Date: Fri, 12 Aug 2011 15:33:48 -0700 From: Zack McNaught Subject: Nine Centimetres Disclaimer: Oh, whatever. If you're going to read it, you're going to read it. A man and an eleven year old boy play the sort of games men and boys have been playing for millenia, and telling you not to read this won't stop it happening. Just enjoy the thing, and please email me if you liked it: zackmcnaught@hotmail.com. Cheers, Zack P.S. Please donate to keep Nifty running. Many authors give countless hours of their time to write stories for your enjoyment. As a way of saying thanks for all their hard work, please help to keep Nifty open, and keep it free: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Thanks. 'Nine Centimetres' (M/b (11), mast, oral, anal) L'esprit d'escalier, that's what the French call it. Coming up with a clever or witty comeback when it's too late, whilst at the time being too dim-witted to think of it. At the time he came over to my table I was so flustered that I was unable to respond quite as I would have liked. "Nice centimetres," he said, standing across from me, hands on the back of the empty chair there, his pose confrontational. "Uh?" I responded. I was so surprised he'd approached my table that I was incapable of sensible conversation. "Nine centimetres. That's how long it is. I know you've been wondering. Fucking paedo." With that he turned on his heel and walked back to his friends, who were all rolling around with laughter. One of them gave him a high five when he sat down. I looked nervously around, but no-one else seemed to have heard him. They were all absorbed in their own little worlds. Suddenly I had no appetite for my food. I dropped the half-eaten remnants in the bin, stacked my tray on top of the pile and got the hell out of there. I was still shaking with fear when I got home. I sat down on the sofa and tried to compose myself. He'd hit the nail on the head, as it happened, and that's what had freaked me out so much. I hadn't actually followed them into the food court, he and his friends, but I had chosen a table near them. It was because I was rather attracted to him, with his pixie face and scraggly blonde hair. He was the leader of the group, clearly, and his confidence and cockiness was a turn-on even though I wouldn't admit it to myself. He was only a little kid, no more than eleven or twelve years old, which left me with mixed feelings - I was impressed at his bravery in confronting me, but at the same time angered by his attitude. When I had stilled my thundering heart, I realised I had acted a bit of a fool. I'd been so flustered that no denial was forthcoming, and indeed my rapid exit could be seen as no more than a plain admission of the the accuracy of his accusations. I should have laughed with him, bantered, done anything but walk away with shame clearly plastered across my face. Fool! I could have done nothing more than smirk at him and it would have diffused the siltation. Well, it would have if my smirk didn't look so much like a leer. But I had let a young boy master me, allowed him to make an idiot of me, or at least point out to everyone how much of an idiot I really am. Seven days later I was back at the shopping centre, mostly because I had to be, rather than through any desire to return to the scene of my humiliation. My new glasses were ready to pick up from the optician, and I really did need them - the last pair had taken a bit of a battering at a concert when I got dragged (not too reluctantly) into a mosh pit. They were hardly hanging together. So there I was, walking along with my funky new frames and feeling proud of myself for being rather daring in my choice, when I heard someone say, "Dick!" I almost didn't look around. Some of the kids who went to the centre could be pretty unpleasant little shits at times, and so I wasn't unused to them showing off in front of their mates, insulting adults because it made them feel more important than they really were. I usually ignored them outright. But for once I decided to turn back and confront my abuser. Perhaps it was the glasses - the optician had flirted with me somewhat, saying they made me look terribly strong-willed. And there he was, the boy who had lambasted me the week before for getting caught staring at him. He was leaning against a railing which ran along the edge of the upper floor, watching the people pass by below. I started towards him, determined to regain the ground I had lost the week before. He suddenly became wary, eyes darting this way and that, perhaps checking for a quick exit if he needed it. He was alone this time, and the bravado which had egged him on to insult me as I passed rapidly departed him. "Hi," I said as I reached the rail and casually leaned on it as he had been. He stood beside me, not sure what to do. "By the way," I continued, emboldened by his silence, "I didn't believe a word of it." "What are you talking about?" he asked, his treble voice faltering slightly. "Nine centimetres," I replied. "Oh, that. Well, I lied." "I thought you might -" "It's ten!" he said, laughing hysterically. This, apparently, was the height of wit for this boy, which made it all the more galling that he had flustered me so easily the week before. "That's even less likely," I said. He shrugged. "Don't have to believe me if you don't want. Not like you're ever going to get your hands on it anyway!" "Bet the girls are disappointed when they find out it's not really that big." "Yeah, well, you don't know what you're talking about." I just watched the people passing by below, smiling to myself. I'd rattled him a bit, because I hadn't been cowed by his bluster. "Well, you're just a fucking pervert anyway. Don't care what you think." He'd joined me at the railing, not standing too close, just far enough away that I couldn't grab him, as if I would do so in broad daylight. I was already freaking out about what the security cameras had captured, let alone considering something that massively suicidal. Funnily enough, I got the impression that he actually did care what I thought, though probably only from the point of stoking his ego a little - if the dirty old man liked him, he must be hot. "So," I began, taking a different tack, "where are all your friends today?" He looked puzzled. "The boys you were with last week," I added for clarity. "Oh, them. They're my little brother's friends really. I was just hanging around with them." Suddenly I sensed a slight note of desperation in his voice. "It's not like I don't have mates, though," he continued, realising how it must have sounded, "it's just they all live miles away." "Have you just moved into the area then?" He shook his head. "Nah, it's just I go to school miles away." "Which school?" He looked at me as if I was mad. "D'you think I'm going to tell you that, you pervert?" He didn't step away, though, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips. "Come on, mate, I was just making conversation. What do you think I'm going to do, come and kidnap you?" "You might." I turned to face him and cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, alright," he said, conceding the point that I really wasn't going to attempt to abduct him. "I go to Middlehouse." Oh! Well, suddenly a lot of things made more sense. Middlehouse was a pretty upmarket place - you either had to be rich or very clever to get in, and preferably both. I wondered how a Middlehouse kid came to be hanging around this dingy shopping centre. It also explained the slight sense of un-connectedness about his appearance - he wore all the clothes the local kids wore, just about managed the accent, but there was something about the whole picture which didn't quite add up. "That's a pretty good school. I knew a guy at uni who'd been there." He shrugged. "It's okay, I suppose. Mum and Dad think it's really important or something. Takes ages to get there. I got a half bursary," he said, seemingly unimpressed by his own achievement. I wasn't unimpressed. That bursary, even if it was only for half the fees, meant that he was comfortably in the top couple of percent of kids his age in the whole country in terms of pure, raw intelligence. A bright lad, whose parents cared about education. It didn't tally at all with the gangsta thing he was trying to pull off. "You're pretty bright, then?" I asked. "I suppose so," he said, shrugging. "It's not a big deal, I'm not that clever there." "Smarter than all this lot," I said, sweeping my hand out to gesture at the crowds streaming back and forth below. He grinned. "Yeah, well that's not hard, is it?" I laughed, and replied, "No, not that hard." We lapsed into silence for a few moments, until suddenly he said, "I've got to go," and turned to walk away. "Same time next week?" I asked, though who knows what drove me to suggest it. "Yeah, right, pervert!" he called back, laughingly, before disappearing from sight. --- I did go back, though. Nothing could have stopped me. What did I have to lose? If he was there, I would see him, and if not I would go and buy something and go home. Maybe try to catch a glimpse of something interesting in the toilets while I was there. He was there, too, the same place, at the same time. He was leaning over the railing and watching people again. "Hey," I said as I joined him. "Hi." He was trying to sound as though he wasn't keen to see me, but the act was rather overdone. Besides, no-one had forced him to be standing there at that time. How lonely must he have been to want my company? "People watching again, huh?" I asked. He shrugged. "Don't you want to do anything more interesting?" Again, the shrug. "Like what?" he asked. "Oh, I don't know. See a film?" "Don't have any money." "Well, I do. We could go and see something if you wanted." He turned to me with something resembling a sneer on his face. It was distinctly overdone. "Yeah, right! And what's gunna happen when we get in the cinema? Pervert." I hadn't actually considered that, if you'd believe it. I just wanted to relieve his boredom. "Oh, I... oh..." I stammered. "No, really, I wasn't..." He laughed, and turned to me. "Yeah, right." "Fine," I said, regaining a little of my lost composure, "I'm going to see that new Pixar thing. It's on in about half an hour. Meet me there in twenty minutes if you're interested." I walked away, not looking back, and went to try to occupy myself for quarter of an hour. I would be lying if I said anything but the boy was on my mind in that time. I couldn't concentrate on anything else at all - I'm not even sure which shops I visited, let alone what I looked at. There was a knot of nervous tension in my stomach and I became light-headed. Somehow I managed to make my way to the cinema, and in what I hoped was a normal voice made my purchase - one adult, one child ticket. I retired to the entrance and waited for him. I'd almost given up hope when he finally rocked up. I'd already gone past 'I'll give him another five minutes', 'I'll give him another two minutes' and 'OK, just one more minute', and I was counting how much longer I would wait in seconds. The trailers would probably be in full swing already, but he sauntered into the lobby as though he were perfectly on time and held out his hand for his ticket. "Nothing dirty," he said in a low voice, designed only to carry as far as my ears, not to get me in trouble. I was pleasantly surprised - he had demonstrated that he could be considerate. I shook my head. As we walked briskly to the screen, I said, "When we get in there, you choose the seats." He nodded, and did as asked, picking a couple of seats on an empty half-row to the left hand side. Trying to prove that I had no intention of molesting him (well, not this time anyway...), I chose to leave a seat between us. Whether he thought this was my way of dictating the exact seats, or whether he really wanted to sit next to me, I don't know. Either way, he got up and moved closer. My heart leapt into my mouth. I concentrated for not one single moment on the film. I can tell you nothing of its plot, because my attention was on him and him alone. He became utterly absorbed, laughing where he was meant to, and even letting the tiniest bit of moisture seep into the corner of his eye at the sad bits. He was just a young boy again, nothing more, no attitude, no front. Just a young boy enjoying a film designed for his enjoyment. I deliberately let the film pass without trying the barest hint of anything. I needed him to know that he could trust me, because I was hoping that he would eventually want to go further than friendship, and knew that if we didn't go there slowly it wouldn't be fulfilling. I suppose you could say I was grooming him, though I've always hated the term. But that was it, really, that was exactly what I was doing. We parted on good terms, he giving me a smile as he went, before suddenly turning back to me with his hand outstretched. I shook it. "Michael," he said. "Zack," I replied. "Same time next week?" he asked. I just nodded and smiled as my heart swelled. --- Please don't get me wrong. I didn't for a minute think he was feeling any sort of affection for me. I knew what this was - he had found a friend in me, a friend willing to buy cinema tickets, and perhaps more. And, so far, a friend who had demanded nothing in return. This was, for him, an excellent situation to be in. For my part, I lusted after him madly, taken to the heights of fantasy by the mere thought of him. In fact, I could barely think of anything else all week. I came perilously close to missing deadlines at work because instead of writing reports I was daydreaming about him. I spent my evenings writing and reading boy porn, just to try to rid myself of the nightly dreams of him, but nothing could quench my thirst. I knew this wasn't normal, and I think I realised that it was simply because I was so deprived of the type of affection I sought from boys that I put so much into something which wasn't really there. But a small part of me held out hope against hope that something might develop. --- Cinema on Saturday afternoons became a regular thing for us. I don't know if his mother ever wondered what he was up to at the weekends, but he never seemed to have a problem meeting me. Sometimes I would get a text from him saying he couldn't come - by this time I'd bought a cheap Pay As You Go phone and given him, and only him, the number - but more often than not he was available. As the weeks passed things began to change, albeit so slowly as to be almost imperceptible. Michael would stand closer to me in the queue for tickets, or for drinks and snacks, sometimes so close that he was practically leaning on me. He leant into me as we watched the film, too, sometimes resting his head on my shoulder. I made no effort to increase the contact, content instead to sit there in a heightened state of nervous tension, wondering what would happen next. One week I'd given into one of my more childish urges and bought an iPad. I had no real need for the thing and though I could afford it, it was a bit of a waste of money. As soon as I told Michael he wanted to have a look at it, but I had to decline, saying I had no intention of carrying it around with me, least of all to the shopping centre. "Can I come to your flat and have a look, then?" he asked. Shit, I hadn't even thought about it as a means to lure him there. It hadn't even crossed my mind. But lure him it had, and all at his instigation. This was an opportunity not to be missed. "Sure," I replied, straining as hard as I could to remain casual, "no problem." I couldn't concentrate at all on the film. It just passed me by while my mind span and whirled around insane fantasies of what might happen in my flat following the movie. --- "You have a lot of cool stuff," he said as he wandered around my living room. It was a complete geek pad, actually, but obviously this appealed to him. I spent more money than I really should have on gadgets and toys, so apart from the usual widescreen TV and the obligatory games systems, I had things like an RC helicopter in the corner of the room, and a replica Boba Fett helmet on a side table. Childish shit but I loved it, and there was little else to spend my salary on. I got him a drink and departed to my bedroom, where I'd left the iPad on my bedside table. I flicked it on as I walked through to the other room, carefully making sure there was nothing incriminating on it, though as far as I could remember it had seen more Angry Birds action than anything else. He quickly became engrossed, socked feet resting on the edge of the coffee table, toes curling around the lip. For some reason I found this a massive turn on and while he played I watched his toes wriggling. After a few moments I became aware that he had stopped playing and was looking at me. I raised my eyes to meet his, full of guilt. He was regarding me strangely, as if he couldn't quite work out what I was. "Were you really watching my feet?" he asked, the incredulity in his voice plain to hear. "I... er... no, no I was just thinking about something. Wasn't really looking at anything in particular." "Right, of course. You're weird, you know that?" "Yes, actually I do," I replied. "I'm very fucking weird, actually. I mean, for instance, I've invited an eleven year old boy back to my flat. A boy I met in a shopping centre, and one who's already accused me of being a pervert. Quite rightly, as it happens." He looked slightly taken aback. I don't think he could have been innocent to my feelings towards him, but for me to come out and just say it was something slightly different, something rather more powerful. "Oh..." he said. He leaned forward and put the iPad on the table. "I... um. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you weird." That wasn't what I was expecting to hear from him, not at all. "I thought you would freak out, actually," I said to him. "You don't have to apologise for calling me something I am." "Yeah, but you can't help it, right?" Where the fuck had he got that line from? What was he, the most sorted kid in the world? "Um, Michael, who told you that?" He shrugged. "There was this guy at school talking about gay people and how we shouldn't be mean to them because it's not their fault." "Oh, I see. But you understand this is something slightly different, right?" "Well, yeah, obviously. But it's not that different. You can't help it, right?" "No, not really." "Then I shouldn't be horrible to you about it." This was, I realise, not a normal conversation to be having with an eleven year old. Michael was showing sensitivity and maturity way beyond his years. "Right. OK. Thank you," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say. --- He left half an hour later. Nothing untoward happened, though I hardly expected it to. He played a little more with the iPad, tried on the Boba Fett helmet - my picture of him wearing it is my favourite picture of him - and gulped down the rest of his Coke in order to burp quite impressively at me. He refused my offer of a lift home, insisting that it was quite close (though offering no address) and telling me that he wanted to walk. He gave me a cheerful wave as he left, and I went inside to collapseon the sofa, emotionally spent. I picked up the iPad and carefully cleaned the little smears his fingers had made on the surface. Even that raised a smile. My God, I was acting like a lovesick teenager. --- Next Saturday he came to the flat instead of meeting me for a movie. It was his idea, suggested and happily accepted in midweek. The football season had started, I had Sky, and he wanted to watch a game. I could hardly refuse, though it did necessitate a few hasty phone calls to Sky to sort out the right package in time for the weekend. He turned up at half two, as the pre-game analysis was in full flow. He gave me a rather shy smile, not at all like his normal attitude, and accepted a drink. He sat down in the prime spot on the sofa, feet up on the edge of the table. Ever since he'd caught me looking at his feet he'd always made an effort to show them to me, and made sure I was looking. Perhaps it was his little gift to me, at a time when he wasn't willing to do anything more. I decided that there was no way I was watching the game from one of the armchairs, and joined him on the sofa; he gave me a smile as I did so. I think in all the time we'd spent together up to that point we'd never sat so close without the thick arm of a cinema seat between us. Just sitting there I could feel a knot of tension in my stomach. Oh yeah, he'd leaned on me in teh cinema queue, and had his head on my shoulder during the film, but this was so much more private, a more intimate setting. As the game kicked off he shuffled over on the seat until his right leg touch my left, and leaned into me to put his head on my upper arm, not quite tall enough to reach my shoulder. And there he remained, content to watch the match leaning on me, my arm trapped between us so that the backs of my knuckles brushed against his leg. I didn't dare move for fear that he might accuse me of trying something inappropriate. He went to relieve his bladder at half time, and upon his return pushed me towards one end of the sofa so that he could lie on the remainder with his head on my lap. It was a Herculean task to stop myself getting hard at the sight of him lying there. His beautiful face, its little pug nose dotted with freckles. His straggly, naturally blonde hair which blended to light brown at the roots where the sun hadn't yet bleached it. The deep, deep blue of his eyes, like some kind of Nordic boy god. The slightly-too-small t-shirt, all the rage these days, lifting up to show the unblemished skin of his belly, and the place where the crease between leg and torso dived beneath the fabric of his tracksuit pants. And, blessedly, because I'm old fashioned and don't like these things, no sign of the band of his underwear poking out above the waist of his trousers. Then there was his slim but perfectly round backside, just how I like them, and jutting from the end of his trousers those cute feet of his, sock-less since half way through the first half. At first my right arm lay along the top of the sofa, but as this became less and less comfortable I let it drop to his flank. It was a risk, but a calculated risk. I decided that he was probably comfortable enough in my presence that he wouldn't be disturbed by my action. And I was right - a slight shift, perhaps, but nothing more than that, and then he settled. It could, perhaps, have been interpreted as him settling in. I let my hand linger on his side, feeling his ribs strongly outlined beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt, sensing the gentle undulations of his breathing. His skin felt searingly hot through the fabric, and there was the faintest hint of his heartbeat through his chest. Almost without realising it I began to move my hand slightly, just fractionally up and down, nothing too obvious. When I realised what I was doing I almost stopped, but then noticed that he had made no objection to my touch. Indeed, his eyes were beginning to droop shut, and his breathing was more laboured, his mouth open, spilling hot air onto my leg with every exhalation. He could, perhaps, have been falling asleep, but the tinge of pink in his cheek gave me other ideas - he was enjoying himself. He was not conscious of quite why, perhaps, but he appreciated my touch. My heart began to hammer in my chest, and blood pounded in my ears until it all but drowned out the sound of the television. With a sigh he rolled onto his back, his eyes now fully closed, legs bent at the knee so his feet were resting on the arm of the sofa. I had no doubt this time that my touch would be welcome, and as my hand alighted on his chest the barest hint of a smile played across his features. I let it make lazy circles, feeling the dip between the two halves of his ribcage, and the strong, rapid beating of his heart beneath his sternum. Each circle dragged the material higher until I could see all the way from the waistband of his trousers to where the lowest of his ribs jutted outwards beneath his skin. Taking a chance, but knowing that permission had been all but given, I laid my hand flat upon his tummy. He gasped slightly at the touch, our skin together so suddenly after such a long, slow build-up. I could feel matters accelerating, too, though toward what conclusion I couldn't be sure. I traced ever wider circles on the satiny soft skin of his tummy, feeling the hardness beneath a thinning layer of puppy fat. I brushed along the waistband of his tracksuit, feeling his hips lift and push at my passing fingers, and I watched his face as I did so, seeing the widening 'O' of his mouth as I drew closer and closer to my inevitable goal. I looked down past his torso, too, to where a lump had made itself quite clearly visible at his crotch. There could be no doubt now that he was excited by the feel of my hand upon his body. Nothing could have stopped me. No sudden shower of common sense would be nearly enough to quench my desire to touch him there. My hand, guided more by my libido than any conscious part of my brain, glided over the waistband and down onto the protrusion, grabbing it and pushing it downwards, away from myself, lifting it with the material until there was a gap between trousers and belly so large that I could see the base of it, unblemished by hair, cratered at the join where the hardness of it disappeared through the hole into his pelvis. I couldn't hold myself back. I let go and anxiously forced my hand into the hot confines of his pants, wrapping my hand around the prize I had so patiently fought for. It was hot and smooth and incredibly hard, and everything I hoped it might be. Even without the benefit of seeing it I knew how wonderful it must look, how utterly perfect. I ran my hand all over it, feeling the silken smoothness of the skin, the pulsing tumescence beneath, the tickling pucker of his foreskin which still amply covered the head despite his diamond hardness. His balls were a soft, small sack clinging tightly to the base of his dick, the skin wrinkled because they were drawn up tight with excitement. He shifted suddenly, his hands going to his waist, his hips lifting, his trousers and pants pushed urgently down to mid-thigh. I froze, stunned by the sudden need he had expressed. His hand went to mine, dragging it back to its place on his rock-hard boyhood. I took no further encouragement, enjoying the spectacle of my unhindered view as I wanked him, hard and deliberately, determined to get him to cum. I would so dearly have loved to spend all afternoon playing with his dick, but I also desperately needed to get him off, to get him panting and groaning and pushing his hips urgently into the air to force his shaft into my hand. A little wetness formed at the puckered opening of his foreskin as I worked it up and down, not a lot, but enough to ease the passage of the skin back and forth. He was desperate now, writhing this way and that, hips erratically thrusting, trying to find his release. And with one, sudden, sharp intake of breath he was there, holding it for a moment in his lungs before expelling it as the pulsing, kicking spike at the centre of his body spat one, lonely, transparent droplet of semen out onto his skin, darkening the spot where it fell. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice suffused with awe. "Fucking hell." I agreed. Fucking hell. --- I sat alone on the sofa, feeling the wetness dribbling down my groin and pooling below. It wasn't an altogether pleasant experience, and I hadn't even had to touch myself. Much more agreeable was the smell of him which lingered on my fingers, and the memory of the taste of that little droplet, salty and tangy, a gem beyond measurable worth, plucked from his skin and conveyed lovingly to my lips. He was gone, embarrassed but not ashamed if that makes sense. Willing, even promising to return, but needing to be away from the scene of the crime just for now. Next week it was then. Another game. Another chance to play. --- He turned up as promised the following Saturday, our routine permanently shifted from the cinema to the match. My obsession with the boy was now beginning to be an expensive habit. Much less damaging to the health than alcohol or tobacco, but with a somewhat higher potential for jail time if things went wrong. There was no pretence this time, no suggestion that our meeting was the innocent gathering of friends to enjoy the mutual pleasure of watching a game of football. We both knew that things had changed between us, that the contract was no longer one of friends but of people who were sexually involved. Not lovers, I don't think. Something else. He made no bones about lying down on his back on the sofa, head in my lap, vaguely keeping an eye on the television but not really doing so. My hand went straight to his stomach this time, and though there was a little of the subtle, teasing play of skin against skin we had endured the week before, this was quickly halted by his impetuous shoving of his tracksuit and pants down to his knees, presenting me with the object of my desire. On a whim I lifted his head and slipped out from beneath him, leaving him looking slightly confused. I nipped into my study and found the ruler which usually languished unused in the bottom of the stationary draw, returning to the living room purposefully. He was laying with one arm tucked behind his head, casually toying with his dick, looking comfortable and happy and at ease. He grinned when he saw what I had in my hand, and held his dick out for inspection. "You'll see!" he said, laughing, as I knelt in front of the sofa. I pressed the ruler into the base of his shaft and lay the length of it along the top. From the very root to the very tip of his foreskin it was indeed, as he has first said, nine centimetres. It was such perfection, its translucent skin covering a tracery of infinitely fine blue veins, that it would hardly have mattered how long it was, but, optimistically at least, he was right first time. "What about you?" he asked as I lay the ruler down and returned to my study of his boyhood. "Sorry?" "Your dick. How long is it?" "Um, I don't know. Six inches, maybe?" "How long's that?" I spread my hands apart to show him. "No, you dummy," he said. "In centimetres." "Oh, fifteen or so. So not far off twice yours. And fatter, obviously." "How fat?" I raised a finger and thumb in an 'O' to illustrate. "You know," he said, a note of exasperation entering his voice, "it would be much easier if you just showed me." I wasn't a complete idiot. I knew that. But I needed, for some reason, to have him ask me before I dropped my pants. Now he had done so, without a further word I stood up and began to unbutton my jeans. "Sit here," he said, shifting to a sitting position and patting the couch next to him. With my jeans and pants around my ankles and my dick pointing to the ceiling, I sat down next to him to give him his first look at my dick. "It's big," he said,. "I mean, not like the porno guys, but it's still big." I felt flattered, especially since it was average at best. It was probably his first real-life adult penis, or at least the first adult erection he had been this close to. "It's OK I suppose," I said, shrugging. "It's like a bigger version of mine, isn't it?" he asked, and he was right, it really was - the shape was almost identical, just inflated in every dimension. "Can I touch it? Just to see what it feels like?" --- He wiped my semen from his fingers with a damp wash cloth in a delicate, caring fashion. He was, unlike many eleven year old boys, fastidious about cleaning his hands. He smiled at my discomfort - my chest and stomach were covered in streaks of the stuff which I tried to clean off, but which would really require a shower to remove. "It really went everywhere, didn't it?" I said with a wry smile. He grinned back at me. "Yep, it did. I thought it was going to go in my face once, but I got out of the way. That would have been gross." I smiled. "Yeah, it would have been." "I didn't think it would be that much," he said, eyes glued to my still-naked, now soft penis, which was stubbornly refusing to re-inflate despite the temptation which sat next to me. "I mean, I knew it would come out, I've seen it in videos and stuff, but there isn't normally that much." "Yeah, well, you did it pretty good, mate." He blushed. "Thanks." "So, what about you?" I asked as I stood to pull up and button my jeans. "You want one?" "Yeah!" he almost shouted, and sat back, hands well out of the way, presenting me with his little tool. "Do it fast, I'm feeling sexy." I had intended to take my time, since my libido had been temporarily sated, but he obviously needed to get off sooner rather than later. I knelt between his legs, pushing them apart and pulling his hips to the edge of the sofa so I could see at least part of his backside. "Do you like my bum?" he asked with a grin, pulling his knees up with his hands and showing me is delicate pink pucker. I felt a lurch down below, and though my dick wasn't hard I could feel a droplet of pre-cum squeezing out of the mouth of my foreskin. "Yes, mate," I said, my voice shaky with excitement. "But I thought you wanted a wank?" "Oh, yeah, of course," he said. "Just thought I'd show you." "Thanks, I like it very much." He grinned again and dropped his feet back to the floor and gave me access to his centre, spreading his knees wide. I approached it reverentially, shuffling between his legs to worship at the altar of his boyhood. It was alive in my hand, jerking and pulsing as my fingertips brushed across its surface. Michael's eyes closed in pleasure as I began to jerk his foreskin up and down, getting into a rhythm designed to get him there quickly. A little drop of lubricant appeared again, and this time the devil in me drove me to lean forward and suck it off the exposed tip of his dick, my lips lovingly caressing him. He gasped out loud and thrust his hips upwards. "Do that again!" he said, the urgency in his voice dispelling the last of my doubts about sucking him off. I had told myself that it was too soon, but kneeling there between his knees I was no more able to resist than a blade of grass can resist the passage of a steamroller. I skinned him back, watched the purple head pulse once, twice, and then dived down onto him. This wasn't a slow, sensuous suck. This was a firecracker, an explosion of energy focussed on getting him panting and writhing and crying out in pleasure. My lips pistoned up and down the short length, feeling the silken skin gliding back and forth between my lips. The head bumped against the roof of my mouth, pounding into my palate as his hips joined in, forcing the rhythm. He came suddenly and with such a writhing energy beneath me that his penis slipped from between my lips, and I had to grab his hips, pinning them down so that I could recapture it and feel the last few dying pulses of his orgasm. He squeezed shut his eyes, brow wrinkled, mouth hanging open as he panted, looking pained at the intensity of his orgasm. The first half had finished on the TV. I hadn't seen a single kick. --- He posed naked on the floor for me, his hips grinding slowly into the rug as he lay with chin propped on one hand, one leg bent at the knee, foot in the air. His movements gave his tensed buttocks fantastic definition, and I snapped away with my new toy, a Canon D-SLR. I'd bought it because I wanted to take pictures of him. I'd tried to snap a few on my mobile phone, but like a little diva he had complained that the picture quality didn't do him justice. He was only joking of course, but by the time he turned up the next week I had blown a month's contribution to my savings account on something way too good for a rank amateur such as myself. He laughed at first, messing around, throwing stupid poses. But then he realised quite how turned on I was by him, and he became deadly serious. I daren't touch myself for fear of making a thorough mess of my boxers. He had no such concerns, more able to resist orgasm than I was, and playfully wanked for the camera. He beckoned me closer and peeled back his foreskin, milking his shaft until a tiny bead of fluid slipped out from the tiny slit at its zenith. In the highest resolution possible, and at the shortest focal length my macro lens could handle, I snapped one perfect shot. I dropped the camera on the sofa and fellated him then, unable to resist the temptation to feel it kicking in my mouth, depositing a tiny droplet of his salty sweet semen as he came. --- He leaned back against me, brushing my cheek with his soft hair. My hands roved across his torso, lifting his t-shirt and delving beneath to feel the soft skin of his tummy, pulled taut as he arched his back, wiggling his bum on the hardness it felt beneath, my hardness, trapped in my jeans. I leaned forward and softly kissed his neck, dragging a gentle sigh from his lips. His earlobe, too, which made him squirm all that much more. My fingers, more urgent now, grabbed at the bulge in his jeans, feeling the solidity of him beneath, probing at it, squeezing and rolling it about. He gasped again, pushing his hips up, and then it turned into a long, low groan of appreciation. The buttons of his fly came apart easily beneath my questing fingers, and then jeans and pants were at mid thigh, knee high and then off. I turned him around, his socked feet snaking either side of my hips. I drew him forwards until his thighs were spread painfully wide, his youthful spike pointing up at me, its pink-tinged foreskin puckered over the head and quivering each time his heartbeat jolted the spike of flesh beneath. He placed his feet on the chair and hauled himself upwards until his crotch was level with my face. I grabbed his bum, letting my fingertips dip deep into the crevice, and pulled him forward to engulf him in my mouth. With his hands on my head and his hips dictating the rhythm of his dick pumping in my mouth, I set to removing my jeans, tearing them down my legs and off, setting free my rampant shaft. "Is it time?" he asked, his voice shaking, nervous. Still suckling on him I nodded my head. He pulled back, breaking contact, and began to kneel over me. The soaking wet tip of my dick brushed the backs of his thighs, leaving little trails of precum, until he was settled over me. My left hand, still between us, reached down and grabbed my shaft. I pulled it eagerly into the crease of his behind, feeling around until it found the slightly deeper depression which lead to the core of his being. He stopped moving then, concentrating instead, looking into my eyes. With a soft sigh he leaned forward to kiss me, and as his lips touched mine I felt his weight beginning to press down. I eased slowly into his well-prepared passage. There was no sudden movement, just a slow, gradual squeeze until he had all that I could give him. He stopped, shuddering, looking down to where my pubic hair tickled the underside of his balls, and spilled out around the base of his shaft. He raised himself slightly on shaking legs, aided by my hands on his hips. Each stroke loosened him further until with a smile on his face he was bouncing up and down on my hips. It would have taken more self-control than I possessed to last any length of time under this kind of assault. In a matter of minutes I was spraying his insides with my cum, my head thrown back in ecstasy, my chest heaving with the effort of breathing hard enough to stop myself passing out. When I came back to reality he was still sat astride me, my dick still buried in the squishy mess of his hole. He smiled down at me, proud of himself for having given me such pleasure, and wiggled his bum, making me groan as a bolt of exquisitely painful pleasure sent another droplet of cum firing into him. I reached round and clicked the button to disconnect the webcam. The show was over. --- The tracks of tears, still wet, streaked his face. His lower lip, swollen and split, disgorged a steady stream of blood down his chin. One eye was already blackening. His ear was split, too, and bleeding, and a nasty graze adorned his forehead. He fell through the door into my arms, trusting that I would catch him. As I bathed him and soothed him with warm water I found the bruises all over his back. Thankfully they had not attacked him between the legs. He described them to me, and instantly I recognised a bunch of unpleasant lads who often hung around outside the flats. They knew, or at least suspected that I am gay, and had thrown homophobic taunts my way in the past. They must have realised Michael was coming to see me. They had cornered him, and then when he had tried to push past had set about him with feet and fists, a cowardly, brutal attack. As I gently held him, telling him that it would be OK, my mind seethed with murderous thoughts. He had to be taken home, had to be. I told him so and he clung to me, weeping. What was he going to tell his parents, he asked, how would he explain where he'd been and why he was beaten up? I lifted the tattered remains of his favourite football shirt from the floor and held it up, showing him the badge. He nodded, he understood. They hadn't even taken anything from him, I realised, except his dignity. He winced as I carefully re-dressed him. --- "What the hell is this?" his mother screamed when she saw Michael leaning against me. "I found him like this, over in the park. I had to let him calm down before he would tell me where he lived." Michael, as agreed, said nothing, rushing into his mother's arm and bursting into tears. He was only partly acting. "Who are you? Did you do this?" she shouted, now manic. I held up my hands. "Look, I just found him, OK? Don't know what happened. Just bought him home." "Who the fuck are you? What have you done to my boy?" "I'm just a passer-by, that's all." "I'll call the fucking police you know!" I had started to turn away, but stopped. "I'd advise you do exactly that," I said over my shoulder, "just as soon as he tells you who did this." I walked away, leaving a shocked mother and a sobbing boy silhouetted against the yellow light which spilled out into the darkness through the open doorway. I knew what I had to do. --- There was only one of them now, sitting there on his own. I recognised him as the ring-leader, the one typically all too ready with abusive words. I pegged him at no more than 14 or 15 years old. "What the fuck do you want, faggot? Don't you dare come and infect me with your fucking faggot AIDS," he said as I walked towards the building. He was sitting on the steps up to the entrance, smoking a cigarette. An empty bottle of White Lightning lay nearby, and I figured that most of it was in him. I kept walking towards the entrance of the building, but instead of passing to the side came to stand directly in front of him. "Get up," I said, the tone of my voice making it quite clear I was serious. "Or fucking what?" he said, standing and trying to front up to me. If he hadn't been a full head shorter than me it would have been more intimidating. "What the fuck you want? This about your little faggot boyfriend? We did a fucking number on him, didn't we? Ha!" My temper had barely been held in check all afternoon, and now it boiled over. I hadn't intended to become physical with him. I wanted to be better than him, to rise above his level. I should have been a better person, but I was hurt and angry. He had hurt Michael. Now he had to pay. What saved me from prison was what happened next - if he hadn't acted first, what I then did to him would have put me behind bars for years. Before I could raise my hands he had produced a knife, from God knows where. He tried to slice at my face with it but I leaned back out of the way, and then when his drunken momentum had carried the blade out of harm's way I launched myself into his chest. Rage propelled me forward, up the steps with his body over my shoulder. The door to the building, a heavy steel affair with a toughened glass window, was bent inwards with the force with which I rammed him into it. The glass smashed but didn't shatter, and a splatter of blood sprayed out over its surface where his scalp split. He was instantly knocked unconscious, and I let his body fall to the ground where it lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. His legs twitched sporadically. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard, my head spinning from the adrenaline. --- I was arrested the next morning. The police had attended the scene and I, full of guilt for what had happened, immediately confessed. I was ordered to attend the nearest station at nine the next morning and did so, knowing that as soon as I did so I would be taken in. In the end, no charges were brought. The CCTV footage from the doorway clearly showed him attempting to attack me with the knife, and then me apparently defending myself against a credible threat to my life. I made no mention of having wanted to do him an injury - that would have raised questions I couldn't answer. The police mentioned another incident which had taken place earlier that evening, where a young boy was beaten up, and asked if I thought the two incidents were connected. I shrugged and told them that they might have been, but I knew nothing of it. Just as I was leaving, the officer in charge of the case caught me by the elbow and guided me into an empty interview room. He made sure that the recording equipment was inactive, then came to stand close in front of me. When he spoke it was in low, fierce tones barely above a whisper. "I know what happened, and I know we can't prove it. I know you're angry about what happened to the boy. I know you intended to hurt Mr Ameke, and I know him pulling that knife on you was just the excuse you needed. Take this as a sign - you've been damned lucky this time, but you better hope our paths never cross again, you hear? I don't know what the fuck you get up to with that boy, and quite frankly I don't want to know all the disgusting fucking details. Just don't get stupid and get caught, right?" I nodded and, shaking all over with fear, made my way out into a bright, sunny day. --- I sat down heavily on the sofa and stared at the blank television screen. I needed to think, to get away from the reality of what had just happened. I couldn't leave the country - the police had told me to stick around in case they needed to talk to me again - but I could get out of town. I picked up my mobile and flicked through until I found Angela's number. I paused, wondering if it was the right thing to do, and unsure how she would respond to hearing my voice after all this time. But she would be able to help, surely. I needed somewhere out of the way to stay, and that was her job after all. I hit dial. "Good morning, Lancaster Lettings." "Uh, can I speak to Angela please?" "Speaking." "Oh, I didn't recognise your voice. Angela, it's Zack." "I think I ought to take this call in a private meeting room. Please hold, sir." She sounded cold and angry. Professional, but overly so. I sat listening to the hold music, wondering what she would say behind closed doors. The line clicked and the music stopped. "Zack, sweetheart! How the hell are you? It's been too fucking long!" Her whole tone had changed in an instant. "Hi Angela, how's things?" "Well, they're better for hearing you. What are you up to these days?" "Oh, you know, the same old stuff. Day job with a bit of programming on the side. How's the holiday cottage business?" "Well, it's booming, actually. Absolutely off the scale. With the credit crisis no-one can afford to go abroad, so we're swamped." "Oh good, I'm glad." "Zack, this isn't just a social call, is it? What's up?" "Sorry, I know I should have kept in touch and everything, but you're right, I do need something. I've got to take some leave at short notice, and I need somewhere to go, something remote and isolated and completely cut off from the rest of the world." "How short notice?" Now was where I had to take a punt. I was owed leave, and I knew I could probably get away with only a couple of days' notice if I really begged. "Can you get anything from Friday?" It was Wednesday. Angela swore. Five minutes later she asked for my email address, and fifteen minutes after that called to ask me to check my email. I did so while she was on the phone. "What do you think?" she asked when the details came up. "Well, it's certainly remote." "Yep, it is that. Middle of the Scottish Highlands, no-one wants it next week and it's your for the knock down price of £300." "I'll take it." --- I dropped my bag on the floor. Back to the same old flat and the same old life. Except, while I was in that dingy little hut in the middle of absolutely fuck-all I had made a decision. I had work to do, a lot of calls to make. First the agent, to give them two months' notice on my tenancy. Next, I had to hit the estate agencies and find somewhere, quickly. I wasn't going to sit in the flat and let my life pass me by any more. Besides, I knew exactly where I wanted to move. --- It was a state, but it was all I could afford. My father's DIY genes had somehow passed to me, despite the fact that I was clearly happier on a computer than in the real world, and so the job of doing the place up would be mine to deal with. There was no way once I was paying the mortgage on this place that I would be able to afford to hire people in. But it was mine, subject to contracts being exchanged. A not-so-small-actually two-bed semi in a fairly nice part of town, and I was going to own it. It was scary and exciting in equal measure. And, best of all, it was no more than a minute's walk from Michael's house. Down to the end of the road, turn right, then second left and there was his road. No more gangs to get through, no more flights of stairs to climb to a pokey little flat. I'd never again be able to afford my gadget habit, but that was alright, because I had a boy habit to satisfy instead. And, I reflected as I stood in the empty front room looking out over the kids playing in the street on my second viewing, once Michael had grown up and moved on, as he doubtless would, I was in prime position to pick up someone else. --- Money will expedite any process, in sufficient quantity. I had to pay through the nose for overnight surveys and the like, and it still took four weeks to get settled and moved in. I was wasting nearly a month's rent on the flat, too, but I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Even on the day I was moving the friends of the boy I'd hurt were hanging around, throwing taunts at me. None came within striking distance, though, perhaps because of what I'd done to him. I'd not seen Michael the whole time, and I missed him badly. We exchanged texts - he was getting better, had been back to school for a couple of weeks. He'd spent a couple of days in hospital under observation at the beginning, but there was no way I could have visited him without raising suspicion. Since then he'd not left the house on his own, at his mother's request, though it was pretty obvious he would be OK in his own neighbourhood. He was excited to hear where I'd moved to, and was adamant that if necessary he would sneak out and come and see me. --- It was ten past ten in the evening when a subtle tapping came at the back door. It wasn't entirely unexpected. He grinned as I let him in, and then once the door was closed leaned into me and gave me a hug. I went one better, bending down and tilting his head back with my hand in his hair, greedily kissing him first on the lips and then where he loved it the most, in the crook of his neck. I dragged him into the living room and pushed him back onto the sofa, kneeling and pulling down his trousers, wasting no time engulfing his soft little tool and making it hard. When he'd cum he somehow found the energy to wank me off as we lay together on the floor, my cum spattering over both our bodies, making him giggle delightedly. I cleaned us off, and then both naked apart from our socks, I cuddled him to me on the sofa, dragging a blanket over us and holding him until he fell asleep in my arms. Everything was going to be OK. Everything was going to be OK... If you enjoyed 'Nine Centimetres', please let me know: zackmcnaught@hotmail.com For more stories, visit the Zack Mack archive at www.asstr.org/~zack/