WARNING: This story – a fictional one - contains sexually explicit parts involving sex between minors and an adult. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.

 

Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.

 

Anyone wishing to contact me can do so at john.thestoryteller@gmail.com

 

Other stories on Nifty by John Teller/The Storyteller can be found here.

 

All rights reserved. All parts of these documents are © Copyright 2013 John T. S. Teller, and may not be reproduced in any form without the author's consent. Nifty.org has permission to reproduce it on their website.

 

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The Emancipation of Oscar Lewis.

By John Teller.

 

This story, written in 1st person, multiple character-speak, although it portrays graphic scenes of sexuality, the scenes are not meant to be gratuitous. Not that I have any problems with gratuitous, descriptive sex stories. Males, both young and old need a release for their sexual desires and it's far safer to release those feelings via the medium of a story than taking stupid risks that can lead to awful consequences. There is plenty of quick, flash-bang, get-your-end-away stories on Nifty to sate your appetites, so if that's what you want, then move on. However, if you prefer a story that has plenty of sex in it and deals with the social, moral, and emotional side of man/boy relationships, then stick with me.

 

Now down to the nitty-gritty. Even though he is attracted to older males, this is a story of the coming of age of a young twelve/thirteen year old gay boy in a world which frowns upon him exercising his individuality. It also involves a man who is sexually attracted to boys reaching and going through puberty. From good anecdotal sources, and from a lot of research, I know that some boys do manage to slip through the net of propriety and actually get to experience that they desire most; a relationship with an older person, or for better words that society accepts with great joy: a paedophile. But not all paedophiles are the monsters they are portrayed as, and as it's been since mankind was invented, relationships between adolescent boys and men can be rewarding to both. I add one proviso to my thesis – an unbreakable moral code: the boy must always desire the relationship, and when he says `No', he means NO! NO! NO! And don't YOU ever forget it!

 

Sermon over, and now, as usual, I will dedicate this story.

 

For the President of the DOM's League – Southern Chapter. And for wishful thinking and Bay & Kay and the ferrets.

 

Part one – Oscar takes advantage of the demon drink.

 

Oscar Lewis.

 

I've been wrestling with this gay stuff for about two years now, since I was about eleven, but the feelings are getting stronger. At first it was just the odd boy I looked at, but now I look at most of them; comparing them; thinking which ones I would like sex with and which ones I wouldn't. But never girls. And because I want to be normal so mum and dad can be proud of me, I'm trying desperately to change the way I think. I don't want to be gay! But it's so difficult suppressing the feelings that I want a man... no, a boy... no, a man... oh, shit... just somebody older than me to have sex with.

 

A man? Yes. I can lie to others, but I can't lie to myself. That would be really stupid. I've been looking at a man who's working on the new road; the new bypass they're building round my village that's getting overrun by heavy lorries and other vehicles heading for Aylesbury. The man is old as my dad! And he's looking at me. I can tell that the looks he's giving me are not normal ones. I think he's a paedophile who fancies me. The horrible thing is that I like him looking at me, and he's even ventured into my fantasies at night when I go to bed. If anybody finds out, they'll think I'm really sick in the head that I wank off while I'm thinking about a man from the road gang on top of me and making me have it. That's why I won't look at him if I can help it. But sometimes I can't stop myself... and he's getting inside my head. He's good looking; strong, and quite handsome.

 

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

 

Jeremy Foster.

 

I'm thirty-four and he's twelve when we first meet in September 2000. Well, let me put that a better way... we're that age when I first notice him. Being a lover of boys, how could I not notice the handsome boy with about seven or eight of his friends on the way to catch the school bus to the high school who walk past my very large, forty foot long static caravan each morning? Because I have net curtains in the windows, he can't see me, but after the first time I see him, I make sure I'm there as many mornings as I can to watch the boy pass by. It becomes a ritual with me: I'm up at 7.30, wash, have breakfast, and be sitting by the window drinking my second coffee before they appear round the bend to my left at about 8.30 and walk along the pavement on the opposite side of the road to where my caravan is situated. But unlike him, the other kids are rather ordinary, and have no attraction to me. Not so with him, the handsome little devil! Oh yes he is! He has a most striking posture, which I find unusual in a boy so young. I've seen many beautiful boys on my travels, but none who walk like him. Maybe that's what first alerts me to him; the upright stance that would not be amiss on a Sgt. Major. Head held high; back straight; shoulders pushed back, and a walk that yells athleticism. Add to that the fact that he is very well turned out (always with shiny black shoes) and beautifully combed short black hair atop his strikingly sexy features, and he is indeed a rare and beautiful creature. For just over four months I devour his loveliness, and the crush I have on him grows by each passing month. And I hate the times when school holidays and visits to my family interrupt me from seeing him. Because I don't know his name, I make an imaginary one up for him. I call him Sexy Bum. I don't think I need to describe the cute and shapely posterior in minute detail for you to understand why I give him that name. Let's just say that when I'm able to see it, I just know there'll be two handfuls of gorgeous, unblemished flesh to fondle if ever the opportunity arises, and I desperately want to kiss the most intimate part of it.

 

**********

 

Yes, it's been four months since we first moved into the area in August to build a four-mile-long bypass around the village of Regent Magna and other small villages on the main highway in the county of Buckinghamshire in England: the beginning of a thirty month contract. This project is little different than many other's I've done as a surveyor for the large civil engineering firm I've worked for since I joined them as a university graduate. I've progressed since then, and am now head surveyor on this project. That gives me certain privileges, and one of those is that when first we rolled into the area with our machinery and caravans, I had preferential treatment in selecting the site for my caravan. One could be excused for thinking that having it directly by a noisy road would have been the wrong thing to do, but because I can sleep through a thunderstorm, I chose it because it gives me instant access to a clean road the moment I step out of the front door and walk across the few paving slabs that lead to the highway. Believe me, in the middle of a cold and rainy English winter, the last thing one wants to do when going to the pub at night is wade through a muddy environment. So, without getting filthy, I can finish work at whatever time light allows (we often work late into the evening in summer to make up for days lost because of bad weather), shower, and then go for a late dinner and a few pints of beer at the local pub – The Jolly Roger – that's situated in the middle of the village about a quarter of a mile along the road to my left.

 

As usual when we first set up, we're treated like aliens, but the locals soon get used to us. And we them, and I know that when we leave we'll be missed. We're like a travelling circus, but instead of artistes and clowns and animals, we're the same thing but in a road-building kind of way, and that means English, Irish, Welsh, and Scotsmen; big and small; thin and fat; even and hot-tempered; handsome and ugly; etc. What am I? English (from Ely in Cambridgeshire); very even tempered; blond-haired and blue-eyed; five-eleven; slightly stocky but not fat; certainly not ugly; and most people enjoy my laugh and my sense of humour. My family did.

 

**********

 

My family? Oh yes, Jeremy Foster has a family, or to be more exact: had. I married a Scots girl from Edinburgh, Lucy Ferguson, when I was twenty-four and she was twenty-five. We have two kids: Bridie (9) and Robbie (6). Well, to say that I'm married is a misnomer. After almost two years of fading affection, we legally separated in July 1998, and divorce proceedings on the grounds of non-compatibility are almost done. Neither of us wanted to go down the road of infighting over the kids or finances, so we've sorted things amicably and just get on with our lives. It actually works. Being a surveyor on major projects means one is away from home at least the five normal working days of a week, and in my case when the weather is good, sometimes as often as three weeks at a time to make up for bad weather stoppages. My salary is excellent, and Lucy is a schoolteacher, so that's why I live my almost solitary life quite happily, and Lucy has a good, middle-class home and financial status to match. The one downside is that I love my kids, but if I'm honest, they've grown up with an almost absent father and now have other interests. I'm very fortunate that both sets of grandparents get on well, and what love I can't give to the kids, they more than make up for it. So, in a strange, haphazard way, it works, especially because I know that my sexual preferences lie with pubescent boys and not women.

 

**********

 

Unlike those who say they've never partaken of the forbidden fruit, I've often eaten it. Civil engineering projects attract boys like flies. And girls! But I was never into young girls. I leave that to some of the good-looking Irish boys who will fuck anything from thirteen to fifty. I'm far choosier. I like my boys young and tender, and not backwards at coming forwards. And it's surprising how many young gay boys, while they'll hide like terrified meercats from men in their own territory, will be far more relaxed and open with someone who is not of their immediate clan. They know we travelling folk don't kiss and tell, and their secrets will remain a secret once we've gone. It's psychological.

 

I'm beginning to lose count of the number of boys who've wanted sex with me. Most were successful, but I rejected a few because I didn't quite trust them not to blab about the experience. I have a good intuition about who will and who won't reveal the intimate details of our relationship, and up to the point in my life when I arrive at Regent Magna, my intuition has been very reliable.

 

Yes, I love having sex with boys, especially those who see me as a first step on the rung to whatever they're going to be. They don't necessarily have to be gay. Some young boys are too shy with girls, but less shy with someone of the same sex to experiment with. I don't care as long as I get my end away. Some may baulk at returning the favour of a blow job, but the very least they'll do is allow one to feast on their succulent young bodies and then masturbate their provider of sexual pleasures. I don't look on it as abuse. I never touch a boy who doesn't want to be touched, and I never do anything to them that they don't desire. And contrary to the general belief that all boys who engage in sex with men want seven inches up their tender young backsides, my experience is that it's a rarity rather than the norm. Some will happily agree to mutual, oral sex, and of those there are two kinds. One will spit and the other will swallow. I never spit. I love tasting young boy semen, and I never let a boy go until not a drop is left in his quickly softening dick. But not all the boys I've had have reached the stage where they can produce semen.

 

The youngest boy I've had was a ten-year-old who simply liked sex, and he couldn't produce the precious nectar of burgeoning boyhood. He didn't particularly care for me; he just needed me to satisfy his well established desires. He'd been wanking since he was six, and I was another rung up the ladder of fulfilment. Brian is gay. He actually made me fuck him. Not the full seven inches; just enough of me to reach his tender prostate, which sent him crazy with desire and induced multiple orgasms while I was pounding his gorgeous young bottom and filling it full of my hot semen. By the time I meet Sexy Bum in Regent Magna, Brian McGelvy is eighteen and enjoying the delights of the London Gay Scene. His parents hated him for being queer, so he upped and made a life in the big city. He still keeps in touch. Occasionally he'll phone me and give me chapter and verse on how he's doing. Yes, Brian McGelvy is one of my best conquests, and I'll always have a soft spot for the cute little boy I first met when he boldly attached himself to me when we were doing a job in Falkirk. He was also a kinky little sod. He loved to have his arse rapped a few times before we began, and then he'd be in the doggy position quicker than I could get my dick out.

 

Talking of kinky, there was also that amazing no-name French boy I met in Mid Wales. He was without doubt the kinkiest boy I ever met, but perhaps more on him later. For now, though, he was indicative of how different young boys can be: all shapes and sizes in body and dick; all different bottoms, and all with their own sexual traits. But most people are ignorant that boys are no different than adults once they discover their sexuality, and as we know, human beings are the most perverted of all creatures when it comes to satisfying their lusts. So, too, are young boys if they can find a suitable partner they are comfortable with and who will not judge them, and is not alarmed by their individual kinks. That's why I love them. They're like candies out of a sweet shop; each as individual sexually as caramels are to candy floss. But the outcome is always the same: the joy for both man and boy when they reach the peak. Like young Jimmy Dobson who sought my company in Halifax. He was a sweet boy with a wonderful, northern accent that slips easily off the tongue. Jimmy was fourteen when we first met, and he could already shoot copious ropes of semen from his big dick that was more often down my throat than out of it. And he reciprocated. He could suck a dick better than any boy I've ever had, and by the time we parted, he could almost deep throat me entirely.

 

In between or around Brian and Jimmy, standing out from a few casual sexual encounters, there were Saul and Andrew and Martin and Michael. The latter four were good in various degrees, but they all had one thing in common: they were all were under fifteen, and all had succulent, slim young bodies. That's my turn-on. I enjoy boys with bodies that are lithe and athletic. This brings me nicely back to Sexy Bum. He's different than the others. In what way? He's the only one who's ever really got inside me, right inside my heart so that I've fallen in love with him, and that happened probably late September not long after we arrived here

 

**********

 

September, October, November, December. The months pass and I've not made contact with Sexy Bum. I find that quite strange. This is a small village, and given the fact that I spend some of my spare time just driving about taking in the countryside (which I love), not once do I come across him. I don't consider following him home in the evening, not least because I never stalk my `victims'. The boys either come to me willingly, or not at all. There's no halfway house with me. The consequences of child abuse are far too dangerous for me to even go there. No, if Sexy Bum and I are to meet, it will have to be because he wants to meet me. I sometimes offer him teasers by being outside the caravan in the morning or the afternoon when he's coming home from school and try to catch his eye with a smile, but he hardly notices me. That's disheartening, especially because I now have a massive crush on him. In fact, because he ignores me, I begin to give up on us ever becoming an item. It happens. There have been a number of boys I've seen in the past who I fancied who never gave me a second glance. It comes with the territory of being a lover of boys. I suppose it also comes in all walks of life, no matter what sexual persuasion one is... one clicks or one doesn't.

 

**********

 

December. Christmas time. Because the weather has been very dry while we've been in Regent Magna, and we're way ahead of schedule, the site manager decides he'll close up for two weeks to regroup. The heavy machinery we use is overdue for a wash and brush up. Most of the workmen will go home – wherever home is – and only those who are vital for security and maintenance personnel will remain on site.

 

I go home. Or to be more precise, I go to my parents' house in Ely, Cambridgeshire, not far from where my now separated wife and kids live, in the house that used to be our shared home. Because my wife is Scottish, the arrangements aren't difficult to organize. She and the children will stay in Ely over Christmas, and then spend New Year (Hogmanay) with her parents in Edinburgh.

 

(I'll get this bit over quickly.)

 

During the Christmas period in Ely, we all spend Christmas Day at my parents, and then, on Boxing Day, we all go out together for lunch, and then dinner in the evening. That's pretty much what my Christmas consists of, and three more days of shuttling between my parents' home and seeing the kids is as much as I can stand. So, because I can't get Sexy Bum out of my mind, I decide to call it a day, go back to Regent Magna, and celebrate New Year in The Jolly Roger with a few people from the village who I've become friendly with. I do have some acquaintances within the road gang, but because of my preference for small boys, which some of them are aware of, I prefer the company of those who have no idea of my predilection to fuck their kids.   

 

*********

 

Its Thursday the 30th when I drive back to Regent Magna in the company car: a two-year-old silver Honda that will be exchanged for a new one in twelve months time. I set off at 10am, and am back in the caravan by two in the afternoon. The drive down has been strange; a mixture of sadness that I won't be seeing my kids for a while, and a certain excitement that I'll be near Sexy Bum shortly. The moment I get in the caravan, I take out a picture of him that I took secretly when he was coming back from school. I've snapped quite a few from behind the net curtains, but this particular one is my favourite. After a day at school, he isn't quite so tidy, and because it was a warmish day when I took this particular photograph, he has his schoolbag slung over one shoulder and his school-jacket slung over the other. As usual, he's walking upright, and is grinning at one of his chums when I took the picture. It's Sexy Bum at his beautiful best. I kiss it, and smile. I'm happy to be back.

 

At seven o'clock I'm in the pub and having dinner alone in one of the dark mahogany, tabled cubicles that extend around the perimeter of the large room that serves as the restaurant. The high backs of the red dralon seats make each one more intimate, and separate table from table – four-person ones on the back wall, and six-person ones around the rest of the room. There's no bar in this room; that's in the passageway, conveniently placed to serve the other two rooms that make up this old fashioned pub. The saloon-bar is the other side of the drinks bar, and opposite it is the games room with bar-billiards, and a skittle-board and dartboard.

 

Compared to the normal hustle and bustle when the site is in full-flow, without the workmen being around, when I get there the place is almost empty. Bill Travis, the jolly, bearded landlord, who, according to the locals and his amusing, boastful manner, has run the pub from before time began, when he serves me, says that he's missing his regular clientele from the site. He quizzes me as to why I'm back. One thing I have learnt over time is that village life is different than urban life. Everybody knows everybody else's business, and my marital problems have long since been wheedled out of me during bouts of after-hours drinking. I tell him that because my wife and kids are on the way to her parents' place in Edinburgh, I decided to return to Regent Magna and catch up on some paperwork and other things before the workmen return from their break. Then I ask him what's happening at The Jolly Roger on New Year's Eve.

 

He winks at me. "Be here, Jezza. We're putting on a big spread, and most of the village will be celebrating. We've done it for donkey's years. Regent Magna is the place to be on New Year's Eve. It's tradition. I make more money in that one night than I do in a month before you blokes arrived to dig the place up. The locals from all around will be here with their families. So unless you don't like kids, just be here and enjoy yourself." Then he winks at me. "You never know... some young filly might take a shine to you when they're half drunk."

 

I laugh. "Am I that ugly that they need to be half drunk?"

 

He chuckles, and says, dryly, "In your case, it might help." He points to my home-made steak pie and chips and side salad. "Enjoy your meal."

 

When he's gone, I think about what he's said: The locals will be here with their families. So unless you don't like kids, just be here and enjoy yourself. Could it be possible that the boy I call Sexy Bum will be at the celebration? Unlikely. He's far too young. Most probably, Bill means older teenagers who'll sneak a few beers with their parents. But it sounds as if it's going to be a good night, so that cheers me up. And if I don't see him before, at least I'll be seeing Sexy Bum in about a week's time when they go back to school. Things are looking up, and after dinner I join Ted Lewis, the local blacksmith, in the games room for a few more beers.

 

I like Ted. He's my age. He isn't a tall man, but he's strong and brawny and has a good sense of humour. Unfortunately, half his face is badly battered from the effects of being kicked by a horse about a year ago. He's had some face reconstruction, but he's half-blind in one eye, and his speech is slightly slurred because his mouth is at an angle. But, as I said, I like Ted Lewis, and whenever he's in the pub, I always join him and the other locals who make up his intimate little group while they play dominos or cards. I know some things about him. Over beers and time I've got to know that he has a wife who thinks the world of him despite his injured face, and he has a son who goes to the high school. When I ask him if he'll be at the pub on New Year's Eve, his eyes sparkle when he says, "Best night of the year, Jezza. This place will be packed to the rafters, and some of the kids in the village get pissed up. I was only fourteen when I first got pissed up here." He nods his head towards old Bill Travis. "He couldn't stop laughing for a week after because I was so ill."

 

I laugh. "Sounds like a recipe for disaster. Will you be bringing your missus and kid?"

 

He grins. "Unfortunately I will. Oscar is a bit too young to drink, but he enjoys playing billiards, so I reckon he'll have a ball while we get bladdered. This will be his first time. He wouldn't have been coming now if the mother-in-law hadn't let us down. She's going to a party with friends. Anyway, it's Oscars treat. He was thirteen on Christmas Day, and he absolutely hates his birthday being the same day as Christmas." He laughs, and I see a twinkle in his undamaged eye. "I had to carry the missus home last year, and she rarely drinks!"

 

I chuckle. "It's a good job you don't live far away."

 

It's two o'clock in the wee small hours when Bill throws us out. I chat to Ted Lewis and a few of the other locals outside for about fifteen minutes, and then walk back to the caravan. Although it's cold enough for my breath to look like clouds of smoke, I enjoy my half-drunken walk back under the starry sky to the caravan. Alcohol always makes me romantic, and I fantasise that I'm with Sexy Bum and he's coming to spend the night with me. He's about the right age of boys I'm attracted to, but there's just something about him that I sense as maturity beyond his young years; that certain something that separates the `men' from the boys if you know what I mean. But, like many before, I reckon I'm on a loser with him. I've pretty much worked out that he's purely heterosexual and I don't have a chance with him. He's shown no signs of attraction. So maybe there might be some boys at the party that take my fancy?

 

The caravan is cold when I get into it, but I soon warm the place up when I switch on the gas fire to full. I'm tired, and decide not to wash. Instead, I turn the gas fire to low, which will stay on all night to keep the place warm, and go to bed with a large Scotch and the picture of Sexy Bum under my arm.

 

He's above me, lying along the length of my body, grinding his rigid dick against my belly while clamping my dick firmly between his strong young thighs. He lowers his head and crushes his sexy lips against mine, desiring the passions of mutual love. I caress his beautiful young back, down to the two orbs of pure joy, kneading them, fondling them. My fingers worm their way into the tight crack and to the small, puckered anus that I desire, and when I touch it, he pushes back until two of my fingers are buried to the hilt. I find the small mound of desire and gently manipulate it to encourage his first orgasm, which, when it happens, induces copious ropes of his hot semen to squirt between our writhing bodies. He sits up on my thighs and runs his fingers through the sticky fluid, and feeds some to me. I suck it greedily from his fingers. Then he scoops up some more and massages my raging dick with it. The feelings build to a crescendo of lust that has me spurting ropes of my own hot semen onto his beautiful face, and he smiles at me. Then his face becomes serious. His eyes stare into mine, and he says, "I love you Jezza."

 

**********

 

I have a lie-in on Friday morning, and then go into Aylesbury to do some shopping. I don't always eat at The Jolly Roger, so I keep a stock of food and stuff in so that I can eat as and when I have the chance when I'm working full-time; when the job is in full swing. When I pay, I'm surprised just how much I've spent, and when I get back, I have to rearrange everything in the fridge-freezer to get it all in. I've bought some ready-made sandwiches for lunch, and after I've eaten them, I actually get down to doing some serious paperwork.

 

I have copies of all the project plans, and after three hours I reckon we're just about on schedule. The early part of our task is always the part that looks as if nothing is getting done. Apart from the devastation and demolition, no serious construction is taking place. We've done some ground levelling, but that's at both ends of the project. Here in Regent Magna, apart from demolishing a farmhouse and laying out a large square of ground with loose chippings to make the surface habitable for our temporary dwellings and store sheds and steel containers, the projected route of the bypass has not even begun to take shape. We're in the centre of the project, and starting at both ends rather than the middle gives us many benefits that most folk don't appreciate. For a start, it's always important to keep our main site clean and tidy. The last thing we want to do is get the locals on our backs. This is our `house', and one never shits in one's own backyard. Well, not until the end of the project when it doesn't really matter what they think about the devastation we're creating. By the time the job is complete, apart from a few tidying up projects, most of our travelling circus has flown the nest.

 

But life is rarely the same when we leave. Two years of disparate men occupying the place always leaves scars. It's pretty much like when an army is encamped somewhere. Associations grow and evolve, and many marriages break up because of our presence, as well as the birth of a few babies who will never know who their true father is. The extremely handsome, dark-haired Paddy Mcginty, who drives a large bulldozer, leaves a sprog in almost every project we've been to. It's a standing joke that he'll get shot one day. And he isn't the only one. I've left behind a few boys who've missed me when I was gone. But that's life with our travelling circus: our merry band of waifs and strays that make up a construction team. We have to have our fun!

 

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

 

Oscar Lewis.

 

I stand in front of the mirror and brush my hair until I'm satisfied I can't get it any better, and then I squirt some lacquer on it to keep it in place. I've chosen to wear blue tonight for Jezza. I like blue because it emphasises my dark hair, and I reckon it makes me better looking.

 

I noticed Jezza the day when he was setting up his caravan by the road, and as the weeks and months have gone by, despite my worries about being involved with a paedophile, I've wanted to get to know him better, but I can't because my mates are with me and I don't want to let on that I'm gay. They don't know I'm gay, and no way am I going to let on by being familiar with him. I've seen too many boys at school whose lives have been made a misery when the other lads find out they're gay. So I keep my feelings and thoughts to myself, and every time he's there when we pass by him, I deliberately try to ignore him. But tonight I won't be able to. I've discovered from dad that his name is Jezza, and he's become a good pal of dad's. And tonight he's going to be sitting with mum and dad. They don't know I'm gay, and I've no intention of telling them. Our family isn't like that; able to talk about sex and stuff. Mum and dad often make fun of me by talking about girlfriends, and so that they think I'm normal, I never tell them that I don't like girls, and I'm certainly not going to tell them that as my sexual feelings have developed, I'm finding myself attracted more and more to older boys and men rather than kids my own age.

 

But even I'm surprised that I'm attracted to a man as old as he is. The first time I saw Jezza, I got that feeling; the one that made my cock go hard. I know he's married with kids, and that doesn't fit in with what I know about paedophiles, so I might be mistaken about him. But even if he isn't one, he does live alone on the site, and maybe I can get him to like me that way. Apart from Peter Childs in year six, he's the only person at the moment that I want to have it off with.

 

I pull my cock out and look at it. I'm thirteen now, and have just started growing pubic hairs. Only a few straggly ones though, just above my cock. But I love them. The clear stuff I can make when I wank will become proper spunk in a few months time. I'm becoming a man; a gay man; and I want gay sex.

 

One last look in the mirror, and then I go downstairs feeling really excited, and it isn't just because I'm going to the famous Regent Magna New Year's Eve party for the first time... it's because I'm going to meet Him properly for the first time.   

 

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

 

Jeremy Foster.

 

New Year's Eve. I've eaten a large Tesco lasagne ready meal for dinner at seven, showered, shaved, and had a shit before I saunter down the road to The Jolly Roger at 9 o'clock. It's a beautiful, cold, starlit night, but I have on my Arctic Parker and a woollen muffler to keep out the cold. I'm about a hundred yards away from the pub when I hear the racket; some sort of a rock band Bill has booked for the night, and I can clearly hear a rendition of The Rolling Stones I Can't Get No Satisfaction by the time I pass the ancient church with the tall, slim steeple that can be seen for miles around, and the well kept graveyard, full to overflowing so they've had to create a new cemetery just up the road from the site. I grin at the thought that some of the old buggers lying in here will be turning in their graves that their previously tranquil village has been turned into a rock concert for the night, but being a sort of expert on village life by now, I also know a few of the mad sods will probably be jiving inside their coffins. Some people think rural villagers are all staid and upright. I know better. Some of the greatest characters I've met in my life are these country folk when they let their hair down. Anybody who has been to a Farmer's Ball will attest to that!

 

When I reach the pub and go into the smoky, warm atmosphere, it's like walking into a nuthouse. The band has been set up in the saloon bar, and extension speakers placed in all the rooms, and the place is choc-o-bloc with folk. It takes me ages to even get near the bar to get a pint. I'm extremely lucky. Ted Lewis is by the bar getting some drinks in, so I yell across to him above the crazy noise, "Ted! Get me a pint!"

 

Ted's battered face grins when he sees me, and then he put a thumb up to acknowledge he understands me. I wait until he's finished his order, and then he waves to me to help him. I can't stop laughing when he passes me a tray with eight pints of beer on it, and then he barges his way through the crowd with another tray containing Cokes and what I think are gin and tonics. He's sweating when he gets to me, and says, "I've saved you a place with us."

 

We go through into the restaurant, which has now been cleared of everything except the immovable mahogany cubicles that line the outsides of the room. There's a good reason for that: the rest of the room is full of folk jiving and singing. I follow Ted to one of the four-person cubicles, and sitting there is what I take to be his wife. The first thought that crosses my mind is: Beauty and the Beast. She's a fantastic looking woman with wonderful, long black hair that drops below her shoulders. But there's also something else. She looks familiar to me, and I know I've never seen her before. But not only that... just looking at her has made my dick stir. She's a really sexy looking woman!

 

Ted places his tray on the table and sits opposite her; by the wall; by a window that overlooks a patio behind the pub that has lots of tables with folded up sun-umbrella shades and a few swings and stuff for when the place gets busy in summertime. I place the tray with the beers onto the table and slide into the bench seat next to him, point to the eight pints of beer, and yell to make myself heard, "Who are these for?"

 

He grins, and yells back, "For us! I'm not spending half the night queuing at that bar!" Then he points to the woman. "This is my wife, Michelle." He turns to Michelle. "This is Jezza who I told you about. Be careful with him... he's proper lady's man!"

 

I grin; Michelle grins, and we shake hands.

 

Her eyes are like dark pools of iniquitous cobalt green that are utterly captivating. I've never seen eyes like them, and the highlighted, black eyelashes emphasize their fascination. With difficulty, I break the gaze and feel utterly ashamed of myself for my previous, fleeting thought. Beauty and the Beast, indeed! I glance to my right. Ted is sitting with the undamaged side of his face clearly profiled, and I realise what a handsome man he must have been before he had his face kicked in. And then a strange thought passes through my mind. No way am I into men, but I reckon Ted would have been a beautiful boy, and he would have made a marvellous fuck. I pull myself together, and ask him, "Where's your lad?"

 

Ted points at the dancing hordes. "That's Oscar there! Him wearing the blue shirt outside his jeans."

 

**********

 

To say I'm stunned is an understatement! I feel almost faint when I know who his boy is: Oscar is Sexy Bum! Oh... my... God! I knew Ted had a son, but never did I associate Sexy Bum with Ted. Why did I do that? Ted's had his face kicked in and isn't very good looking, and Sexy Bum is absolutely beautiful. They're a paradox, and I'm a stupid, bigoted bastard! And I'm especially stupid because had I known who Ted's son was, some way I would have manoeuvred things so I got to visit him in his home. Fucking idiot... even more so because I've known his name for ages. Oscar. What a beautiful name!

 

Because Oscar has his front is towards me, I can see the beautiful creature in all his glorious splendour. His blue shirt is indeed outside his blue jeans, but it's also unbuttoned halfway down and I can see some of his chest: a splash of white, silky skin beneath the leather, plaited choker he's wearing around his slim, long neck. And now he's divested of the normal clothes he wears to school, I can also see why he walks so beautifully. He has broad shoulders, and not even being able to see it because his shirt is hanging outside his jeans, I know they'll taper down to a slim waist, and then fill out again to shapely hips, which I can see occasionally when he's dancing. And if the bottom half of his body is like the rest of him, then I also know he will have long, strong legs beneath the blue jeans. Because his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his biceps, I can see that he has strong arms. If I was smitten before, I'm well and truly captured now. Before opening my mouth to say what my brain's thinking, that he's as beautiful as his mother, I turn to Ted, and say, "There's no mistaking that he's your lad. He's a fine young man."

 

Ted laughs. "He's got his mother's eyes, but I used to look like him when I was a lad... before I got my face kicked in."

 

I look across at Michelle. She's smiling, and I know I've said the right thing. I pick up one of the beers. "Cheers folks. Let's drink to a great New Year!"

 

Michelle has already poured half of one of her bottles of tonic into a glass of gin, so we all clink glasses before taking a drink. I'm thirsty, and drink half my pint before placing the glass down. Ted grins, and quips, "Take your time City Boy. We've got a long way to go."

 

I laugh, pick up the glass again, empty it completely, stare challengingly into his eyes, and quip back, "We city boys can take our ale better than you country folk."

 

Ted laughs, picks up his glass, and doesn't stop drinking until it's empty. Then he winks at me with his good eye. "We'll see... City Boy!"

 

Michelle says loudly from across the table, "Hey you two... go steady! I'm not carrying you home!"

 

Ted laughs again. "And who had to carry you home last year?"

 

Michelle gives out a delightful giggle. "Somebody must have laced my drinks."

 

Ted grins. "Like my arse they did! Drink up my beautiful girl! We're going to have good time with City Boy tonight."

 

I look into Michelle's eyes when she picks up her glass. If I'm not very much mistaken, she's thinking the same thing I am: she wants to fuck me as much as I want to fuck her. I'm not completely into boys. A special woman like her would be a nice experience. Even better would be to fuck both her and her son. And with that thought in mind, I pick up another glass of beer and look again at the most urgent part of the duo I want to have sex with.

 

He's seen me. I know he has, because while he's jiving he often glances at me. There are no salutations, but neither does he ignore me, which is far better than what I've had from him up to yet. When the music ends, rather than staying with the two girls and the two other boys he's dancing with, he comes across to us. My heart is racing as he slips into the seat opposite me. He's breathing heavily, and he has a silly grin on his face as he pretends to be knackered. Sweat's pouring off his brow, and he wipes it away with his forearm. Then he looks directly at me... into my eyes.

 

His eyes are exactly like his mother's, and I know that my reaction to them isn't ambiguous. That's why I break the gaze immediately. Unless he's a dummy, no way will he have not seen the affection in my own eyes while our gaze held for that short moment. The same thing happened when his mother and I first looked at each other, and she knew that I was attracted to her sexually. But, most probably, Oscar is not yet old enough to understand the almost symbiotic vibes when people of different ages look into each others eyes that way. Most boys his age don't, and at this moment there's no way of telling, and I'm not about to lead an innocent boy into a den of iniquity, even if his eyes are iniquitous! For now, I'm more than content be in his delicious company.

 

"This is Jezza, the bloke I was telling you about. He's head surveyor on the new road," Ted says to Oscar.

 

Oscar looks at me, and says, "You're the bloke who lives in the caravan right by the main road."

 

So, I'd been wrong! He had noticed me! I grin at him. "And you're one of the young buggers who wakes me up every morning when you're on your way to school!"

 

Oscar giggles. "Serves you right for staying in bed too long."

 

Michelle interrupts. "Oscar! Don't be rude!"

 

I chuckle, and before I can stop myself, I mutter, "S'okay. I like a boy with spunk."

 

When Oscar drops his head and giggles, I know he understands the double-entendre of the word `spunk'. I'd intended it as courage, but he knows it's also slang for semen, and if he's turned the quip on its head in his mind, he'll have taken it as me saying, `I like a boy who can make semen'. Little does he know that he's actually right, and in the event that Oscar can already produce it, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to induce him to make some, and not a single drop of his body-nectar would escape my eager palate.

 

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

 

Oscar Lewis.

 

Months ago, when dad first said he'd been having a few pints with `Jezza from the site', I imagined that `Jezza' would be a big fat bloke with a beer belly and a moustache and scruffy looking like most of the workmen who're building the road, but when he said that `Jezza' was living in the caravan by the road, that's when I began to get excited. And when dad said `Jezza will be joining us tonight', I was over the moon. When I was dancing and saw him carrying the large tray of pints of beer and he joined mum and dad, I was dead happy, so everything I did after that was to make him look at me. And he did, lots of times, and we even exchanged little smiles. I'm also pleased that he's dressed very smartly in a light grey suit and blue tie and a blue shirt and black shoes that are highly polished. Because I'm into blues, I like his clothes, and because I like to dress smartly myself, I can appreciate his dress sense. And his blond hair is styled nicely... not short and not long, but sort of wavy and combed back.

 

Dad calls him `City Boy' at times, and now I see him dressed like this, I know exactly what he means. He doesn't look anything like a road worker. More like a businessman. But he doesn't drink like a businessman. I almost started laughing when he drank his pint of beer in two goes, and then dad did the same. Dad can take his ale, or so mum says. She always says he needs his beers after a hard day's work, and she never complains when he pops down to the pub for a few beers at night or at weekend. He doesn't do it every night: about three times a week. On the nights he doesn't go to the pub, he's a proper dad to me. He'll help me with my homework, and we'll watch TV together, mostly with me curled up in his strong arms on the sofa. I love the feelings of being in his arms. Sometimes I almost go asleep when he kisses the top of my head and fondles my neck with his rough fingers. He doesn't know it, but sometimes just being in his arms and him doing that to me makes my dick go hard. I never let on what it's doing, and I always make sure my dick is tucked away so nobody can see what's happening to it, but that doesn't stop me enjoying it. I don't want sex with dad. That's a horrible thought, but it isn't those types of thoughts that made me go hard. I think it's just because I'm being loved and hugged in a pair of strong arms. And I'll guarantee that after every cuddling session I'll have a great time when I go to bed. While I'm wanking, I always pretend that strong hands are fondling me, and that I've got a big cock in my hands or mouth when I climax.

 

**********

 

When I sit down at the table, his eyes are the first thing I see. They're a sort of bright blue with flecks of white shooting out of the pupils, and it makes them look like they're twinkling at me when he looks right into my eyes. Just for a moment I feel really embarrassed, and then he looks away, and I know he's done it deliberately because there's no reason to look away. We haven't even spoken yet, and when we do begin to talk, he hardly looks at me. His talk is more to mum and dad than me even though he is speaking to me. Then he embarrasses me again. He uses the word `spunk'. I know it means courage, but at school we use that word when we're talking about fucking and sexy stuff. But he quickly changes the subject, and asks me in that lovely voice he has, "Are you going to be a blacksmith, Oscar?"

 

I nod. "I think so. I can shoe a pony." I look at dad. "Can't I dad?"

 

Dad seems proud when he says, "Dead right he can! He did the two front ones on Jenny Reeves's Section A Welsh Pony a couple of weeks ago. I didn't let him do the rear ones." Dad grins. "He's too young to have his face kicked in."

 

Jezza looks at me with appreciation. "Good lad!" Then I see him glance at my body before he continues, "You look as if you're going to grow up to be as strong as your dad. You walk like a Sergeant Major, and I reckon there's a bit of Zebedee in you." I give him a puzzled look. He grins. "You remind me of a coiled spring. You don't walk, you bounce along." He looks at mum. "Do you know what I mean, Michelle?"

 

Mum giggles. "He's been like that ever since he could walk. He never crawled on his knees like other babies do. He was a nightmare! At two he was into everything, and I couldn't leave him for thirty seconds before he was into something." She looks at dad. "Remember when he went missing?"

 

I've heard the tale many times, but I'm proud of hearing of my exploits as a baby. Dad takes a large drink out of his pint, and blows out a long breath. "I can! It was the worst and longest two hours of my life! Jack Dawkins found him sitting by his duck pond half a mile away. When I think what could have happened to him, my blood goes cold."

 

Mum puts an arm around my shoulders and lays her head on the top of mine. She doesn't say anything, but I know her hug says what she's thinking. Then I look at Jezza, and this time when our eyes meet, he doesn't break the gaze. He actually smiles at me, and there's a look of concern on his face. Then he nods. "I can imagine what you would have felt like, Ted. If it had happened to any of my two, I think I'd have gone grey-haired overnight." Then he picks up his pint glass and sits right back. "Come on... let's not think about what could have been. Oscar is safe and well and I reckon he'll be causing you a lot more problems in the future. Just wait until the girls are queuing up at your doorstep! He's a right good-looking young man. I reckon he'll break a few hearts before he's much older." He looks at mum, and smiles. "Won't he Michelle?"

 

I feel mum's head nod on the top of mine, and I feel all warm and loved inside, and most of the reason for that is because Jezza has said I'm good-looking.

 

**********

 

The rest of the night goes brilliantly! I've heard about New Year's Eve at the pub, but it was always the next day from mum and dad when they were getting over their hangovers. When I knew I could go this time, I felt really grown up, and I've been looking forward to it for ages. It's far better than I expected. I know a lot of the people here, and because dad is so well-known and popular, I'm sort of treated like a hero. Loads of men buy me Cokes, and I join in bar-billiards games in the games room. Mum and dad and Jezza get steadily drunk as the night wears on, and they become dafter as they do. But that's nice. Jezza even plays two games of billiards with me, and he hugs me quite a few times when he's making fun of me, and by the time everybody is getting ready for Big Ben to strike midnight on the TV, me and him are big mates.

 

Then it's midnight, and New Year. Everybody in the room gets up and goes onto the dancing area. The room goes quiet for a moment, and then we count down the seconds. Ten – nine – eight – seven – six – five – four – three – two- one – Happy New Year!!!!!!! Mum and dad kiss each other. Jezza put his arms around me and hugs me really tightly. I put my arms around his waist and hug him back. I know he's drunk, but even so, I'm surprised when I look up at him and see that he's almost crying. He grins through his tears, gives me a silly look, and his speech is slurred when he says, "Happy New Year little man." Then he really stares deep into my eyes, and winks. "You've got the mosht beautiful eyesh I've ever sheen, and you're the mosht beautiful boy I've ever sheen."

 

I don't know what to say, but right then, although he's drunk, I know he means what he's saying, and I also know exactly what Jeremy Foster really wants from me. But it isn't just Jezza who wants it? While he's hugging me and telling me this soppy stuff, I feel all warm and comfortable, like when dad's cuddling me, but in a different way. And I'm feeling both fear and excitement when he drags me across to mum and dad, and all holding hands we begin to sing Auld Langsyne. Jezza's holding my hand very tightly. I look up at him... at the man who wants me. My heart is pounding so much that I can hardly sing. I want to take my hand away from his, but instead, I grip it tightly, and when I do, I feel the fear slipping away and my cock begin to go hard. Oh... God!

 

After Auld Langsyne has finished and we've all sat down again, Jezza takes out his mobile phone and slurs out the words, "I need to make a phone call."

 

He's swaying as he heads towards the pub exit, and I'm afraid he might fall over. He and dad have drunk ten pints of beer, and there are still two pints each left on the table. Mum isn't much different. She's been drinking gin all night, and is talking as daft as they are. When Jezza disappears, I say to dad, "I'd better go and see that he doesn't fall down. He's as drunk as you!"

 

Dad giggles, makes a face like the thin man in the Laurel and Hardy films dad loves to watch, points a finger at me, and garbles, "Good idea shun. You go and shee that my besht pal doeshn't fall over." He giggles drunkenly. "You're my speshial boy, and don't you ever forget it! Go and make shure he hashn't shneaked off sho he doeshn't have to drink thish ale. We can't have Shitty Boysh shneaking off, can we?"

 

I laugh at him, get up, and go outside. Jezza's across the road, leaning against a wall. He's talking loudly into his phone. I haven't come to spy on him, but I can't help hearing bits of his conversation. He's telling his wife what he's been doing, and I hear him tell her that he loves his children and that they should never forget their dad. I feel really sorry for him. During the night, before he got really drunk, he talked about how he and his wife are getting divorced and that he'll hardly see his kids if she decides to go back to Scotland to be near her mother and father. I'm thinking this when he ends the call. I try to go back inside before he sees me, but just as I'm turning, he calls, "Oshcar!" I stop and wait until he's staggered across the road. He puts his hands on my shoulders. I grin and look into his face. He smiles. "Did I tell you that you're the mosht beautiful boy I've ever sheen... and that you've got the mosht beautiful eyesh in the whole wide world?"

 

I giggle. "Yes, but don't let mum and dad hear you saying it! You'll get in trouble!"

 

His hands tighten on my shoulders, he jerks his head back, and his face is serious when he's trying to focus his eyes on me. "You're right. I'm shorry. You're too young yet. But one day you'll undershtand how much Jeremy Foshter loves you." Then he shakes his finger and puts it to his lips. "Shhhhh. Don't worry, you're shafe with me. I wouldn't hurt you for all the tea in China." Then he giggles. "What I mean ish... only you can do anything, and your wish ish my command, my speshial boy." Then he releases me, does a low bow, and nearly falls over.

 

**********

 

I've got my arm linked tightly with Jezza's, and he's walking on the footpath; me nearest the road to stop him falling into it. The reason I'm walking him home is because dad told me to. Jezza protested, but dad said that he couldn't have his `besht pal' getting knocked over. `My boy knowsh the roadsh like the back of hish handsh, sho you'll be shafe with him.' And as we stagger along, Jezza tells me about twenty times that he loves me and that I'm special and that my eyes are either the most beautiful ones in the world or they're more beautiful than all the stars in Heaven. He also hugs me loads of times, and kisses the top of my head. Thank goodness nobody's about, and when he does raise his voice, I tell him to keep it down or he'll wake everybody up. He makes me laugh when he stops by the churchyard and starts talking to the gravestones, telling them they should be proud that they died in the same place where the most beautiful boy in the world lives. And he has a piss. Or, as he puts it, `a pish'. Despite being drunk and almost out on his feet, he manages to stay upright for what seems like an eternity while he empties his bladder into a privet hedge while I stand back, chuckling to myself as I watch the steam from his hot `pish' rise into the cold night air.

 

Then we come to the main road opposite his caravan. This is the part that mum (who's a drunk as dad and Jezza are) said I'd got to be careful. I'd told her that I had to cross this main road every day and that I hadn't had a drop to drink, so they needn't worry about me. I make sure absolutely no traffic is coming when I march Jezza across. And he does march, pretending, he says, to be me when I'm going to school. As walks go, when he starts walking like a German soldier doing a goose step, it's one of the funniest things I've seen in my life, and I can't stop laughing as I march him across the road.

 

We manage to get to the entrance door, and then he leans back against the green metal walls of the caravan while I find his keys. It takes some doing, especially when he pretends to be shocked that I'm in his trouser pockets, but eventually I find them in his left one, and unlock the door. I have to leave him leaning against the caravan while I go into the place and switch the light on. Then I go back out and try to push him up the three steps that lead into it. He helps me by holding both sides of the door frame and pulling himself up, and when he gets in, he stumbles across the floor until he slams into a door opposite.

 

I'm surprised how big the caravan is inside, and its appearance. I've always thought the road-men live in dirty caravans, but I'm surprised how clean and tidy it is. It's neater than our house, and it doesn't have seats all around the perimeter of the room like most static caravans; it has a proper three piece suite, which is in a soft-looking dark brown fabric with lots of cushions, and proper furniture and a glass occasional table between the sofa and what looks like a real gas fire that they have in proper houses with a copper chimney leading up from it. I reckon it was built like this because it's not a holiday caravan; it's his home for most of the time. It's beautiful, and I really like it.

 

The next job is to make sure he's safe and settled down for the night. I didn't realise how easy that would be. Twelve pints of beer has turned Jezza into a puppy dog. I help him take off his fleecy overcoat and the jacket of his suit, hang them on a hook by the door with some other coats, and ask him where the bedroom is. He gives me a wide-eyed stare, and I can't stop laughing when he pretends to cry when I shake my head in answer as to whether I'm going to bed with him. I ask him again, and he points to a door on the other side of the built in kitchen that has a proper cooker and a proper fridge-freezer and a washer-dryer and a sink and proper cupboards, and another door that leads out to the other end of the caravan. So I take hold of his fingers and he follows me meekly through the door after I've switched the light on. We're in his bedroom, and like the rest of the caravan, it's spacey and has a nice double bed with a mahogany headboard and a wardrobe with built in dressing table and top cupboards. On the other side of the bed is another door, which I reckon leads to the bathroom or whatever. I lead Jezza to the side of the bed, slip the duvet back, and point to it to indicate that's his next port of call. He does as he's told, gives me a naughty look when he undoes his trousers and slips them down to his knees, flops down on the bed, and tries to take them off. Because he hasn't taken off his shoes before the trousers, they get stuck by his ankles, so I kneel down, take off his shoes, and then pull at the bottom of his trousers until they've slipped over his feet and he's left wearing only his shirt, a pair of short white boxer underpants, and grey socks. He has a tie on, and I want that off to make sure he doesn't strangle himself, so I reach up to remove it, but by the time I'm there, he's fallen onto his back, so I have to climb onto the bed on my knees beside him to get to it. My head's right over him when I start undoing his tie and the top buttons of his shirt, and I don't notice his hand come behind my head until he's holding the back of my head. He looks right into my eyes, pouts his lips, and mumbles, "Give me a goodnight kish."

 

I stop what I'm doing and stare back into his blue eyes; that excitement growing inside me again! I know what Jezza wants from me. I might only be thirteen, but I'm no dummy. He's a paedophile, and I'm what he wants, but I'm gay, and I also want him, and that's why I let him pull my head down until our lips meet.

 

I keep my lips shut, but Jezza's are open as we kiss. Then his hand goes from behind my head onto my back, and he pulls me down onto the bed next to him. Again I don't struggle, and neither do I reject him when he worms a strong arm under me, rolls me on top of him, struggles with both of us so we're lying lengthways on the bed, and his hands begin to fondle my bum. That's when my cock goes really hard, and it's also when I relax and let his tongue go inside my mouth. I've heard of French kisses, but I've never had one. They say they can drive you crazy, and they're right. The taste of beer and manliness makes me feel dead sexy, and when his hands clamp tightly on my bum cheeks and he presses my hard cock against his belly and pumps at me as if he's having sex with me, I can't help but make the movements myself, too. I break the kiss and rest my cheek against his, rubbing it over his stubble to feel the nice sensation of manliness against my body. He relaxes, and the sexy movements stop while I'm doing it. The tables have turned. I'm now the one in control, so I do a few stabs with my groin to indicate I want him to start again. But he doesn't respond. I pull back and stare into his face. His eyes are closed. I kiss them, and whisper hoarsely, "Don't go to sleep yet!" He mumbles incoherently, and his head slumps to the side. I put a hand under it, pull it back, and my command is more urgent, "Don't go to sleep on me Jezza. Not yet... please!"

 

My emotions are mixed ones of anger and disappointment that I can't wake him up, and I'm not gentle when I sit up, grab his shirt, and shake him as hard as I can. But he doesn't wake, not even when I slap his face a few times. Now I'm really disappointed, and I'm about to get off him when an idea comes into my mind. I grab his hair and bang his head three times on the bed. No reaction. There's no way he's going to wake up, but now I don't want him to. He's completely helpless. But I'm not. In fact I'm more worked up now than I was before, and, excitedly, I sit on his legs and yank his underpants down onto his strong thighs to get at his cock; the first man cock I've had access to in my life.

 

It's soft, but it's a still a big one that lies across his body amongst a mass of blond, pubic hairs, and my throat is dry with excitement when I take it in both hands and lift it up. It's heavy! And so are his massive balls when I try those for size, too. Then I get hold of his cock again with both hands and try to bring it to life. But it won't. Jezza is out for the count, and so is his cock; and I'm disappointed. But my cock isn't soft. It's aching inside my jeans. So I lift myself up, undo them, flip off my shoes, and pull them and my underpants right off. Then I scoot up Jezza's thighs until my cock is level with his, put my left forearm on his heaving chest, and lean in closer so I can rub my cock on his while I'm wanking myself off. When the feelings come, I continue flailing his soft cock with mine until I've stopped shuddering and shaking and the feelings have all gone away. Then I feel guilty.

 

**********

 

After I've dressed and managed to get Jezza's underpants back up, I pull the duvet over him, switch off the light, close the main door, and run all the way home as fast as I can.

 

I go upstairs and into mum's and dad's bedroom. They're in bed, both fast asleep, so I go back downstairs again. Our little dog, Jack, is lying on the floor, looking at me with pleading eyes. I wonder if he's been taken for his last walk. Probably not, so I go and get the lead and take him out. I intend only taking him for a short walk, but because he's been locked in the house for so long, he keeps pulling on the lead to go further. We get to the churchyard, and then to the place where Jezza had a `pish'. He smells at the privet hedge, cocks his leg, and lets out a long stream of urine over where Jezza `pished'. I think about turning back, but because Jezza has not been out of my mind since I left him, I decide to go and make sure he's alright.

 

I go up the steps with Jack into the caravan, and switch on the lights. It's cold inside. Freezing cold! So I close the door and go to the gas fire and try to light it. I have to read the instructions on the side of the fire before I can get it to stay lit, and I leave it on full to warm the place up as quickly as possible. Jack loves a fire, and as soon as I step back, he turns in a circle and flops down in front of it, warming his belly.

 

The door to Jezza's bedroom is still open just as I left it, and I can see him lying on his back, just as I left him. I peer into the gloom to see if he's breathing. I can't really tell, and just for a moment I panic. I have to make sure he's alive! So I go in, look closely at his face, and breathe a sigh of relief when I see his lips moving slightly and his breathing is nice and easy. I lean closer and feel his warm breath on my face. He stinks of beer, but I don't find it off-putting. I sit down next to him, lean down, kiss him softly on the lips, and again rub my cheek on his manly stubble, and again my cock goes hard. I reckon from what's happened to dad a few times, he won't remember anything about the last part of the night we spent together. If I piss on him he'll wake up tomorrow and think he's done it himself. Dad pissed in the wardrobe once when he was like this, and he didn't remember anything about it the next day.

 

I roll onto the bed, lie down by Jezza's side, throw a leg right over him, wrap an arm around his chest, and snuggle into his neck so I can kiss it. He never moves when I tell him, "You've got the boy you love in your arms, Jezza, you fool, and right now if you were awake he'd let you do anything you want to him. He's feeling really sexy. Really sexy! Do you like that?" I think about mum and dad. They'll both be fast asleep now, and they're so drunk that they haven't a clue that I'm not in the house. I could stay here for hours if I wanted to. I kiss Jezza again, and whisper in his ear, "I'll tell you what, Jezza, just wait there and I'll give you a special treat. Don't you dare move!"

 

I get off the bed, go to the doors and make sure both are locked from the inside. Now nobody can get in, and I can do what I want. All the curtains are drawn, but I go round and check that there are no open chinks to allow anybody to see in, and then I undress in front of the fire; everything including my socks until I'm completely naked. The place is hot now, so I turn the fire down to medium, and go back to the bedroom. I hide behind the side of the door when I switch on the bedroom light; getting ready to put my clothes back on if he so much as stirs, but he doesn't move a muscle. That gives me courage to walk naked into the bedroom, and as I'm walking round the bed I come to a large mirror on the wardrobe. I stop and look at myself in it, wondering why Jezza thinks I'm so beautiful. I pose for ages, feeling at all the curves on my body and pretending Jezza is doing it. He's right. I am beautiful, and I am sexy, and I'll show him exactly how sexy I am in a few minutes! Then I see something on the dressing table. It's a photograph of me! Jezza must have sneaked it when I was walking back from school. Because I'm really scruffy in it, it was definitely taken when I was going home. Is that the only one he's taken of me? There's a drawer under the photograph, so I open it and look inside. I'm amazed! There are lots of them, and he's even blown some of them up so all you can see is my face. Jezza wasn't kidding when he said he loved me. I don't feel awful about it... I feel sort of impressed that it's me he loves. Apart from mum and dad, I didn't think anybody loved me. I search inside the drawer for anything else that might be to do with me, but there's nothing. I put the photos back in the drawer so he doesn't know I've seen them, and put the one on top of the dressing table where it was before. Then I look at Jezza again, and my cock begins to throb.

 

Very slowly, I pull the duvet right back so I can see all of him, and then I get in bed and lie down with him. When I wrap my left leg and arm over him, it feels lovely having our skins together. But my cock isn't touching his skin; it's against his underpants. I don't want that, so I get up, pull the duvet right off the bed, kneel on the bottom of it, and pull his underpants right off. I decide to leave his socks on... I'm not interested in his feet! But I am interested in his body, so I scoot up the bed, undo all his shirt buttons, and fold the shirt off his chest. No way can I get it right off, so I leave it at that, and look at him.

 

He's got a lovely body. There's no doubt that he wears shorts and no shirt in summer, because even though it's now winter, he's still got a faded tan line on his upper thighs and lower belly. My cock is going up and down like a pendulum with every heartbeat, and that's because, for the very first time in my life I'm completely naked with a man in a sexual situation. I've never had sex of any sort before, with either a girl or a boy, but I can now. Even though Jezza is out for the count, I can pretend he isn't.

 

I know what gay men do to each other. I know they put their cocks up each other's bums and pretend the other is a woman. Is that what Jezza wants to do to me? He was making those sorts of movements when I was lying on top of him, and I was joining in with him. I look at his big cock, imagining it inside me. It's impossible! No way will that fit when it grows to its full size! But gay men like to suck each other's cocks. That's different. That won't hurt. It'll be nice having a hot mouth sucking my cock instead of me wanking it off. But what about me sucking Jezza off? What will that feel like? Dare I?

 

When I pick it up, I squeeze it and his foreskin starts to roll back. Will it roll right off his knob? Mine hurts a bit when I do it. Will his hurt? I squeeze harder and pull it down, and I'm amazed when it slips right off with no problems. I'm frightened that it might not go back, so I squeeze it and push the skin up. It goes back easily, so I pull it down again and examine it to see if there's any dirt anywhere, but it looks spotless. Does it smell? I bend over and have a sniff. It smells like body deodorant. He must have sprayed himself around his cock before going out. I giggle. Perhaps he thought he might meet a boy? Perhaps he thought he might meet me? Wow! He couldn't possibly have dreamed we'd be in this situation and he won't know a thing about it. But I do, and I like being like this. So what can I do next?

 

I push his strong legs wide open and lie between them, holding his big cock in both hands with his foreskin pushed right back, open my mouth as wide as I can, and put it over his knob. Then I close my mouth on it, and suck. It feels weird, all soft, and I can roll it around inside my cheeks. I pull off him and look at it all wet and juicy now my spit covers it. I examine underneath it where the foreskin is fastened. It's almost bright red. Holding his cock tightly, I prod that part with my tongue. Then I get a surprise... I feel it getting bigger in my hands. I look up to see if he's awake, but he's still fast asleep. The feelings must be getting to him in his sleep. I know mine do. I often have wet dreams. What will happen if I keep licking it? I have to find out, so I do it some more. It's working! It's getting bigger! Wow! It's filling both my hands and moving up towards his tummy, and I have to pull it down to tongue it some more, and as I keep licking it, it grows and grows and grows until it's massive!

 

I'm not so much interested in Jezza's balls as I am his cock. Just holding it; feeling at it; sucking it; licking it, gives me a fantastic feeling. It's a strange feeling that I've never had before. I've often fantasized about doing all sorts of things with a man's cock, but I never thought that it would be like this. I'm so fascinated, and it's giving me such great sexual feelings, that I get up and try to rub it over every part of my body, and I'm shaking with nervous excitement when I'm doing it, especially when I push it down onto his belly, sit on it, pull my bum cheeks apart as far as I can so I can feel it touching my hole, and move up and down so I can feel it rubbing along inside my bum cheeks.  

 

He's still asleep, but now he's moaning. He hasn't got a clue what's going on, but what I'm doing must be giving him nice feelings in his sleep, like one of my wet dreams that I usually have just before I wake up and which leave my cock end sticky with the spunk I've made. That makes me even more excited, so I push down even harder and redouble my efforts. Then his noises become higher pitched, and his head begins to jerk from side to side. Will it happen to him while I'm doing this to him even though he's asleep? I soon discover it will when he wails, and at the same time, spunk spurts out of the end of his cock. Immediately I see it, I push myself up off his body, grab his cock with both hands, and direct the spunk to spurt onto me; onto my belly and cock and balls. When it stops spurting and is running down me and dripping from me onto him, I massage it into my cock and balls and around my bum, even into my bum hole, and rub it on my tits and belly and on my face and around my eyes and nose and lips, and I'm covered in Jezza's spunk when I wank myself off until the fantastic feelings surge through me.

 

When it's over, I know I have to clean us up some way, so I get off the bed and go into the main part of the caravan where the kitchen is. There's a dishcloth by the sink, so I wet it, wring it out, and clean myself off. And then I go back to him. It takes me three rinses of the cloth before he's clean, and then I get dressed as quickly as I can. I'm about to put Jezza's underpants back on when a devilish thought comes into my mind. Sod it! He'll never know I took them off, so I giggle and pull the duvet over him and give him a little kiss on the forehead. Then I decide to be really naughty, and put the photograph of me beside his pillow. That will give him something to think about when he wakes up! Hah hah.

 

I turn the fire down to `low', put Jack on the lead, switch off all the lights, go out, close the door, and again run home as fast as I can. When I get in, everything is just as I left it, and mum and dad are still asleep, so I go to bed wearing nothing. I usually wear pyjamas, but I'm still feeling sexy and excited at what I've done. I lie on my back, open my legs wide, and began to feel at myself, pretending its Jezza doing it, and then I pretend he's sucking my cock when I wank off again.

 

Although it's four o' clock in the morning, because of what I've done, and because I can't be sure that Jezza won't remember what happened before he fell asleep, I'm apprehensive. But then I think: so what if he does remember? I couldn't care less. He isn't going to tell, and I certainly won't. And if he does remember, I can use that to make him do what I want. But what do I want? I want more of what I've just had. But how can I get him to do it? I haven't got a clue, but I'll work something out so it happens without anybody finding out. I want it; Jezza wants it, so we can make plans. Then I fall asleep thinking of the spunk spurting out of Jezza's big cock. It was a fantastic sight! But even more fantastic was the feelings I got when I rubbed his spunk all over myself. I've never felt anything as sexy as that before.

 

To be continued.

 

You can find my other stories on Nifty here. If you wish to comment on this or any of my other stories, just drop me a line to john.thestoryteller@gmail.com Genuine comments will be appreciated. All flames will be extinguished in the trash bin.