Date: Mon, 22 Jan 2007 02:55:43 -0800 (PST) From: Tim Stillman Subject: g/m adult/young friend "The Snowfall of Marcus" The Snowfall of Marcus By Timothy Stillman (My other stories are in the prolific authors section. Stories under the Tim Stillman name are in the extremely prolific authors section. My own web site is novemberhourglass.tripod.com. All feed back is appreciated. Thank you for reading my story.) Snow falling has a quietness all of its own. It has a melody that nothing else has. The soft and gentle snow. Tender, tingly, sky fall flakes, silver ground, mantelpiece for magic. The tree branches naked it settles on, the grounds and the pastures it clothes in forgiveness of everything. He was with me. We were in bed, and holding close. His name was Mark. He was 13 and we were in deepest love. He was small boned and longhaired. He played in a rock band. He liked to collect stones and make designs of them. He liked to be stoned sometimes, and when he was, he giggled and we played and were even more rowdy. I needed only him. I needed that warm body next to me on winter mornings. I needed his lips against mine. I needed his penis hard against my stomach. Our pine house was never cold. The fireplace put out warmth. The snow softly sifting down, as we looked at the night it created, a frieze, right outside our window. We had had sex. Had been fucking most of the night. He believed in me and I never let him down. I loved mostly of all the taste of his penis. I loved its little foreskin, which I would pull down after sucking on it for a while. He would hold still and then wiggle and then kind of--well--explode all the boyness out of him and go on for quite some time. He would put his hands on my head and trace my face, and sigh so beautifully. He was angel and song and happiness when Christmas is due. He was a place to come. He could not cum yet and promised me often that he would soon, while I told him it didn't matter, in time there is all the time in the world. He snuggled into me now, we sleeping spoons not sleeping yet, drowsy though, and kept through the night as though a sacred trust, a position of our arrows, he with thoughts of fucking soon, and how we clasped the cusp of the moon to each other. There, with arms round me and his face against the back of my neck. His fingers massaging the back of my neck, untensing me, letting me know this is real. That there isn't a catch to it. The fireplace burning. The gold and silver and red of the flames. The silver arc he would one day shoot my way. I would take his hand and put it to my penis, to my balls and he would feel the warmth there of me. And I, the freshly stoked furnace of him. We had days together and weeks and months. It was so great being naked with a naked young boy. We had no one to tell us what to do. We had no wings other than the ones attached to an angel named Marcus. Long of arms and leg, ticklish between those legs as I traced him below his balls, that little ridge, and he would beat his hands against my chest, begging me to take the all of him in my mouth. No problem there, Mark. I slept next to Mark, and Mark was a promise long in coming, worth the waiting. We were more together than we had ever been separately. And if the snow fall on pine trees, and if the world of soft color like chalk on blackboard could ever induce sex in anyone, then it could in us. The soft feeling. The hard as rock feeling. The pride he took in showing me his golden body, turning round and round as I saw his front and backside. His penis in a large covering. Standing out straight. His masturbating just out of reach. And then just within. His buttocks soft and fleshy and molded just right, his tits small and brownish. I could not sex with him enough. I could not reveal with him enough. He liked to trace the surgical scar left by my hernia operation when I was ll. He would kiss the little long white strand of it and ask me most concerned if it hurt. And I would tell him it itched sometimes but that was all. That was the center of me, to him, it seemed. As he would kiss it and tell it he loved it because that scar was a part of me, and it was forever and a day thus his scar as well. For he shared his goldenness with me. While I shared my seriousness, my scaredness with him. Scaredness has a color. It is dark and it is pensive and it is without Marcus, and always the fear in the snowy morning that we would not be hiking in the bluish white soft gray sky day, but that I would be looking for him instead. As I has spent most of my life. And he seemed to always know that fear of mine, and would hold me tightly and would force his penis against my buttocks. And shudder me to the essential moment again. He was proper but I was moreso. His name was Marcus and he had come to me when I had all but given up the ghost and he had said his breathy soft hello to me. There was only a kingdom in him; there was only a world that had to do not with the real one we had left in the back of the house to be picked up by the refuse takers, but he was a million worlds. He was the naked boy I took as he put his legs against my shoulders, as I held onto him, and he guided me into him. He was mystery and excitement and puzzlement and drift of snow and seeking peek of sun when he was the sun itself. Books would always lose in comparison to him. I read the history of everything on his body, the poetry, the wisdom of all the ages, the stuff of stars gone nova to make especially him, as I put my self further into him and felt the beautiful inside dark of this boy. And he would gasp and he would say wait, then he would say, a little more please. He was everything and everything was miniscule compared to him, as I would rub his penis with me hands and we came together often times. And put my hands to his flanks he offered me. His head and neck and shoulders bent downward, his face with blood rushed to it, taking me taking him. His face serious and sexual and meant his entire self was for only me. As his mouth puffed and he took small deep breaths. I loved to hear the words come from his mouth. I loved to hear him say put your dick in harder, Barry, make me feel you, and the words were comic touched with Mark, when he liked to act the little devil, but even then, the words were light as a feather quiver of snow, and the words were everything there could ever be, and I would unleash in him as his ass muscles contracted and let go of my cock over and again, as he wanted to take all of my cum into himself and then he would hug me and put his lips to my cheek as I brushed the fire from his eyes, as he said, let me do you now, and now we slept sleeping awake, and now we cuddled because there had been little of that for us. If one is bound to be alone, then one has a purpose at the end of aloneness. If one is bound to be alone, then one has a stanchion to hold onto in the deepest of futures, snow cream and Marcus cream, and his love in my mouth as I would bend down to succor him, and to play with his easy and taut stomach and his still lack of pubic hair making his groin, delicious word, most remarkable word, so tender and sweet and warm and mine, while he wanted to grow hair that day, he said, for it to be wiry and black like mine, and our hands would tease each other. And our lips would tend to every part of each other's bodies. Sacred song of Marcus. When his eyes became downcast, when his mouth would not form into a bow, when he looked at the floor in deepest concentration, I could stand by him, come to him, and take my hand and place it on his shoulder, a slight gesture, others take it for granted, but others did not know what we had been through. And if Marcus cried a bit then, softly and silently, I could kiss away his tears and he would fall into my arms and I would hold him up with his legs tackled round mine, little burden, I would call him and he would laugh delighted and acclimated to the moment, as I would hold him against me and lay him down on our feather soft bed, and he would reach up with his arms round my neck and he would whisper do you adore me? And I would say forever and a day. And he would smile that sweet sly grinning knowing smile, and he said he wanted to get to know me, and only me. That the times were in my eyes and I said the depth was in his and we would cometogether. Remembering the first time we did it. The first time he saw me shoot my silvery arc of rainbow across the bed and across him, and he asked me to play him, and play him good and hard and not be gentle sometimes, and I would grasp his penis in my mouth, and suck it, grasp it with my teeth biting, then take it out, love it up close with my eyes, then move his foreskin down like a curtain opening for the big event, and I would look at him up there looking down there at me and love would be Marcus, winter would always be Marcus, and Fall, and leaves turning brown and gold and falling redly from the trees would be Marcus. We needed no one in those days, for there was no waiting necessary, for there was no loneliness necessary for the trip round the next curve of highway, and the next broken apart dream that others didn't mind breaking apart, not even that, witting ness to give them at least a motive, just the terrible maw of indifference, the vacuum of it. Marcus alone in the schoolyard, too pale and too girlish the other boys said, but we knew differently. He could perform the greatest sexual acrobatics anyone could ever hope for. He would lie in bed on his back and raise himself to his shoulders and let me suck his penis while he was upside down and for a long time at that. He was boy naked and boy bare and boy love and boy dream and all the nightlong we lay like this, asleep and awake, drifting in colors surely and purely of our own. Quiet times and jokes and soft fall and Mark and no tricks and not lonely pain not ever again. All the takers, all the vandals, all the thieves, all the hypocritical half wit moralizers, had left the premises. Nothing remained, save Marcus, save the soft tender hurts of love, ands that he needed me finally as much as I needed him. He held to me this night and put his face against mine and put his hand on my naked chest, under the thick covers, in our room, lit only by the fireplace, the snow against our window, our witness and our guide, and he whispered "G'night, Barry." As I whispered back, "G'night, Mark." And we stayed that way for a time. And then we made love again and we drifted afterwards with my hands on his warm cupped buttocks, and his cupped around my penis spent, and the coin of the realm was Marcus, and the moon and the sun were Marcus, and the woods and the snow and the wind and the naked trees were Marcus, who would sometimes sit on my stomach, and pull his penis out of its fleshy house, display it getting stiff and his balls tight, his hands on them, readying them for me, smiling wickedly, as I warmed his already warm arms with my hands and touched his bare legs and his naked back, as he knee walked up my chest to where my mouth could get at his little pink hard on. And trembled at the majesty of him. My true love. And no one would separate us or hurt us or laugh at us or play tricks on us ever again. We had been taken from the corner of the different schoolyards in different places of time and space, where we had stood mute and sad because the boys never picked us to play their games. But the games of other boys were over. They lose. And Marcus and I. Well...I guess we win after all. And like Charlie Buckets was told by Willy Wonka, we too will live happily ever after.