So my mom and dad had been going out every weekend with the Realtor, looking at places. It was down to 2 or 3 finalists, so they took me along to see. When we pulled up, the Realtor wasn't there, and then Mom's phone rang. It was the Realtor saying he had been in a minor accident and he would be a little late.

While we were deciding what to do, I noticed this... kid mowing the lawn next door. Maybe 14 or 16 or something. Really hard to tell. In fact, with the wispy emo sideburns and the mussy hair, I wasn't entirely sure if it was a boy and not a tall girl, until he glanced over. Then there was no doubt. There's something direct and forceful, something distinctive, about a boy's gaze. Cute fucker, though, like some manga emoboy.

With nothing much to do, we got out and milled around a little. I hopped the fence into the back yard and undid the gate, so we could go poking around back there. The mower stopped and I heard him out in the alley, dumping the clippings. Then the back gate opened and he walked in. Cute fucker. His look was a laser beam, shooting out of a smooth, smiling face.

"Hi, I'm Andy from next door. We're the ones selling the place."

"Hope you don't mind... ," I started.

"No, no, that's fine. That was quite a jump. You must be in gymnastics." I nodded.

We all introduced ourselves. He paid full attention to me, I noticed, which I liked. When you're being dragged along house shopping, you are normally ignored until it's time to foist the hot stinky attic off as a 'wonderful teenager's bedroom, don't you agree?' Nice having another kid there. Cute fucker, too.

"We used to live here, until the lady next door moved and we bought her place. I take it Agent Smith is running late?"

"You mean Mr. Anderson?" my mom asked.

"Oh, yeah," he corrected himself, glancing at me. I smirked at the reference.

When he heard about the accident, he offered to let us into the house. We said that would be great, and Andy headed off for his keys, came jogging back.

"You'll like this place. It's very comfortable for three. Let's go back here, first." He showed Mom the kitchen and laundry, took us into the garage and hit the opener. "My dad had a full workshop out here and, as you can see, there was still room for 2 cars and we even kept the garden tractor and the yard stuff over there. When it wasn't full of sawhorses," he grinned. "Dad likes these big projects. You'll see."

"This is the family room." He pointed to the wall with the fireplace. "It has gas logs. Or, if you prefer to burn wood, it's also a gas starter. Dad did the deacon's benches and the built-in bookcases."

"Christ, that's gorgeous work!" says Dad, "You guys did all that?"

"Yeah, It's European white oak. I mostly routed the fluting. My dad designed it and did most of the fitting and installing. Oh, and he did all the staining." He rolled his eyes, "He's a perfectionist."

"I can see that. This is absolutely professional," pronounced Dad.

"Wait 'till you... Oh, Hi Mr. Anderson, that was quick."

I took one look and cracked up helplessly. It was fucking Agent Smith. He even had the right sunglasses. I wondered if that was on purpose.

"Hello, sorry about that. My wife took over the horror show for me, so it didn't take as long as I thought it might. Some old guy forgot to put his car in 'Park'-- or set his parking brake -- and it rolled into my left rear fender when he started to get out. He's lucky he didn't get run over. Damage wasn't too bad, but there wasn't a single scratch on his. Lotta paperwork, though!" He rolled his eyes. "Hey Mac," he called to Dad, "You need to come out back. This screened veranda will be perfect for those cigar club meetings of yours."

Andy says to me, out of the corner of his mouth, looking at the Realtor, "Right? No wonder he could get here so quick."

"You're not going to change, are you?" He looked blank. "Into Smith?"

He pretended for a second, then grinned. "Wanna see upstairs?" He showed me his old room -- and yes, it was the attic -- but it was fucking ginormous. It ran the full length of the house and had finished wooden walls. There were three of those doghouse thingies, each with a window, and a window at each end.

"I had my bed at this end, and these built-ins sort of screen off this side, so I had a gaming area and some bean-bags and a study desk here in the dormer. (Oh, yeah "dormer," not doghouse thingie) And these track lights. It was a good room. This leads to the rest of the attic, for storing boxes and Christmas lights and shit."

"That's cool. You should see my shit collection," I joked.

The corner of his mouth made a little twitch of acknowledgement. "I'll have to show you all my severed limbs," he said, straight faced.

Well, we ended up buying the place and moving in. I could hear Andy practicing his bass flute, sometimes. He was pretty good, actually. He seemed to be into an eclectic mix of styles, from classical to obvious marching band stuff to jazz and R&B. It was clear that he liked the blues, but was still learning the basic riffs. He'd start out and, just as you were getting into it, he'd fuck up and stop, and and start slogging through short bits, and then string them together, with varying degrees of success. The he'd make a bunch of rude noises, and the next thing you'd hear was him jumping in the pool. I sorta wish we had one. But if we did... I don't know, I'm getting ahead of myself.

As the school year got ready to end, the weather really heated up. It made you glad for the big old trees: they kept the sun off the roof of my room. Don't you think this rotisserie makes a great teenager's room? You just tie the legs together and salt the cavities... Anyway, I was spared that. I did get a couple of those cheap box fans and put them one at either end, to move the air through, and that helped.

So Andy comes by and asks if I'd like to come over for a swim. We'd seen each other off and on -- even had a couple of classes together -- but didn't happen to hang out much. He had marching band after school and I had gymnastics. I gratefully accepted and went over to his new place. I have to admit, his old room was better. Mine, now. But the rest of the house was pretty nice. Newer and spacious and airy (and air conditioned). And they had a pool and a spa and a pool house with the pumps and one side for the tractor and yard stuff.

I don't know what I was thinking: I carried my swim suit over. I could have changed at my place. But then, I would have had to sit around in wet stuff or go home. So, anyway, we had a good swim and a splash war and cannonballs and grab-ass and flying-leap-onto-inflatable-Shamu, and a coke or 2, and then some sandwiches. From time to time, I noticed that Andy was eyeing my package appreciatively. He wasn't being at all shy about it, so I finally asked him.

"So, are you into guys, or girls, or both, or... neither?" I said that last part as an absurd impossibility.

"I uhh... I uhhh... I guess guys, mostly."

"That's cool. So do you have a boyfriend?"

He sighed. That sigh contained whole volumes. That sigh said he wished he did, said he was lonely. That sigh conveyed his need, his longing. It laid his soul bare, that sigh did.

"No, not really."

"Wanna have a sleepover?" I sorta leered. His jaw dropped. I thought that was just a figure of speech, but his mouth fell open. He shook himself and shut his mouth. His face changed. Besides turning red, that is. I couldn't tell whether he was starting to smile or starting to cry. Maybe both.

He looked down. "That would be wonderful," he said to his knees, softly.

"Why don't you sleep over at my place? You can see what I've done with your old room."

It wasn't the way I thought it would be. I guess I figured he'd be sort of furtive and embarrassed about being the submissive one, a cock sucker. Like admitting that he wasn't "a real boy." It wasn't like that.

It was mid-afternoon. Andy says, "So, you ready for that sleepover now?" I was about to respond to the actual words (never said I was the sharpest tool in the shed), when it sunk in what he was asking. The need in my balls rose up and practically smothered me. Andy eyed the developing bulge. Before I could say anything, he smirks, "Hmm, I can see your... eyes are growing heavy."

"Ohhh!" was what came out. Snappy, eh?

"Come over here, Mike," he invited gently, "Give me that thing. I want it."

He wanted! He wanted something I had, something I was. Something I wanted to give. Something I had that he wanted me to give to him.

"Pants off," he instructed softly, "Let's see them goods, Sparky. Gimme your sweet goodies to suck."

The lust rose up and churned in my stomach. Made me want to yell. I almost fell over getting my foot outta the leg of my jeans. I barely caught my balance. Caught a pipe running across at shoulder level. I hung on and he was on me, peeling down my briefs. I didn't even have a chance to "arrange things" before he was face to face with my unkempt boy parts.

"Very nice, Mike. Thank you. Very nice." He had one hand on my hip, holding me in place, running his fingers though my bush, then lifting my penis, straightening out the skin for me. "Hold onto that pipe and spread your legs, Mike. Yeah, like that," his soft fingers peeling my nut sack away from my thighs, soothing them, cupping, appreciating. "Lovely. God you're pretty with your pants off. Umm, and you smell good."

This was not what I had expected. To be had, to be appraised, appreciated, complemented, controlled, taken. Taken in his hands. He grasped my raging shaft, gave it a squeeze. The twinge of pleasure was a bolt to my brain. My dick swelled and pulsed against the pressure of his fingers. I'd been taken, I was being possessed, I was being savored. I was oozing. He was in no hurry, not screaming inside, like I was, moaning for contact, like I was.

Sunlight reflected off the wooden floor, illuminating my bag from behind, every hair. Illuminated his chin, his lips. He ran his fingers lightly over me, my bag shrinking upward in joy, glowing in the reflected light. His fingers following, making me crazy urgent. He leaned to touch his lips to my tip, kissing it reverently, sitting back. A luminous strand stretched between us, connected us, a golden strand from me to the soft givingness of his open mouth.

He licked my ooze, savored it, took the whole head between his lips, drawing off, to leave it wet, cool, returning soft and wet, warm, to take me to the base, sliding tickly in my ooze. Sliding off, he gazed kindly at my eagerness, eyes soft; slid, eyes closing, to take me to the hilt, to hold me in his warmth, in his softness, before sliding off again.

He pulled my hips toward him, taking me deep. His eyes opened, lazy, languid, his focus deep inside where my dick was. Inside, where my joy was joined to his, inside where his softness caressed me, made me whimper. He took me into his throat, swallowed around me, an exquisite tender caress, acceptance, deep within him.

My focus was absolute. There was no fantasy, no mind-pictures, no thought of other partners. Just his tender lips sliding to take me, withdrawing to savor my shape, giving me pleasure, taking me. Being taken: a new erotic world for me. Something bigger, deeper than the physical.

Meditatively, he caressed my bag, the back corners, where his touch made them thrill and scrunch. He cupped them in his soft, warm hand, grasped my shaft behind, took my eager dick back down to the pubes, beginning to suckle rhythmically, moaning, as he gently squeezed my shaft behind my bag.

It wasn't what I had expected, being taken, being tasted, the searing sweetness, giving myself to him, surrendering, abandoning whatever'd held me back, the willful joining, the giving of myself to him, being had. He had me. Tenderly, he took me. Tenderly, I gave. I found myself waddling at him, mindlessly giving my dick to the source of all pleasure, my balls to his caring hand. I had the urge to babble, lost track of it.

"Take me. Take me," my voice a stranger's, a crooning child's.

He had me, he took me, made me rise, rise gasping to a lingering, searing climax. My joy turning inside out. Fire of fulfillment. Giving him, giving him, giving him my cream, giving, giving. My broad shiny shaft, pale skin tight, where it disappeared between his lips, sunlight golden from beneath. Giving to him, his lips sliding to take me more, willing prisoner of his softness, pumping my cream, my cream being taken from me, my male joy tenderly harvested, accepted from me, had. The deepest fruit of me changing hands.

The proud new owner slid off, swallowed, licked his lips. Slowly, meditatively. Returned to caress the head of my slowly shrinking penis with his lips. Returned to bestow a reverent kiss, a tender thanks. He held me as I reverted to soft boy, reverted from raging sexual beast to tender boy, sexually innocent, tender friend.

The joy of being a taken boy quivered at my core, the physical joy was fading like a rung bell, the joy of him taking me glowed warm. Has glowed warm ever since.

He rose, kissed my cheek, breathed his thanks.

"O-ohhh," was all I could manage, "Oh, God."