Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2019 16:57:08 -0500
From: MC VT
Subject: Tent Bubble Gay Adult-Youth

Tent Bubble
 ©MCVT2017  December 12, 2019

Further adventures of our favorite professor.

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100% Fiction, adult content:  Mb, Egyptian cotton.
===========================================================================

"Tent bubbles?"  He picked at his lunch.

"Only if you wee-wee first."

"I'm big now, it's not wee-wee, it's u-rin-ate.  Mom said."  He stood,
dumping the last half of his pâté in the trash and slamming
the china on the countertop.

"Okay.  Upstairs."  I took our glasses to the sink.  "Brush!"

Got things squared away and went to the bedroom for our lay-down.  He was
way too old for a nap, yet he enjoyed listening to the music and getting
his back rubbed under my very favorite old sheet.  He called it a tent
because I tossed it over my head, and it covered me to my knees.  He'd get
underneath, lift his feet allowing the air to enter, then dropped his legs
to make a soft, breeze.  "Tent bubble" he called it.

I followed him into the bath.  He was brushing, I joined him.  "Did you
pee?"

"You got a fixation?"  Clever boy, with very intelligent parents who played
in the symphony.

"My duvet still smells like urine after the dry cleaners.  Like trying to
sleep in a latrine for six years no less."  I lied.

He mumbled something like "bullshit."

"I heard that."  Hot day, we stripped to our briefs and turned on the
ceiling fan.

...

He pulled out my sheet and jumped on the bed, standing, wandering around
arranging the covers and pillows with his feet, no respect for Egyptian
cotton.  "Play the tickler music."

"Can you be more specific?  Does the composer have a name?  Would it be
Johannes Thrill-me-please Bach? Perhaps Titillating Tchaikovsky by chance?"
He was dancing around thinking.

"The fast one."

"Ah, Laughing Liberace."  That meant I'd play Glinka, then Vivaldi.  Where
is that overture?  If I wore him out with tickles, maybe he'd fall asleep
and let me rest for a while.  Parents thought I'd turned into the local
Kiddy Korner Day Kare after I retired and dropped him on my doorstep too
often.

Slipped the CDs in and faced the bed to see a short ghost.  "Get my sheet
off your head, and lay down.  You know the routine."

"Why are you so mean to me?"

"Because you're a smelly green semiquaver.  That's why."

"I don't pinch my baby brother anymore -- well, not lately."  Completely
uncontrite.

"What about the peacock incident?"

"He doesn't come over here to poop anymore."

"That's because he's in a peacock asylum -- probably uses crutches now;
taking Haldol."  He was jumping, sending the coverlet flying.  "You're
getting coal for Christmas, you're so wicked."

"Un-uh, I got four grandparents.  I heard Mom say they couldn't spend over
$500 each for my presents."

By this time, I was laying my head on my pillow and adjusting the placement
of my sheet.  "Tent bubble, get going."  Rapid strains of Glinka began,
"Hurry up."

Thin legs straightened upward and he let the sheet exhale gently over us,
then he got in position.  Head at my collar bone and his thin torso atop
mine.  "Stop wiggling your toes."

"Cranky."

Notes hit the air like a machine gun sputtering. Ruslan and Ludmilla
demanded my fingertips to touch, fingering him with the same moves I used
on my harpsichord.  Such smooth skin on this little sprite, too bad he was
such a snip.

Couldn't help but stroke along his back.  Up the row of tiny knots of his
spine, along his puny shoulders.  Rounded butt, a palmful in each hand
under the sheet in the dim light.  Fingertips tapping, I gently patted my
way up and down his slender torso.

We both dozed off, I was half-asleep when he stirred about.  Felt his short
rod probing my navel through his y-fronts.  He moved his hips a few times,
sighed and grunted, still asleep.  His finger came to his nose worming its
way into a nostril, then he had the audacity to wipe a minute splotch of
goo on my bicep.  Went back to snoring.

His breathing was regular, slow; deep in dreams.  Couldn't help but slip my
fingertips under the legs of his briefs, just to check his circulation,
surely.  Ah, yes, the warmth was even over each bun, better check the
cleft.  Well, he started wiggling around with that -- my fingertips sneaked
downward.  Perineum skin is delicate, best to make sure there's no fungus
down there.  Oh, warm and inviting, so smooth and soft, too short to enjoy
much until my fingertip nudged against -- why, could that be tiny nuts?  I
believe it must be.

His knees opened, falling alongside my hips.  "This has to be a
somnambulistic request," I thought without an iota of concern to
potentially having to explain myself later.  The tender skin between his
thighs called to my hands; back to that tiny scrotum.  Nope, no fungi yet
this exam was exciting me mightily.  This is the point I should have gotten
up, but Vivaldi commanded me to stay and exercise a rite of spring.
Instantly, instinctively, I created one.

My heavy shaft was proudly at attention with the closeness of the
situation, finding its way between warm thighs.  A few strokes, a few very
small hunches and I was ready.  Riding the crest of a fine movement, I
came.  Oh, geez, I couldn't stop cumming, so excited with the thought of
that tiny, tight hole so close.  It went everywhere - on my shaft, my hand,
running down my scrotum and I couldn't move for the bliss and when I could
move, I was apalled.  Gritted my teeth and wiped the best I could on my
hallowed head-sheet.

Suddenly, he lifted his head, "Did you pee on me?"  His hand went to the
back of his briefs where I hadn't seen a large splotch of my genetic
material.  "I'm wet!  You did!  Yuck!"  Immediately he got up and went to
the water closet, came back to see my head sheet in a rigid wad along one
edge.  "What's this?"  He tried pulling the wad apart.

"Bed glue.  It holds everything in place...  I order it from -- uh,
Iceland.  Wonderful stuff if there's not a pip jumping all over the
bedding."  I was wide-eyed, trying to look innocent while checking to see
that my glue stick was completely tucked away.

Every moment it took to rinse his briefs, my mind held the image of police
squads using a black light to check for bodily emissions -- just one
molecule, just one of my wigglers and I was doomed.  I scrubbed those tiny
briefs roughly several times and popped them in the dryer on high.  His
parents would arrive within the hour.

A brilliant idea came from my fear of being found out, I took him to the
back yard in just his shorts. "Water the hydrangea."  Giving a boy a hose
is a set-up.  He wouldn't be dry long, and the little yipper was soon
spraying water everywhere, missing the flora completely.  Then he aimed at
the birds coming to the feeder, damn he was a tart.

Ten minutes before his parents arrived, I had him redressed when he asked
if he could come over again.

"I thought you hated it here."

"I like the tent bubbles and music, today was good until you peed on me.
Feels good to get touches."  His candor was charming.  I only his patted
his head.

"Touches are good..."  I took a deep breath between my teeth recalling
those few second of climax.

Parents arrived to say they wouldn't be bringing the boy by anymore.  "He's
starting on the piano with Barbara Franklin.  Remember her?  She was in my
class..."

"Hatchet hands Barbara -- Forte Franklin."  I recalled.  She was good with
theory, and ever-heavy on the keys.  Maybe she had a hearing loss.  Not
sure, but her playing gave me migraines.

"Why not bring him by here for a little basic instruction -- kind of like a
Cavendish kindergarten?  Get those proper habits firmly in place."  I
doubted the boy could develop any positive habits, but I wasn't thinking of
his posture in front of a keyboard.

When I reached to tousle his hair, I swear that boy winked.


Fin.
Tenting