Date: Wed, 21 Jul 2021 09:25:14 +0000 From: Wes Leigh Subject: The Gift of Stolen Time, Chapter 2 (Gay Adult/Youth) THE GIFT OF STOLEN TIME By Wes Leigh This is a work of fiction intended solely for the entertainment of my readers. Any resemblance to real people or places is purely coincidental. This story is the property of the author and is protected by copyright laws. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. If you enjoy this story, please support the Nifty archives today with a thoughtful donation. Chapter Two Somewhere in rural Wyoming, October 2015, First Journal Entry Where to begin? My name is Lucas Dean Roberts. I am 53 years old, and I have decided to begin documenting my life in this journal. Why am I doing that? The answer is: I don't know. Is that an answer? Well, if it isn't, it's the only fucking answer I have. Well ... damn ... I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm talking to you like that. You're just reading my journal. I'm the pissed-off asshole who's writing it. Why should I be mad at you? This is so stupid. Who am I writing to? Or, is it ... to whom am I writing? I guess I should at least use proper fucking grammar. I still wonder who will ever read this. Maybe no one. Maybe it's just for me. Maybe I need to get my thoughts down on paper so I can finally understand where my life is headed. Damn, it's cold here. Wyoming seemed like a good idea at the time. Get out of Arizona. Go somewhere that isn't over 100 degrees every day of the summer. But fuck, Wyoming is cold, and it's only October. Might not be my best decision. I hear San Diego is nice right now, so maybe I'll head down there. I certainly have the cash to go wherever I want. Okay. Yeah, I know I'm avoiding the purpose of the journal. Just ... give me a second ... So ... I was 12 years old when I met Johan. I think writing about Johan may be the best way to organize my thoughts, because the guy WAS as major part of my life for so many years. Anyway, I was 12. So was Johan, or at least, he looked 12 and that's how old he told me he was. But he was older than 12. A lot older. I just didn't know it at the time. At the time, all I knew is that we were two preteen boys who became the best friends two boys could hope to be. Is that cliche? I'm sure everyone says that about their childhood friend. The best ever! Well, when it came to Johan, it was true, damn it! He was my best friend, and I was his. Johan was a beautiful boy. He had the palest blue eyes I had ever seen. I felt hypnotized by them. Couldn't look away. Didn't want to look away. I loved staring into his eyes and waiting until one of us blinked, then laughing and hugging and wrestling each other to the ground. And he had white hair. I guess you'd call it platinum blonde, but to a kid like me, it was just white. Pure white, like snow. I always thought he was unbelievably handsome. I remember I was playing in my front yard when we first met. He walked up to me and said, "Hello. I'm Johan. What's your name?" I stared at him for the longest time, then I mumbled something stupid like, "Hi, Johan. My name is Lucas Dean Roberts." Stupid, right? I mean ... who tells another kid their full name? Isn't that something only parents use when you've fucked up so bad it takes all three of your names to show how bad you've fucked up? Johan didn't care at all. He laughed and stuck out his hand. "I am Johan Pietr Erickson. I grew up in Minnesota. My parents came from Sweden, but they are gone now, and I live with my grandfather across the street." And that's how we met. When I shook his hand, I swear I felt sparks run from his hand to mine. You can call bullshit on me if you want, but I know what it was like. There was something special about Johan. Or maybe it was our relationship that was special. We connected. We played together every day. We went to the park together. We bought ice cream from the ice cream truck, two different flavors every time, and we shared so we could both taste each flavor. Even when my parents couldn't give me a dollar for ice cream, Johan always had enough for both of us. Most of the time, Johan was at my house. I sometimes went to his house to play, which was okay with my parents as long as his grandfather kept an eye on us. But this is the funny thing about it: his grandfather was never home. I learned later that his grandfather didn't even exist. Johan had bought the house years earlier and lived in it by himself. I still find it hard to believe that no one suspected there was anything odd about a boy living alone in a house with no parents or grandparents. But Johan wasn't a boy, so it wasn't hard for him to fool others. I know, that sounds confusing as fuck, but you'll just have to trust me. It will all make sense in time. Ha! That's funny. It will make sense in TIME! It always comes back to time, doesn't it? Anyway, the year we met was--let me think--1974. Our idea of fun was mostly hanging out at a playground or swimming pool. We didn't have cell phones to keep us distracted. We actually had to play outside and entertain ourselves. Oh, I guess there were some simple computer games like Atari, but I didn't have one. My parents couldn't afford anything like that. Johan had one, though. He had it in his bedroom connected to a TV, so I spent as much time as I could over there, playing Pong and Space Invaders and stuff like that. Johan also helped me a lot when it came to dealing with my brother. Stephen was 15 at the time and a bigger asshole than he is now, if that's possible. Stephen and I had to share a room, and we never got along. Whenever Johan came over, Stephen would call us little faggots. He refused to let us hang out with him. He was too mature for us. I didn't know what a faggot was, but I knew it was a bad name. Johan didn't care. He didn't even get mad at Stephen. He just took me by the hand and pulled me outside to play or we'd run across the street to his house to play in his room. Getting away from Stephen hadn't been possible before Johan came into my life, and now I looked forward to Stephen kicking me out because it meant hanging out with the best guy in the world. I have to admit it did bother me when Stephen called us faggots. It just sounded like the worst possible thing a boy could be, the way Stephen said it. I asked Johan one time what a faggot was. He smiled and said it was a boy who liked other boys. I said that didn't make sense to me, but I guess I was one because I liked him so much. He laughed and said I would understand better one day. He was right. I learned what a faggot was the first night I stayed over at Johan's house. We played Atari until late at night. Then Johan left me to play while he took a bath. When he finished, he asked me if I wanted to take a bath next. I did, and when I came back into Johan's room, the television was off and the Atari was put away. Johan was stretched out in bed with just his underwear on. He patted the bed beside him and told me to lie down too. He told me he had a secret to share with me. Then he turned to me and told me that faggots were boys who liked each other so much that they took off their underwear and slept in the same bed naked. I was scared when he told me that. Scared but also excited. I remember my dick got hard so fast I couldn't hide it. Johan saw and smiled. He didn't laugh at me or make fun of me. He pointed down at his own waist and I saw that he was hard too and his little dick was poking his underwear out just like mine. He put his thumbs under his waistband and pulled his underwear down, lifting his legs to slide them completely off. He threw the underwear onto the floor, next to the bed, and lowered his legs back down. His dick was hard and throbbing. Four inches long. Thin as a crayon. And his skin went all the way to the top. Not like mine. I didn't know anything about foreskins and circumcision at the time, but I learned from Johan that night. He showed me how it worked. How to slide the skin up and down. How to pull the skin down so far that his little pink cap popped out. He wasn't the least bit embarrassed to be naked in front of me while I lay there with my underwear tented out. Eventually, he asked me to pull my underwear off too. I blushed but did as he asked. My dick was almost as long as his, but I had no foreskin, of course. As I began to lie back down, Johan put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me from the side, reassuring me. Our hips and knees were touching. I was shaking a little. Excited. Nervous. Not sure what was going to happen next. Johan told me not to be scared. We were two friends who liked each other very much, so it was going to be okay. Then he reached across and began gently rubbing my stomach. The moment he touched me, I sucked my stomach in. Then when he continued to lovingly caress my stomach, I relaxed and closed my eyes. It felt wonderful. Calming. His hand drifted lower. He took my dick into his fist and held me. I felt sparks again. This time from deep inside my body. Shooting all along my spine, down into my grape-sized balls, up my steel-hard dick. I wanted more, but I didn't know what I wanted. Just that I wanted more. And Johan gave me to me. He began slowly stroking my dick. Gently. Lovingly. He stopped and took my hand and placed it on top of his own dick. I stroked him and he went back to stroking me. We kept at it for half an hour, just rubbing and caressing and occasionally fondling each other's balls. Eventually Johan told me there was more that faggots did for each other. I asked him what. He wriggled his eyebrows at me, telling me it was a secret. I begged him to tell me, making him giggle and say he wouldn't tell me but he would show me. Then he sat up and bent over my waist. Turning his head to look at me, he smiled and told me to relax as he leaned lower and put my dick in his mouth. Oh. My. God! I had no idea anything could make me feel so wonderful. His mouth was warm and soft and wet and amazing. I felt waves of pleasure coming from the tip of my dick, running down my dick and making me push up into Johan's mouth. The longer Johan sucked on my dick, the more powerful the waves of pleasure became and the faster they hit me. At one point, I felt panic replacing the pleasure, because I needed to pee. I don't know why I needed to pee in that very moment. I'd gone in the bathroom before my bath, but suddenly I felt like I had to go again and bad! I gritted my teeth and squeezed down. I couldn't stop Johan now, just because I had to pee. It felt too good to stop. Maybe I could hold it in. So I squeezed harder, arching my back and pulling my stomach in a far as I could. But nothing could stop it from coming. I suddenly had to let go and I felt liquid rushing up my dick and squirting out into Johan's mouth. My body lurched and my legs stretched out and my toes curled. It was incredible! Okay. I can laugh about it now. I'd never had an orgasm before, so I was absolutely horrified at the thought that I had just peed into my best friend's mouth. But Johan wasn't surprised or upset. He swallowed my cum and then cuddled with me while my body relaxed, explaining to me what had just happened. He reassured me that it wasn't pee that had come out, but something called semen. And he didn't mind that I shot it into his mouth because he wanted it to happen. I asked him if he could do it too? Make his dick squirt? He assured me he could, and then he taught me how to suck his cock. From that night on, we were lovers. Johan taught me everything. Sucking. Jerking. Kissing. Fucking. He was my lover and my best friend. And yeah, I guess we were faggots. But with Johan at my side, I didn't know or care what anyone else thought. My parents were wonderful. They both accepted the fact that Johan and I were very, very close friends. They didn't talk about it, but they knew. They even caught us kissing once and never said a word, so we kept on kissing and eventually held hands in front of them and acted like what we were: boys in love. Stephen hated that. He had to be polite in front of Mom and Dad, but whenever we were out of their hearing, he called us queers and faggots and every hateful thing he could come up with. We didn't care. We laughed in his face and kissed each other to piss him off and send him stomping out of the room or out of the house. One day, Johan told me he had another secret to show me. I couldn't imagine what it might be. He'd shown me so many things already. What more was there to learn? But I trusted Johan completely, so I was eager to learn this secret too. Johan held up his wrist. A silver wristband hung there, loose. I'd seen him with it before but thought it was just something he must have picked up somewhere for fun. It had two cracked gems mounted side by side, an ugly old thing. He took my hand and locked our fingers together. Then he placed his other hand over the wristband and pressed down on the gems. That was the first time I experienced stolen time. It was startling to say the least, but Johan was there with me, so I wasn't scared. He held my hand, firmly, and took me outside of my bedroom and down the hall. I saw Stephen sitting on the couch, watching a frozen television commercial, with a glass of milk held halfway to his lips. I saw my parents in the kitchen, halted in mid-conversation as they prepared a meal. We went outside and saw the world petrified in a single second. Johan explained how the wristband worked and told me that we were very special people, because we--with the help of the wristband--could travel in this world between moments of time. It was amazing! I asked him how he got the wristband. He said that was a secret too, but it was a secret he couldn't give away. One day, he assured me, I would learn the secret myself. He never did tell me. It was a secret he kept to his grave. Shit! I didn't want to go there. Happy thoughts. That's what I want to think right now. Oh, yeah. Here's a happy thought. There was one time when my brother was getting ready to take a bath. He was especially nasty to us, calling us dick-sucking, ass-fucking, queer-bait faggots. Johan licked my face and grabbed my dick through my pants, laughing at Stephen as he stomped out of the room with a change of underwear. We waited until we heard bath water running, then we stopped time and followed Stephen into the bathroom. He had the door locked, but I knew how to open it with a screwdriver. When we got inside, we saw a frozen column of water was cascading out of the faucet into the tub. Stephen was stretched out in the water, one hand pushing the handle of a hair brush up into his hairy ass while the other hand pumped away on his thick, five-inch-long cock. We stood there laughing at my faggot brother, but it was boring seeing him frozen in time, playing with himself, so we went back into my room and played with each other. From that time on, nothing Stephen said bothered me. He was an ass and a hypocrite. I don't care if he did marry his high school sweetheart. Johan and I knew the truth about him. I guess that's why it was so easy to leave him there in Arizona when Dad died. I can honestly say I have absolutely no desire to ever talk to or be around Mr. Stephen Roberts ever again. Is that sad? Or pathetic? Or just plain unsurprising? There was one more secret Johan told me. About the wristband. He told me that it does more than stop time all around you. It also causes time to travel slowly backward for the one caught inside the time shell. You wouldn't notice it the first few times you used the time stealer--that was what he called it--but the more you used it, the younger you would grow. Every minute you spent inside would take a month off your age, and when you grew younger, your body also healed itself. Injuries would repair. Sickness would cure. Johan told me he had never been sick a day in his life, and if I began using the time stealer too, I would be just as healthy and younger as well. Yeah, isn't that crazy? Time stops outside and runs backward inside. Johan warned me to be careful about how I used the wristband. He told me he had been born in 1899, so he was 75 years old, but the time stealer had taken years off his life. He'd been using it, keeping himself 12 years old, for a long, long time, waiting for me to be born, waiting for me to become his 12-year-old best friend for life. And now that I was here, he was going to stop using the time stealer so that we could grow old together. And that's what he did. God, I miss him. I'm going to stop writing now. I'm getting cold. The sun is setting and apparently every rest stop in Wyoming makes the benches out of concrete. I guess I shouldn't be surprised at how cold and hard it is. Time to get back in the car and decide where I'll be spending the night. Oh, I guess I should mention that my old hometown made the national news. Twice. The FBI is investigating back-to-back bank robberies that happened all on the same day in Tempe, Arizona. Money disappeared from teller windows and one armored car. Close circuit security systems show the money disappearing in the blink of an eye. The authorities don't have a clue how it happened. No fingerprints matching any on file. No witnesses. No connection between the employees, pointing to some criminal conspiracy. It's totally baffling, so they're asking anyone with information to come forward. I could help them out, but I doubt they'd believe me. And also, the house next to Dad's caught on fire. It started in the kitchen when someone left the heat on underneath a pot. Ten college students were seriously injured from smoke inhalation and burns. The only reason the story made national headlines was that an anonymous call was made to the police, confessing to setting the fire before anyone even knew it had started. Firefighters arrived in time to rescue everyone inside; otherwise, there would have been fatalities. Police are still looking for the anonymous caller. That story upset me when I read it. Honestly, I feel sorry for the college students who are now in the hospital, suffering but alive. I feel bad, but I'm not shedding any tears for them. I guess I cried all my tears for my dad when his final night on earth was marred by rude motherfuckers who decided to throw a loud party next door. I guess they won't be throwing any more wild parties for a while, huh? And I guess now you can see why I'm a miserable, pissed-off asshole. I'll try to be better the next time I write. I promise. End of THE GIFT OF STOLEN TIME, Chapter Two