Date: Fri, 14 Sep 2018 18:35:05 +0200 (CEST) From: shorty999@tutanota.com Subject: Pink and White Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is not true. Author: Shorty Pink and White I had a boy. He was mine, the first one I'd ever had. Max was 9. He was the child of two immigrants - a Russian mother and an Argentinian father. His father had left the area indefinitely on business. In came the new neighbor: me. And I made him mine. I can go on and on about me and Max, but I'm only going to give you a little snippet. Picture this. We were in a hammock. I lived on the top floor of a small three-story beachfront condo complex, and we were on the balcony. It's a fact that the gravitational pull of objects in a hammock goes toward the center. We were sitting with our legs dangling, being smashed into each other. An 9-year-old leg, on the upper thigh, is unimaginably smooth. But we all know that, don't we? Half-Russian, half-Argentinian DNA, in this case, had created a skin tone that was more Latin than Northern European, and nearly-black hair color. It had given him brown eyes as well, but there was a roundness to his facial structure that gave away the Russian genes. So we were in the hammock. Just me and him. We were on the top floor, and the solid white balcony wall in front of us blocked our view of the people on the beach down below - and their view of us was blocked as well. "Nobody can see us from here," I told him. He looked at me side-eyed and nodded. Spanish was his first language, but Max was tri-lingual. He spoke English with an adorable little accent, keeping the gaze of his eyes off to the side or down on the ground, as if searching for the words. When he found them, the words came in short sentences. But body language was his favorite way to communicate. He was using his body language now to communicate his confusion over the relevance of my observation. Among the things that make 9-year-old boys cute is their playfulness. The first time I met him we spent two hours kicking a ball on the beach. But Max was also mild-mannered, confident, and thoughtful. You could watch him think. That was pretty cute too. Max was the first boy I'd had, and I was well into my 30s. It had been a long wait. I used to daydream about who my first boy would be. How old he'd be. What he'd look like. Would he be shy and innocent? Would he be hyper and impulsive? Honestly, in my daydreams, I'd usually imagined him to be older. Maybe even 12 or 13, teetering on the edge of puberty. Maybe he'd be old enough to have a hormone or two and some homosexual awakening steering him in my direction. He turned out to be 9. A little guy. A malleable soul. Taller than the average third grader, though. His body features soft, but not chubby. His front puffed out just slightly around the belly button and nipples, barely enough to keep neck-to-crotch from being flat. I had my arm around him, he was eating a popsicle, and we were watching the sunset. This was my boy. He hoisted his leg on top of me. His not-quite-shoulder-length hair pressed against my shirt. I gripped him tighter. This boy was mine. How did I know he was mine? I could keep my fingers on his unimaginably smooth upper thigh. Not the one that rested across my lap - the opposite one. I could keep them there as he ate his popsicle, and then creep them up underneath his board shorts. When I did this, he shifted a little and looked over at me in realization. Nobody could see. He'd learned what different types of touches meant. I knew he was mine because I knew he knew where my fingers were going, and yet I knew he was going to keep sitting there, pressed against me, swinging in this hammock, sucking on his popsicle, just barely out of sight of the general public. Max didn't wear underwear underneath his board shorts. My fingers went where they pleased. In case it's hard to imagine the physics: it's easier to give a boy a hand job when he's on your lap than when he's by your side. Luckily, Max was easy to lift up. It's also easier, if you're planning on leaving the shorts on, to pull up his shirt and reach in through the waistband, instead of up through the leg. In the background I could hear the waves as they calmly and repetitively rolled over the sand. With my off hand on his belly, underneath his shirt, I measured the rise and fall of Max's breaths. Anyone who's willing to do a little online research on the topic will know that 9-year-old boys are capable of having orgasms, though they hardly ever produce semen. Although I myself was a bit older when I had my first orgasm, I knew this fact well before I met Max. These days, however, I didn't need to use my imagination to know the physical cues: the sudden squirms, heavy breathing, grabbing at my wrist. "I finish." He wasn't talking about the orgasm, but about the popsicle. He held the clean wooden stick in front of my face. I snatched and tossed it aside. His smile was wide and squinty, a jumble of new adult teeth with a couple still coming in on the outsides. It was fleeting too, as all his smiles were. There was music coming from inside the house; I had left Frank Ocean playing on my speaker. I mouthed the words to the song as I scratched the boy's back. I made sure to admire his beautiful body while he sat on me, with the colors of the sky as the backdrop. Not a thing to be taken for granted. Every slight movement of his butt against my crotch sent me further into ecstasy. I was ready to explode. Here's another fun aspect of having a boy that was mine: when I placed him back to my side, unzipped my shorts, and pulled out my dick, he didn't even flinch. He looked me in the eye and pantomimed a dick sucking motion with his hand in front of his mouth. "I suck?" I nodded. When an 9-year-old goes down on you, it's nearly impossible to last for more than an instant. His wet little tongue, my god. I had him stop just so I could compose myself. As we took a break the boy swung his legs casually. Meanwhile, I slid my hand underneath where he was sitting and played a game where I tried to poke his shorts up into his butt. With the other hand, I wiped the precum away and felt around where the saliva was drying. When I was ready again, all I had to do was say "ok" and put my hand on his head. The way it worked for us is I'd finish in his mouth, and then he'd spit it all out on my crotch. A mess, I know, but it was worth it. This time I held his head down for a moment, so that he'd let some of my cum slide past his lips and down the shaft of my dick. As Max wiped his face with his hand and spat over the barrier in front of us I leaned back and noticed the sunset again, deep pink above the white balcony wall. I cleaned myself with the shirt I had just pulled off my back. Casual with our sex as he was, Max climbed back into my lap without saying a word. Trust me, having a boy is pretty nice.