Date: Sun, 13 Apr 2008 23:42:12 -0500
From: t s <stoicactor@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Invitation: Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Dear reader, "The Invitation," a loosely autobiographical
story, is about sexual encounters between two fifteen-year-old boys in a
small southern town in the 1950s. If you object to same-sex relationships
or if you are too young to read this story legally, please abandon
nifty.org now without going further. I have no desire to offend anyone or
to influence the sexual attitudes of under-aged young people. Your comments
are welcome at stoicactor@hotmail.com. Thank you.


The Invitation
Chapter 2: "A Second Invitation"


My usual morning erection was unusually hard that Saturday, and I resisted
doing anything about it beyond a pleasurable fondling. Oliver was on my
mind. Nothing he said Friday gave a clue as to what he might have planned,
but I kept thinking about the look he gave me, that gentle visual sweep of
my early adolescent body. How, I wondered, would that look feel brushing
over my naked skin?

I dressed quickly, grabbed a biscuit and a piece of cold salt pork and
hopped on my trusty Cushman Highland motor scooter for the short trip up
the hill to where Oliver lived with his widowed mother.

The morning air was chilly, but the oddest sensations of alternating
temperatures played about in my briefs. I had never before been so
conscious of everything stuffed into the pouch of my underwear.

When I pulled up at Oliver's porch, I had the tentative beginning of
another erection partially subdued by understandable anxiety. After
hesitating for an awkward moment, I knocked on the door. For another
awkward moment, it seemed no one was home. Then suddenly a grinning Oliver
snapped the door open and stood before me in his underwear. Because the
porch was a step down from the door, I found myself at eye level with
Oliver's tantalizing bulge. Fifty years later I still can recall exactly
where his dick curled over his right testicle. And I can picture the left
testicle, the larger and lower of his beautiful balls, nestled snugly in
the briefs. He legs, slightly hairy, were taut, slender, rather sculpted
for his age.

I have no recall of what I said or how long I stared at this stunningly
sexy boy so boldly displaying his maleness.

"Come in," Oliver said. His eyes swept over me once again.

That's all I needed. I bounded through the door and followed him to his
bedroom, enjoying the sight of his tight butt swaying slightly as he
walked.

His room was crowded with furniture. He slept on a twin bed near the
door. The other twin was positioned at an odd angle off the opposite
wall. A chest of drawers was in the middle of the room. When he reached his
bed, Oliver sprang onto it and sprawled out with his arms folded behind his
head and his legs spread invitingly. He had placed a chair for me beside
the bed near his mid-section.

His dick and balls were revealed even better now. I could see the outline
of the large head with its flaring rim. The way he had his arms lifted and
folded, the tee shirt was pulled up to expose about three inches of lower
belly, a flat expanse of mostly smooth skin adorned with the beginning of a
trail. I was entranced.

I trembled slightly in anticipation of whatever life had in store for me
that morning. I had no idea what was coming. It was the fall of 1956. I had
never seen a picture of a naked male and had only vague embryonic notions
of what two boys might do together. One boy sucking the dick of another was
beyond my ken. Fucking just didn't occur to me. I didn't even consider that
two horny teenaged boys could derive pleasure from kissing.

Oliver initiated a conversation, but my memory of it doesn't reach back to
anything he said before he started talking about masturbation--a subject
near and dear to my boy heart. The way he talked about it was both clinical
and intimate at the same time. He looked me right in the eye and asked
simply, "Do you masturbate?" The question alone sent little impulses down
my body to a focal point in my groin. The words were ones a physician might
use, but the earnest charm of his tone of voice and the way he rolled to
his side and faced me to say those words opened the floodgates of blood to
my eager penis. He went on to quiz me about how often I did it and how much
cum I had and whether I used lotion. We talked about our favorite time of
day to jack off and what it was like to do it in front of a mirror. Oliver
wanted to know if I always got totally naked to do it. I felt a shiver of
arousal every time we used "do it" to refer to masturbating.

His next question intensified the anticipation.

"Have you ever done it with another boy?" he asked.

This time, he leaned close and lowered his voice. Then his lips parted
slightly as he awaited my reply, and I looked right into his mouth and
watched his soft pink tongue move lazily across his lower teeth.

"Ummm, I really haven't," I replied sheepishly.

Oliver jumped right in with another question. This time he sat upright, his
legs in the lotus position.

"Winston, do you know what I was about to do when I heard you step up on
the porch?"

Well, of course, I had no idea what he was talking about.

Oliver grinned.

"I was totally naked," he said conspiratorially, sliding his hand up over
his right thigh and bringing it to rest on his dick.

"What were you about to do?" I asked quite innocently but beginning to get
the picture.

"I was gonna beat my meat!" Oliver said happily, groping his crotch.

That got my attention. I loved that expression. Sometimes when I was really
feeling nasty and was preparing myself for major masturbation, I would say
aloud, "I'm gonna beat my meat." The words were hot, moist and earthy and
exquisitely sensual.

"Well, uh, Oliver, you want me to go in the living room and wait so you can
do it?"

Was that not obliging? I think I really meant it. Too. I was being polite
in the grand tradition of the South.

"You don't have to leave me alone," Oliver said. "Would you like to join
me?" He said it as politely as one might offer to share lunch with a guest.

Oh, my god! Now in a flash I knew why I was there in the dimly-lit bedroom
of a schoolmate I scarcely knew.

I pounced on the invitation.

"YES!"

As he hopped out of bed and headed toward the bathroom, Oliver said,
"you're gonna love this. I promise."

I was overcome with a welter of emotions that I could hardly identify. I
think I was briefly fearful, a kid standing at the edge of a dark forest
not knowing what lay ahead. Yet I was excited like a little child the night
before the first Christmas he would remember. Back somewhere in my psyche
was the notion that I was about to break the rules, though I didn't
understand exactly what the rules were. It was the Fifties in the South,
and unpleasantness often was swept under the rug. Homosexuality was seldom
mentioned anywhere, but most of us understood that it was something one
just didn't do. But in those moments, as I listened to Oliver pee, then
brush his teeth, I was not thinking of homosexuality, and I was not worried
that I was about to become one of the dreaded queers. Not finding some rule
at hand, I managed to rationalize what was about to happen as outside the
rules, not proscribed, merely a single glorious act that would be our
secret and would never be punished.

Oliver heard my belt buckle jingle as I began undressing and barked with
mock sternness, "hey, don't undress without me! I wanna watch you get
naked."

My god, he could say the simplest things in a way that stirred me right
into my balls and made the head of my dick tingle. I wanted him to watch me
get naked. So I stood there, I re-buckled my belt and waited, not wanting
to miss a single thrill of this wild adventure.

When he came back into the room, I did not wait for instructions. After
kicking my tennis shoes out of the way and skinning the socks off my little
feet, I unbuckled the belt, unbuttoned my Levis, dropped them to the floor,
shucked my tee shirt off and paused to stare at Oliver and the huge tent in
his briefs.

"Can I see you naked now?" he said softly.

Because puberty had arrived late for me and I did not like the slow growth
of my penis, I always approached locker rooms with ambivalence. I didn't
want the boys to see me, but I wanted to see them and getting naked was the
only way. So desire would win over modesty. Today, however, I wanted Oliver
to see me, all of me. I snapped the Fruit of the Looms to my knees and let
them fall the rest of the way to the floor.

Oliver smiled and licked his lips. Then he slowly removed his tee shirt and
dropped the briefs.

We stood naked for long minutes as the brownness of the room closed around
us like a warm cocoon, shielding us from all the cares of our lives. For
the first time in my fifteen years, I could openly gape at another boy. I
looked at his slender, neatly defined body from his fairly broad shoulders
down to light brown nipples and over the flat hairless belly and his tight
abs. His pubic hair was a dense brown tangle that I would soon be able to
explore with eager fingers. His bush wasn't large but already was extending
its lovely hairs onto a scrotum that was longer and looser than any I had
managed to see before.

I was speechless, totally captivated, until he asked softly, "can I touch
you?"

I stepped close to him and said yes quickly.

Oliver slid his left hand under my balls and ever so gently cupped them in
his palm. I sucked in my breath. Then he eased his right hand over the head
of my dick and covered the top of my shaft. My knees felt as if they would
buckle.

"Oh, Oliver, I never felt this good," I whispered.

Stepping up very close to me so that his dick brushed against mine, Oliver
asked his next question:

"Would you let me jack you off?"

I felt a drop of precum leave my little slit as I said, "YES!"

He took my by the hand and led me to the other twin bed and directed me to
lie down in the middle of the bed with my head resting on two pillows.

The cocoon of pleasure moved with us to surround the bed. Desire and joy
reigned. Even now I haven't the words to describe how it felt to stretch
out naked before Oliver, my legs spread slightly, my dick throbbing as if I
had been hard for hours, my breathing shallow and uneven.

"Put your hands under your head and keep them there. No matter how bad you
want to touch yourself or grab my hands, DON'T! Just let me do it all."

Oliver sat beside me on the bed, his beautiful cock standing erect, his
lips parted, exposing the tip of his tongue. I stared at his cock almost
continuously as he began what he later explained to me was "foreplay." His
fingertips were soft and he skillfully held them in the slightest contact
with my skin, skimming over my neck and face and gradually moving downward
over my chest, belly and abs. At first he went no further than my little
black bush before circling my genitals and moving down my legs to just
below my thighs. By then I was squirming and moaning.

When he finally moved in on my most tender parts, I began telling him how
each touch felt. Any lingering inhibitions--and there weren't many--were
shed as I begged him to "touch my balls," "play with my dick," "jack me
off, please," "Oliver, beat my meat."

When I reached a frenzy of yearning like I had never felt before, Oliver
reached for a bottle of lotion, a dark pink viscous goo with a mild
medicinal smell. Holding my dick straight up in his right hand, Oliver
poured lotion onto the tip and let it flow downward as he opened his fist
to slather it over the hard flesh.

"Jack me off, man, I am going crazy!"

Oliver smiled and the tip of his tongue crept over his lower lip as he
savored the sight of the slowest stroking I had ever felt. No
fifteen-year-old would go that slowly on his own dick. He moved up and down
with a slow, firm stroke that never changed speed.

Soon, I was begging Oliver to "go faster," but he never did. He just smiled
and attended to the task of bringing me to orgasm at a pace he set. As my
young sexual apparatus prepared me for relief, it felt as if my balls were
going to turn wrong side out. They ached and drew up tight against the base
of my dick. I felt what I thought was a spasm somewhere between my hips, an
area I had never considered a sexual zone. I was a complete novice. Oliver,
I soon realized, might not have been a journeyman, but he had served an
apprenticeship some time before I came along.

When I thought I would scream with desire, Oliver gave one last downward
stroke, and more semen than I had ever seen at one time exploded from my
little dick. The first little rope landed high on my forehead, some of it
in my hair, I was shouting. I felt the warm gob linger on my skin as three
more bolts of the wondrous stuff landed between my neck and my bush. As a
tingling sensation suffused my body to the ends of every extremity, I
shuddered as if having a chill and crumpled against the white sheets. All
tension was gone. I watched my dick slowly go soft after a last bit of cum
burbled out of the slit and dribbled onto my bush. I stared at the thick
cum lingering on top of the canopy of pubic hairs.

I looked up at Oliver, who was obviously pleased with his handiwork.

"You like?" he asked.

"Oh, man, I never knew shooting my wad could be that good. Never shot this
much either."

"Just lie there and let me clean the cum off."

I loved the earthy things he would say with such perfect innocence.

Some of the oddest thoughts can occur right after an orgasm. For some
reason, I noticed how carefully Oliver had said "lie" instead of "lay," a
usage matter we had just studied in English.  As what I would learn years
later was called the refractory period set in, I momentarily lost interest
in sex and the cocoon faded. Outside the world waited. It was nearly noon;
my mother would be wondering what I was up to. But when Oliver returned
with a damp washcloth and began mopping the now melting cum from my face
and body, my interest was revived. The sight of him standing over me, his
hard dick waving like a flag, became my focus. The cocoon closed around us
again.

"Would you like to do the same for me?" Oliver asked.

"Yeah, but I probably won't be as good at it."

This beautiful boy stretched out before me without a trace of shyness, his
splayed legs and arms and smiling eyes inviting me to study ever nook and
cranny of his nude body. I drank it all in and began my tender attempt at
foreplay, trying to emulate his moves exactly. His soft moans and comments
let me know that I had learned my first lesson well.

I must have anticipated Oliver's orgasm as much as he did. In my wildest
masturbatory fantasies, I would try to picture a boy shooting a mammoth
load of semen all over himself. The thrill of the huge burst of cum from
Oliver's long dick was beyond the boundaries of my wildest fantasy. He
sucked in his abs, shouted, "I am cumming" and thrust his pelvis high his
dick jettisoned thick cream in long ropes. I could swear that I heard the
sounds of it squirting from his broad head.

Oliver sighed and fell silent, looking up at me tenderly, his mischievous
tongue appearing briefly.

"How did I do?" I asked as I was cleaning him up.

"You did it perfect!" he replied.

Later I lingered over my clothes, not wanting to leave the cocoon, but
Mother would be growing irritated. I had chores to do.

I needed a shower.

As we parted at the door, Oliver uttered a traditional southern invitation:

"Come back to see me."

I could hardly wait.

Chapter 3 is coming. I hope you will send your comments to
stoicactor@hotmail.com