Date: Fri, 12 Apr 2013 15:07:51 -0700 From: Zack McNaught Subject: Love or Sex or Something Like Them chapter 4 Disclaimer: this story, because it is one of love and passion, reflects the physical union of two boys who fall in love. If you think it is wrong to read this, I suggest that you don't. If it is illegal to read this in your country of residence, I can only suggest you do one of two things: (1) take the risk, or (2) move somewhere a bit more understanding. Cheers, Zack P.S. Please donate to keep Nifty running. Many authors give countless hours of their time to write stories for your enjoyment. As a way of saying thanks for all their hard work, please help to keep Nifty open, and keep it free: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Thanks. Love or Sex, or Something Like Them - Chapter 4 Certain things will fundamentally change the way you view the world, though perhaps at the time you might not realise to quite what extent they do so. James' breath in my face in the morning disgusted me in a way I hadn't expected. It was a foul stench which even when I wriggled free of his overbearing, lumbering embrace still filled my nostrils. I ran to the bathroom, grabbing my toothbrush and manically brushing my teeth until the clean taste of mint was all that I could sense. I sat down on the edge of the bath, feeling the pain of my damaged behind, and began to cry. I didn't let him see me crying, because then I would have had to explain it, and I couldn't do that, not even to myself. I had no idea why the tears came, no idea why I loathed him so much that morning, though looking back on it and thinking, it was because I realised that I didn't love him, and after what we had done I either had to love him or feel the diametrically opposite emotion. I couldn't go back to falling in love with him, couldn't be half way committed. And that's what I was, before he fucked me. It's easy to see this now. It's easy to look back with all the prejudice of an adult mind and assign meaning to my feelings, to apply a filter of sense to them. At the time, though, I had no such understanding, no such capability of reasoning why I felt the way I did. All I knew was that something was wrong, and I hated James. He understood it, too, when he awoke, lumbering into the living room where I was watching TV. I sensed his grotesque, over-sized form before I saw it, and the sight of it offended me. He was huge, brutish, hairy, smelly. He was everything I was not. He was an ape, I an elf. Even at the time, though I couldn't express it in so many words, I understood that while I loved his personality, I didn't love his body, and that was too much for our relationship to bear. I simply didn't fancy him, not in the shallow, immature way which seemed to matter so much. As an adult I am in the fortunate position of being able to overlook such minor considerations and love the man inside the body, but as a horny teenager, no such considerations entered my mind. I wanted something else, and I resented the fact that he had invaded my body. I still loved his personality, his smile as he greeted me, but he was a big, lumbering, over-loving oath - despite the fact that he had had his penis inside me, I didn't want his arm around me. It was casual intimacy, and because I didn't love him, I didn't want it. Perversely, some part of me still wanted to feel him moving within me, but not because I wanted James, but because (and it would take years to admit this to myself) I simply enjoyed being fucked. To go into all of the details of the rest of that day even now, many years later, is difficult, both because what I can remember makes me look like a right little shit, which is never nice to admit, and because in fact I've blocked a lot out of my memory. I suppose the key outcomes of the whole day were that by the end of it James wasn't speaking to me, and my aunt was similarly disposed. My life was in ruins, and I was utterly alone. Let's see if I can piece together a little of what happened. I ignored James when he tried to sit with me on the sofa. He thought it was a game at first, I recall, but then realised when I continued to ignore him that something was up. He assumed it was something to do with the fact that we'd had sex, but he thought I blamed him for the physical pain that it had caused me. Actually, I was dying inside because I didn't feel any more for him than I did. The first boy who had ever done that to me, and I found myself thinking that in fact he was a little repulsive. Not, in fact, my type at all. And I blamed him for that, not myself, as I should have done. We argued. I remember fights starting about nothing at all and ending with shouting at each other. Eventually he left, unable to stay in the house while I slowly lost it. My aunt returned later, having stayed out overnight, and she got an earful, too. She tried to ask what had happened, even made some suggestions. She jumped to the right conclusion straight away, at least regarding the fact of our physical union, and grilled me and scolded me and told me how damned stupid the whole thing was. I hated her for saying it out loud, for emphasising my mistake, for not understanding and simply being on my side. But why should she have been on my side? I was being a little bitch. James came back later, and we spoke, and I tried to explain it, but the only conclusion we could come to was that I couldn't see him any more, that I regretted what we had done. He tried to apologise and I shouted at him and told him to leave, and told him he better not dare apologise to me ever again. He left without another word. My aunt tried to calm me again, and I shouted at her again, too, and eventually she told me in no uncertain terms what she thought of me, before slamming the door of the house and leaving in a cloud of tyre smoke, probably for Yvgeny's house. --- I woke utterly unprepared for the school week, and unable to face James. My aunt was nowhere to be seen, and though I briefly contemplated bunking off because there was no-one to force me to go, I dressed in my uniform anyway, and made my own lunch, and went simply because not going was likely to lead to more trouble than I felt able to cope with. He was there. He saw me, and I, him. For only a second our eyes met, and then parted, and I felt a wrench in my soul. He was a part of my world, so much a part of my world, all of it maybe, and suddenly he was gone. It was my fault, and the pain in his eyes was my doing, and nothing I could say now was going to make him feel any better, or me any less wretched. Everything I felt now, all the self pity and loathing which filled my heart, was my doing and my doing alone. If I was to stand alone in that playground all day, with the rain pouring down and soaking me to the bone, then so be it, and I would have no-one to blame but myself. I spent my time alone. --- I grew used to loneliness. James had found the embrace of his friends again, at least those who understood. I hated him for it at the time, for some reason, probably because I was too immature to properly analyse my feelings and blame myself for the situation. But I returned to my self, to the solitary existence I had 'enjoyed' before we met. I half expected Mr Clarke to interfere - I saw him watching me one day, chin cupped in his hand, an unreadable expression on his face. But he made no move to approach me, to question my well-being. At least my aunt forgave me, thank God. Without her support I would have grown even more morose than I was, but somehow she understood. She even made me go fishing with Yvgeny, something I dreaded before I went, and didn't much enjoy the first time, but appreciated afterwards in ways I didn't quite realise. It instilled a life-long passion in me for angling, and kick-started a love affair with the Russian nation which persists to this day. It became a ritual to go fishing with him, and as much as he expressed such emotions he seemed to enjoy my company, too. It filled the hole in my life left by James' departure, and the wonderful thing was that I didn't have to speak. In the whole time we went fishing together I spoke only a handful of words, content to listen to him lecturing about fishing, or about his motherland, or politics or history, all of it in a thick, warm accent. I didn't fancy him, either, and it was refreshing to spend time around another male without any of those kinds of thoughts entering my mind. --- What kick-started me out of this phase of general hatred of the world was my libido. Rarely held in check even in my darkest moments, it was piqued one day when a new family moved into the house next door to my aunt's. The place had lain empty for several years, apparently, though recent months had seen a hive of activity as various trades appeared and carried out all sorts of modifications. The last white van had barely pulled away around the corner when the moving lorry arrived, followed by a boxy, white Volvo estate car, which duly disgorged a young family - mum, dad and two kids, a boy and a girl, both a couple of years younger than myself. My first reaction was an odd one - my young eye noticed something: these were rather well groomed people. The house had been renovated in nice style, and their furniture looked like really solid old stuff, not rickety IKEA self-builds. They were, I realised, "well-off", the kind of people I had known when my parents were alive and I went to expensive prep schools. Oh yes, it's easy to look back and feel disgusted at how shallow I was, but that's how I felt. I wanted to know these people, because at last I would be able to identify with someone. Something else followed this initial flood of avarice, too. Something a little more earthy, more real. I realised that I rather fancied the boy, in the heart-in-your-mouth sort of way I hadn't, I realised, fancied James. He was tall and thin - lithe, perhaps - with fair hair which was dark at the roots and hung down over his head in a shaggy mop. I could see the points of his shoulder blades beneath the soft fabric of his orange t-shirt when he had his back to me. He was nicely tanned, too, which offset his hair colour even more. I couldn't quite tell at the distance between us, but he might have had blue eyes, too. He was perfect to me. And strangely I found his sister alluring, too. She was simply a slightly more feminine looking version of her brother - dress her in his clothes and you might even confuse the two of them, save for the fact that her hair was, unlike her brother's, well tamed. For the first time in my life I had a gentle stirring in the seat of my pants for a girl. I spied on her and her brother as they helped unpack the furniture, and got off on the illicit nature of my observation, wanking into my hand behind the curtain which concealed my presence. I watched them again that afternoon, in the dying light of the sun, playing with a frisbee in their back garden. They were so alike in their excruciatingly graceful movements that I decided they must be twins, though the girl looked a little smaller. I felt strangely alive spying on them, making up little stories in my mind, and I grew horny, too, like an old pervert spying on the neighbour's kids and wanking off behind the curtains. --- I met them the next day, a Saturday. They were outside again, though this time they were, in theory, meant to be helping take boxes from the house and store them in the garage. Instead they were messing around and avoiding doing any work. My aunt had sent me down to the shop to buy a paper, ostensibly to get me out of the house and stop me moping around all day. As I drew level with their front garden the boy looked up from the tickle-torture he was applying to his uncontrollably giggling sister and gave me a shy smile, and a soft 'hi', with his hand raised little a little American Indian. I returned the salute with a silent smile and went on my way, resisting the urge to turn around and look at them. I was some way away before I heard their horsing around continue. They were gone when I passed again ten minutes later, but that hardly mattered. I needed time alone, time with the thoughts which had come unbidden to my mind as I walked to the newsagent. Even in those days my imagination was well-enough developed to build, with very little encouragement, quite lurid fantasies about anyone I found attractive, and my experience with James gave me plenty of material with which to furnish my fertile mind. On the short walk to and from the shop, I had already imagined the boy in several positions I could be fairly sure he had no idea were even possible, and even found myself dreaming about how it must feel to slide into the pink little hole at the centre of his sister's body. I took my depraved little self off to my room, and masturbated whilst watching for them out of the curtain, feeling immense satisfaction and not a little guilt as I sprayed watery cum out of my fist and into an old pair of boxers. --- I thought about the boy constantly, to the point of distraction. Further spying requirements led me to hunt out a pair of binoculars, and at my aunt's direction I found an old but powerful pair in the attic in a dusty of box of my granddad's possessions. This vastly improved my ability to spy, but at the expense of making me a permanent recluse, using the view my bedroom had over their garden as a substitute for television. My aunt must have wondered, or perhaps even known what I was up to, but said nothing. The most wonderful thing, of course, was to discover that the boy's bedroom was opposite mine, separated by the divide between our houses. He was too shy to leave the curtains open as he readied himself for bed, but during the day I was able to observe him doing his homework, and sometimes reading on his bed. The tiniest hint of seeing something sexual would set my heart hammering in my chest, and one hand rummaging in my crotch whilst the other desperately tried to hold the binoculars steady. Easily recalled is probably the first time that I realised that the boy, whose name I still hadn't learnt, was a sexual being. Oh, of course I had fantasised about what might lie between those thighs, and how I might use it, but I had no confirmation that he had yet discovered its non-urinary uses until one autumn afternoon. With the light rapidly failing outside, he was lying on his bed reading a magazine, one of those aimed at teenage boys which effectively contains all but soft-core pornography. It was probably a little old for him, but I wasn't about to march over there and point that out; besides, who was I to be a moral arbiter? I watched him as he read, watched as he rearranged the magazine so that he could hold it with one hand, and saw with a slight sense of disbelief at my own luck the other hand sneak down inside his tracksuit trousers. Its gentle movement in his crotch could be mistaken for nothing but masturbation, and as he fondled himself I became ever more worked up, shaking with excitement at seeing this very private act. His movements became bolder, and for a few seconds I thought it possible that, even with the door to his room open a fraction he might pull down the front of his trousers and give himself room to work. His hips shifted slightly as his hand moved more rapidly, the gentle fizz clearly building along the shaft of his boyhood, his toes curling each time a little burst of pleasure radiated out from his groin. Just as I thought he might come at any moment, something must have disturbed him, because he practically leaped into a sitting position, hid the magazine and grabbed one of his schoolbooks, sitting up cross-legged in bed as his sister appeared at the doorway and said something to him. He nodded in reply, and she left, but it was already too late for his waning erection. He pulled the front of his tracksuit out from his waist and peered within, but there was to be no more eyes candy for me. With a quick grab and squeeze he deflated his little lump the rest of the way, then hopped down from the bed and disappeared from the room. I couldn't get the image of him wanking out of my mind. I became even more obsessed than ever with watching that window, desperate to see something more. Each evening he would come into the room having just showered, in only a towel, and each evening, without fail, I would be disappointed as he drew shut the curtains. The slightest chink of light passing between the curtains was a lift to my spirits, but each time my hopes would be dashed as I could see nothing at all between them. This had to end at some point. I couldn't carry on spending my evenings watching him. Here I was, a thirteen year old boy, so driven by lust for a neighbour he hadn't even properly met, a boy no less, and one who was clearly younger than himself by an amount significant enough to matter, that I spent every evening watching through my binoculars. Disgusted with myself one Friday night, lying back on my bed with my pants around my knees and still cooling ejaculate dripping off the backs of my knuckles, I resolved to do something about it. --- A plan was required. Unfortunately, the one I came up with was absolutely rubbish, though at the time I think I thought it was rather good. I'd noticed the boy's wardrobe consisted of little more than one football strip after another, and he was often to be spied in their back garden, kicking a ball around as if he desperately needed a friend to play with. Clearly, he was more of a normal boy than I, and enjoyed playing football. This, then, would be my route to meeting him. Which posed a little bit of a problem, as I hadn't played in a number of years, and hadn't been very good when I had tried. Somehow, though, this didn't seem to pose too much of a problem to my mind - I would simply (ha!) walk over to his house one day and ask if he wanted a kick-about. Except that I discovered it wasn't so easy. I'd been so wrapped up in my little fantasy that when I determined that I would actually implement my plan, I could not follow through. I had become so obsessed with this boy, so withdrawn from normal life, that I hardly remembered how to go about approaching him. I sat one morning on the edge of my bed, staring at my reflection in the long mirror on the back of the door, melodramatically imagining myself as some sort of alcoholic or drug addict in a movie, admitting my addiction to myself before I admitted it to my friends and family. Except there could only be my introspective admission, because I certainly couldn't tell another soul what I had been up to in that room. Emerging that morning was like waking from a dream. Suddenly I realised quite how much time I had been spending with my binoculars, and quite how isolated I had become. I was a thirteen year old boy, and most of my time was spent alone in my room, thinking of doing unspeakable things to other boys, or rather one boy in particular. Even with my limited capacity for introspection I realised that this was not right. So, even if I wasn't going to be brave enough to talk to the boy, I should at least get out and do something. It was a Sunday, and my aunt was still mooching around in her dressing gown, so there was no chance she'd already made the walk to get the paper. To her surprise I offered to get it for her, and moments later had actually left the house to do something other than catch the bus to school. What is it they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? Certainly not a man, I, so a mouse, then. Whatever I might be considered, my plan to talk to the boy was fragile and futile, and ultimately unnecessary, for he did all the hard work, or at least was supported only slightly by the hand of fate. Or the foot, you might say. As I walked past the house, the boy's football bounced out in front of me and into the road. It had flown clean down the side path from the back garden, and was followed by its owner in short order, looking as heart-rendingly cute as ever. I vowed to myself that something should happen, and lo, here was my chance! So very easy after all, this human interaction. I stooped to retrieve the errant item, and lifted into my hands, feeling utterly awkward all of a sudden. Such an alien object. I handed it to him, and received a smile in return. "Thanks," he said. And then, "You could've just kicked it back to me, you know." I chuckled slightly, more than was necessary, but at a volume entirely commensurate with how nervous I felt. "Yeah, but that would have been a disaster," I said, and then immediately cursed myself for revealing so much, and by doing so scuppering the barely-afloat hull of my plan. "How come?" he asked, his gorgeous face tilted to the side. I would come to discover that he always leaned his head over when asking a question, like an inquisitive little owl. Utterly endearing. "I can't play football to save my life." Well, I'd already fucked my plan, might as well abandon any pretence now. "Everyone can play football," he said with a giggle. "Not me. Not one little bit." "OK, then I'll teach you." Oh my life, it's happened. It's actually happened. Run, little boy, run. Don't you know what danger you're in? Don't you know the perverted thirteen year old who's been spying on you wants to get into your pants, and you're playing right into his hands? Save yourself! "Um, OK, yeah. That would be good. I have to get the paper for my aunt first, but then I'm free all day." "Cool. Just come round the back, I'll be in our garden. I'm Jack, by the way," he said, holding out a thin, elfin hand. "Zack," I replied, taking it in mine, finding it curiously limp. We both giggled because our names rhymed, and that's the kind of thing you find funny at that age, when you're both nervous. I almost ran to the newsagent and back, and having changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, raced round to Jack's house. My aunt was in the kitchen as I passed, and raised an eyebrow at my sudden change of attire, but said nothing else. Jack smiled broadly when I entered the garden, and immediately kicked the ball to me, and, over the course of the next hour or so I managed to prove quite how thoroughly inept I was. Jack was a patient teacher, though, and I gloried in the closeness of him as he came to show me what to do, positioning my legs and hips with his hands. I fought my libido and failed, and hoped he didn't notice the unnatural bulge in the front of my shorts. At least, if he did notice it, he didn't say anything. By the time I had to leave - his family were off out for the afternoon - I was hot and sweaty, and above all else alive. I actually felt alive. I must have floated back to my house. My aunt intercepted me as I gulped down a glass of orange squash. "Making friends at last, then?" she said. It should have been a cause for celebration, but there was an edge to her voice which suggested something darker beneath. "Yeah. And playing outdoors, too!" I said, my face beaming. She sighed and looked at me, something approaching pity in her eyes. "Just be careful, Zack, OK? Be careful." And she left the room before I could ask her what the hell she meant. Be careful of what? Jack wasn't going to do anything to me, so what did I have to be afraid of? --- The knock on the door came that evening. Alone in the house - my aunt was out with Yvgeny - I answered it, annoyed at the intrusion into my daydreaming about... well, you know. There stood Jack's dad, a handsome man and a looming presence in the doorway. We'd never been formally introduced, but he certainly knew who I was. "Is your aunt in, Zack?" "Um, no. No, she's out. Can I -" "Good," he said, interrupting me and barging past into the house. "Shut the door," he continued, and stalked off toward the kitchen. I followed like an obedient puppy, scared to death of the man. "Look, I'll keep this short. Stay the fuck away from my son, alright? I've got nothing against you doing whatever it is you poofters do in your own home, but you stay the hell away from my Jack. I'm not having you influencing him. Understand?" I stood there speechless, my mouth opening and closing, but nothing coming out. "I'll take that as a yes, then. Good." And he left. I crumpled to the floor, utterly deflated. Sobs racked my body, and I cried silently, tears streaming from my eyes. I don't know how long I was there on the floor, but my aunt and Yvgeny found me staring into space. She tried to get through to me, but nothing would breach that barrier; I had retreated. --- It was half term, a week without school. I spent it alone in my room. Sometimes I would take a short trip to the toilet, or to the kitchen to get food, but always I returned to my little cocoon. I sought desperately for answers. Why had this happened to me? Was I being punished for how I'd behaved toward to James? Or for my thoughts about Jack? Perhaps this was God's revenge on me for having done what I already had, for being who I was. And how had Jack's dad known? It wasn't that common knowledge, was it? I looked out of my window one day, and there he was, cutting a lonely, dejected figure in his garden, kicking a ball about. He turned and looked at me, and smiled, raising a hand in a small wave, and then darting his eyes toward his house, as if afraid of being seen making contact with me. That answered one question, at least - he, too, had been warned not to play with me, as I had been warned off playing with him. Strangely, I was relieved - we were both in the same boat, and hopefully he didn't hold a grudge against me for ignoring him. By the time I'd waved back he was already looking in the other direction. My aunt asked why I wasn't playing with my new friend, but I couldn't tell her what had happened. I was ashamed, as if I had a disgusting disease which shouldn't be mentioned. I gave her no alternative answer, and she jumped to conclusions. I made no effort to rebuff her rebuke for having frightened the boy off. Instead I accepted it, the sacrificial lamb, because I had worked out by now that I surely deserved everything which came my way. It was simply the cross I had to bear for my mortal sins. Darkness replaced light, depression forced out happiness. --- A letter landed on the doormat, simply addressed 'Zack'. Hand delivered, but in the middle of the night, because my aunt found it first thing the next morning, and invaded my room to pass it on, as well as taking the opportunity to complain about my lack of activity. I sat and listened to the lecture, and made no complaints. She was right to lecture me, though not for the reasons I supposed. I waited until she was certainly gone before opening it. My eyes flicked downward and my heart jumped into my mouth when I read the name 'Jack'. I have it to this day, so I can tell you verbatim what it said: Dear Zack, I hope this doesn't get you in trouble! My dad said I wasn't to play with you any more, but he wouldn't tell me why. Do you know why? I think it's rubbish. I like playing with you. I think we should still play, but keep it a secret. If you still want to be my friend, put a letter in the apple tree between our gardens tonight. From Jack Other than repairing a little of his broken spelling and grammar, that's exactly what he sent. Oh, sweet rapture to read those words! How my heart soared! I felt as if the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. I rushed to the window, hoping to get a glimpse of him, maybe to pass on that I had received his message. But the only person out in the garden was his mum, putting out some washing, and there was no sign of Jack or his sister in the house, at least through the windows I could see. I sat down immediately to pen my reply, though the secret agent part of my mind told me I'd have to wait for darkness to deliver it to the named location, and at this time of year that would be very late indeed. Still, I threw wide the curtains and sat down at my desk, found some paper and a pen, and set to work. Of course, it had to be the ideal letter, its tone gauged perfectly - I wanted to appear enthusiastic, but not overly so. I didn't want to do what my aunt assumed I already had, and scare him away. That's why I eventually ran out of paper and had to go and find some more. Some hours later, I finally had a note I was happy with; I'd love to tell you what it said, but that's one I don't have. I can't imagine it was a literary epic, but I carefully and lovingly folded it into four and labelled it 'Jack'. I paced, I sat, I paced again. I almost ripped it up and started again, but no, it was good enough, good enough. What was I expecting the letter to do? After all, I was simply confirming that I agreed to our secret friendship. I was placing too much import on this simple little thing. I sat, and I paced, and I tried to read but couldn't, tried to find something else to do but couldn't. My aunt tried to talk to me but I wasn't interested. She wasn't my friend at the moment. I distracted myself for a few moments with photos of my parents, but that could not be endured. I tried reading, again; still couldn't. Darkness fell all too slowly, but by half past nine I judged it dark enough to risk putting the letter in the tree. I snuck outside through the kitchen, trying not to disturb my aunt, who was watching TV in the living room - the last thing I needed was her sticking her nose in. It was a warm evening, the air close. For some reason, even though the gardens were in all-consuming darkness, I felt the need for stealth, and so I ran in a crouch below the line of the hedge which separated our gardens, down to the apple tree whose boughs graced us both with fruit. There, in a hollow which seemed perfect for the job, I deposited my note. As I stealthily crept back to the house and up to my room, my heart hammered so fast that the world swam in front of my eyes. I thought to try to alert Jack in some way, to tell him the note was there. A subtle sign in my window, perhaps? Would he understand if I made a little picture of an apple and stuck it to the glass? Or perhaps I could just wait there until he went to his room. His room, of course! It would already be the time of the evening when he retired to his room to get ready for bed. I'd often watched him until he drew his curtains before undressing, always thwarted by his modesty. Perhaps he would be there tonight, but as I looked out of my window there was only darkness. Determined to wait in case he came to bed late, I turned off the light in my room (to kill its reflection on the inside of my window) and sat down to wait. Ten minutes later, as I was beginning to give in to boredom and fantasising, the light flicked on in his room, and there was Jack. He turned round to shout through the door, possibly downstairs where his parents would be. Then he closed the door and came over to the curtains, pulling them shut. My chance had gone - he was out of sight before I could reach my light to turn it on and alert him to my presence. I sat and stared at the closed curtains for a minute, annoyed with myself for not moving more quickly. Then, something out of the ordinary happened. The curtains split for a moment, and there was Jack, opening the top window to let some air in; it was a rather muggy evening, after all. Again, I was too slow reacting to get his attention, but those thoughts were pushed hard into the back of my mind when Jack, who was normally very careful about his privacy, left the curtains open a foot wide and retreated into his room. It made sense to leave a gap for a breeze to pass through, but it had also granted me a perfect view of the lower half of his bed. My heart began to race once more, and adrenaline flooded my body, setting me shaking. What followed will for ever be burned into my mind, perhaps more so than anything else which happened with Jack - I wasn't meant to see what I did, and that adds another dimension to the dull reality. He reappeared after a few moments and was totally, fully, shockingly naked. I realised then that nothing would ever come close to that view. I knew that however it happened I would have to have him. I doubled over as the excitement of the moment made my stomach cramp. Frantic with desire, I pushed down my jeans, desperately trying to keep my eyes on the view. He stood there for a moment, as if posing, as if giving me long enough to store the memory for ever, though he couldn't have known I was watching. Then he knelt down and fished under his bed for something, pulling out a white book. I wondered only for a moment what it could be, but then I saw the front cover and all was revealed - even over this distance I knew what the book was, because I had a copy myself, and recognised the front cover. It was called "You and Your Body", and was a wonderfully explicit sex education book for young teens which somehow made it past the censors on the basis of being educational. I, too, had spent hours alone in private with that book, and I prayed he as about to enjoy it in the same way I had. He lay back on his bed, giving me the view from navel to feet. His little penis, a floppy white thing, fell across his hip. His left hand drifted down to play with it and it quickly bobbed and rose, bouncing with his pulse, until it stood firmly erect; it pointed to his chin. It was a slim, smooth tube, rising from an unblemished groin. His balls were pulled up tight in a pink-tinged scrotum beneath, and he pulled at the pliable skin, which had the effect of dragging the hood down over the head of his spike until about half was showing. It quivered in its hardness when he let go of his sack. I had no idea which pages of the book he was reading, but they were having the desired effect. His masturbation was slow at first, rolling and pinching at his member, half-heartedly raising pleasure from his boyhood, but making no serious effort to bring himself off. He would slowly peel back his foreskin to expose his engorged, shiny helmet, then roll it back over, then pinch the tip of it and stretch it as far as he could off the end. This went on for some minutes, his toes sometimes curling and his stomach occasionally clenching when a jolt of pleasure radiated out from his groin. Then, he must have found a particularly enjoyable page (I wondered if it was the same as my own favourite) and the serious work of building to orgasm began. His legs stretched until the muscles quivered, then relaxed, stretched and relaxed, as with fingers and thumb he rapidly shuffled the skin off his head and over again, off and over, back and forth, building to a blur. Legs stretched, and relaxed. Toes curled, stomach clenched and legs jumped up, and relaxed. Tensed, relaxed, tensed, relaxed, faster, faster, until legs went rigid, back arched, hips pushed up into the air, fist grasped the little spike and crushed it until the knuckles were white, and he held it, on shoulder blades and heels until the very peak passed and he collapsed onto the bed, hips still wriggling and writhing, pinching the head of his deflating boyhood as tension drained. Stomach rising and falling rapidly with his panting, and glistening with sweat in the light from his bedside lamp. A squeeze of his over-sensitive member and the legs jerked, toes curled. Sitting up, checking for wetness, finding none, sighing visibly and then collapsing back onto the bed without the book, which lay open on the very page I'd brought to my mind's eye. I retreated to bed, head spinning, jeans still around mid thigh, my body drenched with sweat and a spray of semen. How I wanted to lift myself up and open my own window to let a cool breeze through, but could not summon the energy. I awoke at five in the morning, with the first grey light of morning coming through the still-open curtains. Was that a noise outside? I was naked from the waist down now, my clothes discarded unconsciously in the night, so I shuffled to the window on my knees and looked out. No sign of life, but there, dark against the shimmering silver dew on their back lawn was a set of footprints, to and from the apple tree. He had the note. That's it for part 4; part 5 is on the way!