sunday
morning. As we'd walked from the park in the direction of the ghetto, the
clientele was mixed, about 50/50 -- an atmosphere I'd never experienced in
all my 16 years. I immediately somehow liked the feel, the variety of
people gathered there in that one space.

Soon as we seated ourselves in a booth almost all the way towards the back
(chosen by my companion) and ordered – coffee for him, juice for me –
he excused himself to use the men's, taking his small sports bag with
him. When he returned and before he sat down, I couldn't help noticing he
was very nicely "pouched out", much enlarged and "concentrated", compared
to the way I'd seen him in the park, dangling down one pant-leg. No gross
tent or anything, just a very solid, well-rounded bulge at the crotch,
pretty obvious, if you were looking directly at him, which I was.

In my own young mind, I guessed maybe that increase in size might have
happened naturally when he'd been pissing; or maybe he actually had
"fluffed up" a bit at the urinal before he rejoined me. In any case, as
there were no staff nearby, he took his time before he sat down opposite
me, giving me plenty of time to check his mid-parts out, which I did, and
which, once again, he noticed me doing. Without even thinking too much
about it, I gawked, bug-eyed, at him there, thereby giving him, I think,
full satisfaction.

(Later, when I asked him about it, he told me what he'd done in the men's:
pissed, then taken his runners off and squeezed himself into the jockstrap
he was carrying in his bag. That's what made him look so different from the
"commando dangle", he'd shown me earlier. When I heard him explain his
strategy, I realized how many "tricks" this man had "in his bag", "up his
sleeve". He was clearly a past master in sussing out exactly why a white
teen boy might be showing some interest in him.)

"I'm Rodney, by the way." The self-introduction came a bit late, given that
we'd already been talking for about half an hour. He extended his hand,
which I shook as warmly as I knew how.

"I'm Kent; pleased to meet you, Rodney!" my voice quivering a bit with the
newness of all that was now going on between us, including the vibe that
he'd begun to set up by exhibiting himself a bit to me. I'd never had so
much as even a brief conversation with a black gent before, and, so,
talking to Rodney felt quite exhilarating, somehow.

[Looking back on the experience, I'm pretty sure Rodney sensed from the
outset I was "too young" (by certain legal standards, at least). I'd
actually had my 16th b'day just a week before, though people did tell me I
looked a bit older than my age. Rodney, come to find, was easily smart
enough, sexperienced enough with teen boys not to want to catch me
off-guard by asking about my age directly, thereby encouraging me to lie.

On a later occasion, Rodney confided to me that my young age, coupled with
my mature behaviour and speech, was probably the thing that had drawn him
to me most. After talking to me a short while, he said, he'd sensed in his
gut that I was a white boy who could "safely be made" (he meant "taken to
bed") without any risk to himself, in spite of my chronological age. (I
later learned that Rodney was pretty adept at spotting the sort of mid-teen
boy I was myself at barely 16.)

"A white boy in his mid-teens who doesn't scare off, bolt away, but will
persevere in reasonably intelligent, extended conversation with a black man
like myself, a white boy like that is practically asking for it – my
special attention", he joked. We both laughed, as I felt I could hardly
agree with him more.]

"I know we talked about getting you on a bus by 12 noon, but let me ask you
something: what do you have planned for the afternoon?"

"Not a whole lot, actually. I have nothing special on at school tomorrow
– no tests or assignments due. My weekend homework's all done, in fact."

"Hmm, if I let you go home for lunch, you think you could get out again
later? I'd really like you to come over and see my place, if you're ok with
that. You could come by for a while, have a look around the place I'm
staying at while I'm here."

"Not sure. How far is it?"

"Five minutes by cab from where we are now; we could even walk from here,
of course, but I'd rather not. I'm a ways into the ghetto."

"You mean you'd meet me here later and take me there?"

"Sure thing; the easiest way"

 "Ok, I'm not hurting for time here, but that sounds kinda
complicated. Anyways, I'd have to call home to let them know," I said,
suddenly shifting gears mentally.

"Know what?"

"Just that I won't be home til later, not to expect me for lunch"

I felt I was in the lead, for once, suggesting something to him that would
hint at my interest, my availability.

"I see. So you think maybe we might have lunch together? – nice! You're
a good boy. You want to call them from here?"

"It's just the way I was brought up – good or bad, I can't say. Sure;
I'll use the pay phone over there."

"You have the right change?"

[checking] "Yeah, I do."

I made a brief call home, spoke to my big sister, telling her I was going
from work to a class-mate's house to study together for a test the next
day. His Mom would feed me lunch, but I'd be home for dinner. I made sure
Rodney could hear my side of the conversation. When I got back to the
table, he was beaming.

"So when do you have to be home?"

"I told them I'd be back for dinner."

"Excellent! I'm going to get us some lunch here to go – they do decent
sandwiches – then we can split, head home, to my place."

Before we hailed a cab, there was one additional stop. Rodney asked me to
wait on the sidewalk, while he popped into a liquor store. He soon
reappeared with two paper bags, a bottle in each.

"Wine for home", he declared.

"`For home'? You don't water the plants with it, do you? Do I get any?"

"Shh, smart-ass white boy; maybe you do, if you think you're up for it, but
then only if you really want to try some", he whispered in
response. "You're coming to my home, after all, no? You ask me, I'd say
that's a pretty smart-ass thing to do, white boy!"

I giggled, and he answered that with a wink. I felt sure he realized I was
too young to be drinking, but this was the first time the issue of my age
had even been hinted at between us, on either side. It felt taboo, and
rather sexy, to me. Rodney sounded like he was more than willing to treat
me like the big boy I'd been longing to become since I was 14. To me, part
of that willingness was letting stuff happen at his place, like
wine-drinking, even before I became a "big boy" legally.

At this point in the proceedings, I have to confess, I still had barely the
vaguest idea of what he actually had in mind for me, at his place.

In less than ten minutes, we'd arrived. Rodney had the cab driver go all
the way up the driveway so that we got out right near the back door of the
house, avoiding getting spotted by neighbours on the street out front.

Rodney let me into a small basement apartment.

"This is where I'm staying for the short time I'm here", he explained.

The family affair he'd come back from New York for, a double wedding, had
attracted so many relations from hither and yon, no one local had room to
put him up, not even on a sofa. And since he was single, he'd been left to
his own devices. That's when he turned to a local high school buddy who was
in real estate; that friend had found him free accommodation in the
basement unit of an empty house for rent ... He was free to stay there the
week he was in town.

It was pretty small, and not recently redecorated or refurnished: a
bedroom, with a kitchen unit, hotplate, sink, etc., in one corner,
bath-toilet through a door-less doorway. In the whole place, only the
shower fixture looked fairly recent.

Sitting ourselves down on the couch, Rodney took out our sandwiches. We bit
into them before he remembered, got up and brought two glasses from the
corner kitchen. A bottle of cheap California red was produced from one of
the bags, and I was poured a half-glass.

"Ever drunk wine before?"

"Not a lot, but my Dad sometimes lets me taste his, just a sip, when he has
a glass at Sunday dinner, usually red for him. Mom has sherry beforehand,
or white with."

"You like it?"

"Well, am getting more used to it now that I'm a bit older; still goes to
my head some, though."

"I see; well, let's be careful today then."

"It's fine, Rodney. I'm sure I'll be ok with it. I'm sixteen now, as of
last week."

"Aha, a man of the world already, I see. All the same, I'm not going to let
you get drunk on my temporary property here, ok? That could be a bit tricky
for both of us, but especially for me, you understand?"

"How so? ... Ah, oh, I see; yeah, I guess so. I'll behave; you'll see!"

Rodney smiled, patted me on the thigh.

"Go ahead, lad. Drink up with me!"

I took in a full mouthful of the wine and gulped it down, encouraged by
Rodney's obvious willingness to see me as a young adult, capable of
handling alcohol. I noticed he kept watching me, intently.

We munched on the sandwiches, which were, in fact, pretty good, chatting
about this and that, more about our high school lives and such. I took a
swig from my wine glass every couple of bites. Rodney was watching ... and
refilled the glass as soon as I'd emptied it.

Even before I started on that second glass, I felt the wine getting to me,
the air around us, the room starting to feel a bit warm ... If I'd been at
home alone, I'd have taken something off, probably my shirt.

"Have you got any aircon down here, Rodney?"

"'Fraid not, my boy. Why? Are you starting to feel a bit warm?"

"Yeah, probably partly the wine too, I guess."

"Why not undo your shirt some? You are buttoned up in a white shirt, you
realize."

"Yeah, good idea. This is how I have to dress for that job in the VA
Hospital Chapel every Sunday morning. My uncle's the Chaplain, did I tell
you? He got me the job. I help him with the collection and stuff."

I undid the top four buttons of my white shirt, revealing the tank top I
had on underneath. Rodney stole a glance inside my shirt for a second, then
averted his gaze when I seemed to notice.

 "Yes, you mentioned he was the Chaplain. How long have you been helping
him out?"

"Well over a year now."

"Oh, so you started when you were 14? Has it been a good experience one
hundred percent of the time? Or has anything unusual ever happened on the
job, you ever made to feel uncomfortable doing it?"

"Well, sometimes, yeah, but it can be a bit embarrassing to talk about."

"Really, how so?"

"Well, some of those veterans are still mighty horny, I can tell you, in
spite of their age. I've learned through experience which ones, though. Of
course, not all of them are that old either. There are younger guys who
come in for various procedures, and get horny from having to stay in
hospital a few days."

"Of course, veterans can be of any age, starting in their twenties, no?"

"Yeah, there are a few younger men around, but most of them are 50-plus,
I'd say."

"Have you told you uncle about them – the ones who embarrass you?"

"No way! -- too shy, embarrassed to tell him stuff like that. Anyway, some
of them are his faithful congregation members, so I wouldn't want him to
get upset with them."

"I see. But why would he get upset? How have they embarrassed you?"

"They chat me up, ask me all kinds of questions, usually about horny
stuff. At first, when it started way last year – I was only 14 – it
kind of shocked and embarrassed me, so I tried to ignore them, but a couple
of them kept coming back with questions. They weren't mean or anything; in
fact, they were pretty nice, would chat me up and then the conversation
would gradually turn smuttier and smuttier. After I while I just started to
expect it from a few of them, got more used to it, I guess."

"Are you more comfortable answering their questions now, or do you still
try to avoid them?"

I'm ok with it. After all, I figure it's really not much different from
chatting about smutty stuff with my buddies, which is something we do a
lot, all the time."

"Ok; so what kind of things do these veterans like to ask you?"

"About my cock, of course, how often I beat off, when did I start cumming
– wet, I mean – when and how did I first learn to masturbate, smutty
stuff like that."

"Ok, sounds pretty harmless to me."

"Yeah, it is. I've even started not minding it, getting asked that stuff by
older men. It makes me feel like I'm all grown up, mature, talking with
them about that kind of thing."

"Well, I'm sure that's how they want you to feel. After all, they were all
just 14, 15 once, eager as you were and are now to grow up and be
recognized by others as an adult male, no longer a boy, no?"

"Guess so. I like it better now that they take an interest in such stuff,
hearing it from me, cos it means they realize I'm old enough to jack off a
lot, have a big dick for my age, and have been wet-cumming since before my
11th birthday -- stuff like that.

When I told one guy I first cummed wet four years before I was telling him,
he called me a "fuckin' early bloomer" and gave me a $5 bill, asking me to
put it into the collection plate for him when it came along. I think he was
kind of saying I could keep the money for myself, if I wanted to."

Rodney was smirking. "Yes, seems he was offering you that choice. What did
you do with it?"

"Oh, I was still only 14 at the time, last year, and I was afraid my uncle
might somehow find out, so I put it in the plate. Not so sure I would do
that now, though."

"So you're ok now with them taking an interest in you and your young sex
life?"

"Yeah, I don't mind talking smut with them now, kinda look forward to it
every Sunday, almost like it's part of my job there, at least for the
smutty ones. At least a couple of them are there every week to chat with
me."

Rodney was smirking again. "And what would you say to me taking a similar
interest in your and your smutty stuff."

"It's all cool, Mr Rodney, man. Guess maybe that might be one of the
reasons I'm here with you now, no?"

"Could be, could well be, could very well be, young Kent. Nice way of
putting things"

 We'd both continued sipping away at the wine, but I wasn't feeling any
cooler – in fact, the opposite.

"You're doing pretty well holding your liquor there. Is it cooling you off
a bit now?"

"No, not at all. Would you mind if I take off my shirt for a bit. I've got
a tank-top on underneath so it should be ok."

"Yeah, I noticed the tank-top earlier, and it's true, red wine does *not*
to cool you down, in my experience. You need any help getting out of your
shirt?"

Without waiting for a reply, Rodney reached over and started unbuttoning
the remaining buttons. When they were all undone, he arranged the two front
panels of my shirt on either side of my trunk, displaying my young torso in
the tank-top. I heard him take his breath in, as if he were enjoying the
view, or was about to say something.

"There, is that any better?"

"Yeah, some, but my armpits and back are feeling a bit sweaty. I bet it's
the wine, cos it's not really that warm in here, is it?"

"No, it isn't, Kent. If we take your shirt off, we're going to have to
watch you don't catch a chill."

"I think I'll be ok in the tank-top, thanks. Could you help me get this
shirt off? It's kind of sticking to me."

Deftly, Rodney helped Kent out of his shirt, in the process catching a
glimpse of the boy's lightly-haired armpits: the hair pretty sparse, very
soft, silky, the moisture making it curl and mat together a bit. For all
his apparent maturity in other areas, Kent's pit-hair was obviously quite
recent, a sight that Rodney enjoyed enormously. There was no hair on the
boy's trunk anywhere else Rodney could see at that point, just the bit in
his pits.

"Turn your back to me, boy; I want to see if you're perspiring
there. ... Yeah, you're not sweating heavily, but your skin is moist. Let
me get a towel and rub you down."

"Man, I sure would appreciate that, Rodney! Feels so warm in here!"

When Rodney stood up, it was very clear that he'd become quite aroused
sitting next to me, helping me with my shirt. The crotch-bulge was even
more obvious than it had been at the coffee shop, and the wine I'd taken in
encouraged me to gawk at his mid-body without the slightest sense of
shame. I could see Rodney did not fail to notice that, even though he
quickly walked away, towards the bathroom to fetch a towel.

When he returned, I could enjoy the view of his enlarged crotch-bulge
full-on – he sure looked to me like he had a lot of plumbing!

Rodney sat himself back down on the couch and had me stand up, between his
spread thighs, so he could dry my back. From his seated position he had no
trouble reaching up to my shoulders; I'm only 5'8", after all. He started
with the nape of my neck, then my shoulders, but then he stopped.

"Might be a good idea if we got you out of your tank-top."

"Ah, ok ... "

One of Rodney's hands came round my front to get hold of the bottom hem of
the tank-top; his other hand was at my back. Slowly, he stripped me of the
garment, taking it gently up and over my head, my back still turned to him.

He then went back to dabbing me dry with the towel, gradually moving lower
and lower, regularly shifting the section of the big bath-towel he was
using, so it was always dry and absorbed the moisture the wine had got my
skin to exude.

"Rodney, do you think I might be allergic to wine or something?"

"I doubt that, seriously. You've only started drinking the stuff and I bet
your young body just needs some time and repeated exposure to get used to
it, just like it needs exposure to lots of different things, experiences it
may not know how to deal with the first time round."

"Like what?"

"Well, different foods, even different things we put on our skin, like
toiletries, different things we may choose to smoke, for example. Same goes
for sexual experiences too, I think. A girl may not feel all that
comfortable the first time a male mounts her. It can take the body time to
learn new skills, I think, how to deal with new challenges."

"Hmm, I get it. I'm glad I'm probably not allergic to alcohol, especially
at this young age."

"Well, you don't strike me as young as most boys your age."

"Really? How do you mean?"

"I can tell you, there aren't many 16 year-old white boys who'd be here at
my place with me after meeting me for the first time just a couple hours
ago. I'd say you're pretty adventurous, far beyond your years."

"I guess maybe that's true."

"So why would you say you're here, Kent? How do you explain it?"

"Just curiosity, I guess -- hard to explain. I've never gotten into
conversation with a black gentleman before."

"Sure, I can understand that, but that doesn't mean you end up at his
place, does it?"

"Guess not. You think it's ok that I'm here, or is it pretty unusual?"

"I'm totally ok with it; otherwise, you wouldn't be here, I can assure
you. Guess I just wasn't really expecting it from a boy here at home in the
midwest ... In New York, though, it can happen from time to time."

"Hm, I see ..." Rodney did not elaborate further.

With his drying, Rodney had reached the small of my back, every square inch
above had been towelled off, and his towel was now coming in contact with
my belt.

"You want to lower your slacks a bit, so I can make sure we get all the
moisture? If you got a bit wet above, I bet it'll be the same down below,
no?"

"Sure feels like it," I said, as I unbuckled my belt, then unbuttoned and
unzipped myself. I liked the concern and consideration Rodney was showing,
and the fact that he seemed to be enjoying the interaction himself.

I slipped my dress chinos down to my thighs, leaving my briefs in place.

"Want to take your briefs down just a bit for me? Just pretend I'm your GP
for sweat issues, ok?"

"Good one, Rodney!"

In response, I pulled them about halfway down my butt, leaving them
covering my privates in front, which Rodney, from his position behind me,
could not see in any case.

At first, for a minute or two, it continued to be all about towelling,
gentle wiping and dabbing with the terrycloth. But then, Rodney put the
towel aside, and I felt his hands on my upper buttocks, stroking across
them, smoothly, then light-pressure massaging.

"Just checking to see if I got all the moisture here, Kent ... The towel's
not that big, and I've used most of it already."

"This going to help me cool down, Rodney?", I asked, facetiously.

"Probably not, I'd say. You ever been touched like this before, here?"

"Yeah, there's an older boy, in high school now, who's massaged me a few
times, starting when I was 13."

"He does that often?"

"Not really; it's happened a few times -- probably not as much as he'd
like."

"And you'd not like him to do that more often?"

"I would; I'm totally ok with it, like it, in fact. The way he does it,
it's a lot better than just beating off ... But it's not easy to arrange,
especially now that we're in different schools. He's a year ahead of me."

"Good to know you're not disgusted, or ever skittish about it."

"Naw, as I say, he makes it fun."

"Nice! How did you get started with him?"

"When he was still in junior high with me, he saw me in the showers one day
after PE. I was in 7th grade, had just come in from elementary school, my
first year. He was in 8th. He chatted me up, we became buddies, kind of.

I've always enjoyed attention from older boys, and one day we were fooling
around in our skivvies and he asked me if I'd ever had a massage. I hardly
knew what that was, so I let him demonstrate. He told me his Dad sometimes
took him for a "child-massage" when his Dad went to a
physio-therapist. John got me to take my underpants off and then he did me,
completely."

"How do you mean `completely'?"

"Rubbed me all over nice, then jacked me off when he saw I'd gotten
hard. Told me I had a very fine cock; that's what he'd spotted in the
showers that day."

"I see; and so you started getting regular massages?"

"Not so often, cos it's hard to arrange, with our two families, time n
place ... you know"

"Yes, I think I do. And have the massages stayed more or less the same?"

"No, for a couple years now he's been sucking me off at the end, when we
can get together. I do like that a lot; it's very satisfying, the way he
does it."

"I see. So the first time you got sucked off you were maybe fourteen?"

"No, thirteen, maybe thirteen and a half ... don't really remember. He was
almost fifteen."

"Ah, very nice for you. ... So I can continue here?"

I nodded in response, in response to which Rodney's fingers slid just under
the waistband of my briefs to gain access to the mid-section of my
buttocks.

"Why don't we get you out of these?, he asked, clearly referring to the
briefs.

As I made no move, he slid them down for me, so they again fit back inside
my chinos, still held up by my somewhat splayed thighs. It was my turn to
take the initiative; bringing my thighs together some, i let both chinos
and briefs drop together all the way down to my ankles, then leaned over at
the waist to work my feet free of their encumbrance. This opened up my
butt-crack, of course, more or less right in Rodney's face. Thinking back,
it's pretty amazing that he had the self-control to refrain from touching
me there immediately, except with his breath. I could feel him exhaling; it
felt so close to my butt-crevice, his face can't have been more than a
couple of inches away. A few low grunting sounds came from somewhere deep
inside him. He must have liked what i was showing him.

My feet free of the slacks and briefs, I stretched myself up straight again
He patted me gently on the lower cheeks. His touch was very nice.

"You ok with turning around here and letting me see you, Kent?"

One 180-degree revolution put my throbbing, 7.5" ramrod of a penis almost
in his face. It was already oozing pre-, a couple of sizable drops of my
crystal-clear goo having made their way from the slit down to the underside
of my glans and the super-sensitive frenulum.

"Guess we've got you all warmed up alright, Kent, huh? You're a pretty big
boy for your age. No wonder you attract a certain amount of attention in
the showers. Proud of that?"

"Well, that's why the older boy, John, likes to do me, it seems. He says
I'm big."

"I can understand that, for sure. What about other boys?"

"Guess you could say at school I'm known for my size in that department."

"Would not doubt that for a moment, Kent. Before we go much further, let me
ask you something. I hope it won't make you feel uncomfortable."

"What's that, Rodney?"

"Do you feel any need to use the bathroom?"

"Yeah, I am feeling kind of full," thinking of my bladder after the juice
at the café, then all the wine. "But why would that make me feel
uncomfortable?"

"I'm glad it doesn't. Go on in, and make sure you take all the time you
need. No one's rushing you, ok?"

I failed to interpret this in the way it was intended. In fact, I found the
exchange a bit odd, but I headed into the adjoining bathroom – there was
no door between the two rooms – and pissed loud and long into the bowel;
Rodney was standing right outside and must have heard everything. When I
reappeared, he gave me a long look, right in the eye.

"You're sure you don't need to sit for a while?"

"Where?  Over there?", pointing to an armchair in the corner.  "Nope; I'm
fine, not the least bit tired."

"Um, no, I mean back there, back in the bathroom."

It suddenly hit me what he meant and therefore, what I might be in for. I
got shy, uncomfortable and started stammering, but somehow, I felt very
excited at the same time, sensing I was headed for a very new kind of
experience, way beyond anything I'd ever tried before: `no going back now!'
I struggled to recover my composure somewhat.

"No, umh, did that this morning, as usual."

"Oh, you're pretty regular then?"

"Yeah, every morning bout the same time after breakfast, kind of like
clockwork, sit there for fifteen, sometimes twenty minutes."

"Hmm, and once a day is always enough?"

"Yeah, always ... unless there's something wrong with me, I'm sick or
something."

"Of course. Ok, that's very good to know ... and I'm gonna remember it. So,
you feel you're all cleaned out back there now?"

"Sure; like I said, I dumped just a few hours ago, at home, as usual."

"Well, you're young, just getting started. It's always good to check with a
boy, until he's formed certain hygienic habits."

"Just getting started at what?! What `hygienic habits'? Rodney, can I ask
you something?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"Am I about to get myself fucked here?"

"We're gonna see what you're about to get, Kent."

"Thanks, Rod, but I think I've already seen it, what I'm about to get, kind
of – at least some of it", I shot back, jokingly.

"Well, in that case, you're going to get to see more of it, ok?"

"Not complaining, Rodney, ... yet."

The black male chuckled in response. It occurred to me to alert him then
and there to the fact that I was still an anal virgin, but before I blurted
that out, I had a second thought: `Why not keep that to yourself, and only
tell him later?' I decided on the latter strategy, hoping I might get an
even bigger kick out of him that way.

[To me, anal sex was still totally unknown territory. Of course, it was
*not* one the smutty topics my buddies and I got together to discuss, and
none of the horny veterans I sex-chatted with, real-time, before and after
Sunday chapel had had the guts to bring it up with me. They seemed quite
happy enough to hear details about my cock, genital development, and
self-induced orgasms of various kinds. One of them did ask me if I'd been
with girls, and I faked it, giving him some bullshit response about being
"experienced" in that area. Guess maybe that persuaded him not to ask me
about "boy-play", or anal.]

Rodney continued with his methodical instructions. "Now, I want you to go
over to the bed and wait for me there. If you feel cold, crawl in under the
covers; otherwise, just wait for me on all fours, facing out, looking
towards the sofa, ok?"

I obeyed in silence, while Rodney made his way over to the dresser in the
corner of the room. When I positioned myself on all fours on the bed,
facing outwards, he was behind me, so I could not see what he was doing.

After a minute, I turned my head slowly to sneak a peek. His back was to
me, already entirely naked except for the jockstrap I later learned he'd
slipped on in the men's at the coffee shop to bulge up for me. His was a
runner's build, lanky, sleek, but there were nice, solid black buttocks on
him. He was fishing around in one of the drawers for something.

I turned back, and faced forward, so as not to be caught perving on him,
though I'm not at all sure he'd have minded.

A minute or so later, when he re-emerged into my field of vision, a bottle
of BabyOil in one hand, even the jockstrap was gone. He dangled down
heavily, massively engorged with extra blood-flow, but nowhere near
"upright" as yet. In fact, his penis was projecting outwards from his
thighs at only about a 30-degree angle, so he was hardly displaying an
"erection". Still, he was mightily impressive to me as "pure, unadulterated
Male", and would appear the same to any white boy in my position, I'm sure.

I was seeing for the first time, in plain view, what I'd spotted in his
`free-ballin' jogging slacks, what had lain behind those huge bulges in his
runners earlier that morning, both at the coffee shop and later here, when
he'd gotten up from the sofa to fetch the bath-towel.

The torso was smooth ebony, except for haloes of a few long, wiry hairs
around his nipples. Then there was a thick undergrowth of pubes which in no
way hid the root of his penis, how it was fused to his trunk. Perhaps he
was in the habit of trimming his pubes-growth down there back just a bit,
to let interested males get a view of exactly how his parts were melded to
each other, integrated, into the magnificent specimen of Black Manhood he
presented.

The ball-sac was voluminous, allowing his heavy testes to swing almost
halfway down his thighs to his knees. If you've ever seen from the rear a
male lion in breeding season, well, that was more or less what Rodney was
sporting in the gonad department.

I gulped, and exclaimed softy, "Fuck, Rodney!"

He smiled. "Got you beat, I guess."

"Jesus!, hands down, and then some!"

"Ok, glad you're not intimidated, or scared off by it."

"Not so far, Rodney."

"Good. Would not want you bolting off at this point, Kent, ok? Now do *me*
a favor and turn yourself round to show what it is you might have to offer,
ok? You've seen mine now, right?"

Giggling, I obeyed, swivelling around so my butt stuck out towards the side
of the bed where Rod was standing. Stupidly, I remained in the middle of
the bed, though, so I felt him reach around to the front of my thighs and
pull me back towards him, to the edge of the bed, where my butt hung over,
easily accessible, ready for his inspection.

Standing there, Rodney was too tall to get down and dirty with my butt, so
he knelt down on the rug, lowering his face to the same level as my exposed
rear-parts. I started to feel the same warm exhalations I had earlier, then
cooler air drawn over my crack, as he inhaled from the same position, very
close to my boy-hole.

I heard him sniffing, punctuated by low grunts every now and then.

"Like that scent, Kent. You smell good to me ... rich, natural, a bit
sweaty – not soapy, not fresh from the shower."

"Guess I could be a bit cleaner; could've showered this morning before
leaving home, but I got up late, was in a bit of a rush."

"You're fine. I can smell that you wiped yourself super-clean this morning,
and that means you don't necessarily need to shower, not for me at least."

The bristles on his face were now brushing my crack, ever so gently. Rodney
did not have a goatee, so I knew it must be his `stache, which mean his
mouth and nose were *there*, and that's where all the warm and cool air was
coming from. I whimpered audibly.

"You like that, boy?"

"Yes, I do, Sir. But guess I'm pretty sensitive still, sorry."

"All good, son -- that's just the way I want you there."

The bristles on his upper lip were now digging in a little deeper, slightly
prickly. He was not raking them over my hole, but instead skirting my anus
every time he got near it and going further out to brush my buttocks. It
was incredibly tantalizing!

My whimpering could not be repressed.

"You want something, boy? Tell me what it is."

"Don't know how to say it, Sir. But what you're doing feels so awesome!"

"How can I make it better, boy?"

My hole, Sir ..." I didn't know how to complete what I'd started.

"That boy-hole of yours itching, is it?"

"Yes, Sir, I think so."

"Gonna lick it for you then – soothe the itch there for you."

The blade of his tongue swept once, rapidly, over my body's exit
point. Rodney had, for the first time, flicked his pink licker over my
anus.

"AHHHGGH!"

"Like that?"

"Man, do I!" I was now in full whimpering mode, I guess.

With that, Rodney got down to business, lavishing oral love first on the
area right around my anus, then on the anus itself. He deployed an
incredible three-way combo of, in alternation, tongue, facial hair, and
occasional massaging with the pad of his index finger, followed by some
very shallow fingering of my hole. He was clearly enjoying himself there,
playing a young white lad for all he was worth.

"I want you to push out for me now, Kent. Show me how loose I've got
you. You push out nice for me, I'll lick it some more for you. Don't worry,
it's all part of the process."

"What process, Rodney?"

"I'm trying to get you to loosen up, relax, open for me."

"And how long does that usually take?"

"A lot depends on the boy -- his state of readiness, and how used he is to
relaxing there."

I decided not to ask any more basic questions, for fear of implying total
ignorance and thereby giving away my virgin status. I had to pretend, for
the next little while, at least, that this was *not* happening to me for
the first time.

"A short time ago, you called me a `smart-ass white boy', huh"

"Sure did, boy"

"Now that you've seen my white-boy ass up close, tasted it even, still
gonna call it `smart', Rodney?"

"Easily the smartest I've encountered all week, Kent!"

Rodney got up off his knees and I glanced down quickly through my
"all-fours spread thighs" to confirm that he was now indeed fully,
humongously erect – on sight, I guessed, 9"-ish. (On another occasion,
he took pleasure in getting a tape measure out and having me "take down his
stats", on which occasion he checked in at closer to 9.5", to be precise.)

At just 16 and in the still segregated mid-60's, I'd never seen anything
close to Rodney's endowment, of course, not even in still b&w porn photos.

(This was decades before black males could be seen all over in porn-videos,
of course. All that was available in the day were b&w pics of naked black
men with huge dicks, or pretty well-hung white guys, if you preferred
that. Either way, the models were almost always shot flaccid,
"artistically".)

Rod's huge black penis was drooling, so he quickly brought the tip into
contact with my anus, rubbing it up and down that area of my crack, not
wanting to waste any of his precious pre-cum goo.

After getting my ass licked and played with the way he'd just done it, my
boy-cock too was dribbling, something he noticed from behind. An unbroken
rope of silvery goo linked my slit to the sheet below. Rodney's hand came
forward, underneath me, to capture what he could on his fingers, taking it
back to smear on my crack, supplementing what he himself had already
supplied there.

But of course, there was not enough pre-cum, even from the two of us, for
what Rodney expected to accomplish. Next, he slathered his huge penis in
BabyOil, in prep for the attack.

And then, again, the pressure of his cockhead returned, against my
boy-hole, more insistent this time ...

"Wuuuu, I can tell, it's gonna hurt!"

As his slippery cockhead sat at the entrance to my insides, pressing in, he
lectured me.

"Kent, I need you to relax for me. By loosening yourself, going slacker and
slacker, you're going to make things easier for me and a lot less painful
for yourself. Best way to think about it is just to tell your brain to
loosen and relax every muscle in your body – let go, in other words,
almost as if you were falling asleep. Let all muscular tension ebb away so
your whole body becomes slack, loose, open and receptive, ok?

Then, as I push in slowly, you inhale deeply, hold that in briefly, then
exhale even more slowly than you inhaled, ok? Empty your lungs when you
breathe out, yes? Slow breathing, with emphasis on breathing out will both
calm you and help your insides shift into relaxation mode. You'll be
opening yourself up for me inside yourself, Kent."

He sounded like the total sexpert, dispensing advice he'd given young boys
dozens and dozens of times before ... but

"Ouch! It hurts! Rodney! You feel *so* huge; please go real, real slow,
give me time to adjust. Otherwise, I just don't know ..."

"You're doing fine so far, baby; just focus, concentrate on relaaaaaaxing
and we'll be fine."

But the pressure he was exerting, where he was exerting it, did not let
up. It was *pain*ful ...

"Ouw!!, Rodney, please!" – the last thing I think I said before checking
out for a while.

To this day, I don't think I actually fainted or went `unconscious', but
somehow, my brain could not keep up with his intense demands on my anus. I
"checked out", just went blank there for a while, mentally.

***

When I came to, I was no longer on all fours, but on my tummy on the
bed. My lower abdomen felt all sticky, kind of glued to the sheet. I
realized I'd cum while I was "gone".

Rodney was at my side, stroking my back, whispering in my ear.

"Hey, are you ok?", as he stroked my back.

"Hmm, I guess maybe"

"What happened? You had me scared shitless at first!"

"I just couldn't take it"

"Passed out?"

"Maybe not really passed out. I just couldn't take it; my mind went blank."

"It was that painful?"

"The pain, yeah, and other stuff"

"Like what other stuff?"

"Just the newness, all the novelty of the experience ... it was my first
time, and I guess my mind got kinda blown"

"Your first time?!? Stop bs-ing me! It can't have been!"

"Yeah, it was. Never had that done to me before, not by anybody"

"Bullshit"

"No, it's the truth. You're my first, Rodney."

"Jesus!"

He got down off the bed, stood at the side and spread my butt-cheeks,
taking a long look there.

"Well, whatever you say, you're ok; there's no blood. You're gonna survive
this one, Kent"

"Glad to hear"

"But your first time, really?!?"

"Yup"

"Are you still feeling pain?"

"Just a bit, but not as much now; it's like a dull throb down there, not so
bad."

Rodney still had my butt-cheeks spread open. Now he knelt, latched his
mouth on to my anus, licked it long and tenderly, then sucked it out a bit,
very, very gently.

 "Does that feel ok?"

"Yes; that does make it feel better. Thanks"

"Fuck, I've taken your cherry then, Kent?"

"That you did, Rod, and nobody can deny, huh. How long were you inside me?"

"Not long, when I saw you'd lost it, I got myself out."

"Was I gone?"

"Yes, I think so"

"Did you finish inside me?"

There was no response.

I looked down the bed and saw Rodney erecting again, growing huge, without
even putting a hand to it. The realization he'd just plucked young
white-boy cherry – though hardly a "first" for him, I felt pretty sure
– seemed to be turning Rodney on, enormously. He put his hand to his
penis and began helping himself, pumping it up big again.

"Rodney?"

"Yes, Kent"

"You were my first; you wanting to be my second now?"

 "You betcha, smart-ass!"

It seemed so hot to me, though as yet I had no evidence he'd actually left
some of himself inside me earlier. But evidence was not long in cumming ...

As Rodney pushed into me a second time, not only did it feel a lot easier
for me, I noticed he did not access the bottle of BabyOil he'd used the
first time ... It seemed my anus-hole had been amply lubricated "in
advance".

As he worked his way into me a second time, it dawned on me why ...

"You're very slick now."

"Why, Rodney? Did you cum in me while I was out?"

"I did. You wanna hear what happened?"

"Yeah, I do."

"It was when you blanked out, I guess ... "

"What?"

"Your ass suddenly changed; I felt your sphincter kinda blossom, relax
totally and open itself out beautifully. I felt myself being admitted,
without pushing into you forcefully. You were kind of accepting me, taking
me in, totally naturally."

"Hmmm, sounds nice when you put it that way. Did it feel good?"

"Fuck, yes! I cummed real quick, like a bunny, when I felt you open to
admit me like that."

"Guess I cummed too then?"

"Yeah, you spurted several times as I glided deep into you. I could feel
your anus spasming repeatedly as you cummed. You gripped me tightly five or
six times – gripped, then released, then gripped again – like that."

"Hmmm, do me again please, Rodney, but this time I want to feel it while
it's happening!"

"You got it cummin' to ya, boy!"

With that, I got myself fucked again, but this time for over twenty minutes
non-stop, every minute of which I was "there for", before he cummed a
second time. Sometimes he was kinda brutal, other times tender, and it was
tough for me mostly because of how long it lasted at a time when I was
still pretty "virginal". He remained in me, without withdrawing even once
the whole time.

But at least, I did not lose it again, was wide awake for all of it. His
pumping and pistoning, deep inside me got me to cum again after about five
minutes. Then, a bit later, he shallow-fucked me, "sewing" his massive
glans in and out of my hole, now faster, now slower, now to the left, now
to the right, making me whimper and moan, call out his name in lust. We
kissed passionately as he shallow-fucked my boy-hole (a specialty of his, I
learned) and that brought me off again – for the third time that
morning, that is.  And I had not touched myself on any of those three
occasions.

Rodney saw that, that he had "fucked it out" of me three times, and I think
that must have pleased him. Shortly after my third orgasm, grunting
gruffly, like the Alpha-male beast he was, he delivered a second load of
his semen deep into my rectum.

"You're good", he opined a couple minutes later. He was still resting his
full 9+" in me, but I could feel it already beginning to soften, deflate.

"Thanks, glad you think so."

As he began to draw his nine inches out of me, very, very gradually, I was
suddenly seized with a sense of panic; it felt good, yes, but it also felt
a little too much like something else that happened down there a lot –
every morning, in fact.

"Wait, Rodney, please. Stop, I'm scared."

"Why scared now all of a sudden? It's all over, honey, and you've done just
fine."

"Cos it feels like, when you leave me, like I dunno I might have some kind
of terrible accident, like I'm gonna fall apart into two halves and spill
all over."

"No, babe, you're not. I know exactly what you're feeling, but it's only a
sensation you associate with something else you do regularly back
there. It's not the same though. I'm gonna pull out very, very slowly so
you can adjust as I go; then you're probably gonna get a sudden feeling of
real, total emptiness, but don't worry, you haven't emptied anything out,
I'll just have vacated you, leaving a big space that I'd been occupying the
for a while."

"Uh-huh; I hope so!" I whimpered.

Holding my breath, I waited, as he slipped slowly from my anal grasp,
inch-by-inch. Then with one final delicious breach of my young body,
opening my orifice out with his huge flange, he was free again, gone from
me, while I became cosmically empty, spasming, grasping at the emptiness
he'd left me.

Rodney got up beside the bed again and had me resume all-fours. He spread
my cheeks wide and looked inside.

"Hmmm, baby, can see you winking at me. There are some signs of very minor
tissue trauma just a ways up into your anal sheath, nothing serious,
though.

"If you're seeing `a ways up' my anus, you've gaped me?"

"I'm afraid I have, Kent. At least, that's one way of putting it."

"Wow, gaped on my maiden voyage!"

"Not exactly. Because I fucked you so long just now, you're way more open
than you were after your maiden voyage, which was cut somewhat short,
remember? So maybe revise to `gaped my second time round', ok?"

I could only giggle in response.

"It's gonna feel kinda sore for a while, but in a couple days you'll be
back to the way you were when we met in the park this morning."

"You mean, I'll re-contract, back to being like a virgin again?"

"Kinda, yeah; at least until you start getting yourself fucked fairly
frequently"

"And is every time gonna be as traumatic as today?"

"Don't think so, Kent. What happened today was, we taught your young body
how to relax, open up and take me in. It was much, much easier the second
time round, no? That's not something you're going to forget soon, no matter
how tight your smart-ass contracts back to."

"Ah; there's that `smart-ass' again, huh"

"Every time, Kent. There, guess you can go get yourself cleaned up in the
bathroom."

I did the best I could in there for about fifteen minutes, as Rod puttered
around outside, still naked, listening for the sounds my anus was making,
amplified by the porcelain toilet bowl.

I later learned Rod loved to get involved in the after-stuff, a boy's
clean-up. For me, though, on that momentous day, the total down-load and
deep cleaning only came after I got home better part of an hour later.

"I return to New York next weekend."

"OK"

"You can call me here anytime", handing me his number.

"Thanks. Will do"

In a funk, I got dressed, not really sure what had happened to me; it was
going to take a bit of sorting through.

What I probably needed was a deep, d-e-e-p night's sleep, but then, on
awakening, would want to discuss things with Rodney, I imagined, go over
things a bit with someone so sexperienced, so well-versed in boys and their
needs.

Walking me to a bus stop, Rodney, for once, did not have a whole lot to
say. He did thank me for "stopping by", in response to which I replied
quite simply, "My pleasure, Rodney."

As a bus approached, headed towards my end of town, "You have the right
change?"

"Yes, I do, Rodney, as before", with a wink.

Once I got seated, I waved to him through the window, and he smiled back
broadly from the sidewalk, as the bus pulled away from the stop.

For the next several days, I carried around the feeling of Rodney with his
girth having been through *there* and on up into my entrails. The sensation
of sweet anal soreness only lasted a couple days, but it succeeded in
reassuring me repeatedly, every time it made itself felt, that what I
believed to have happened actually *had* happened, was not just some
wet-dream fantasy.

When I called him later that night from home, and every time we spoke
thereafter until our subsequent meeting, I'd mention my "sweet soreness" to
him, or I'd tell him how I was feeling "back there". He seemed to really
enjoy hearing me offer that kind of information, unbidden. My voluntary
reports of how he'd affected me physically became one of the several ways
we bonded.

That same night, over the phone, we made a date for Wednesday afternoon,
when I told him I thought I wouldn't be missed from school. For him, I
somehow felt, I'd risk cutting three classes, though that was something I'd
frankly never had the guts to do before. No matter what the consequences at
school might be, it'd be worth it. And, at that Wednesday get-together, he
booked me again for Friday night, as he'd decided to leave for NYC on
Saturday.

Each of the three times we met that week, I got myself mounted and fucked
twice, the second round each time lasting much longer than the first –
all in all a pretty intensive initiation, especially given the size of my
Trainer. USMC boot camp-level intensity, maybe, for guys who think in those
terms. By the time Rod had left town, I'd undergone a transformation.  1