Date: Wed, 2 Oct 2013 04:07:15 -0700
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Love or Sex or Something Like Them - Chapter 5

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
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Love or Sex, or Something Like Them - Chapter 5

If the wait to deliver my note was painful, the anticipation of Jack's
response was altogether a new variety of torture. In his day long absence
(precipitated by his bastard father deciding to do some parenting for once
and take them out for the day), I ran through every possible scenario in my
mind, from the worst to the implausible best. In the nightmare version of
reality, Jack's dad found the letter I'd sent back to him and stormed
around to my house, beating me until I could take no more and passed
out. In the happy, thoroughly unrealistic daydreams, Jack realised that he
was gay and tentatively admitted it to me in his next missive, and from
there everything spiralled into one long, debauched orgy in my room. I
cleaned the droplets from my stomach and tried to find something else to
occupy my mind; Yvgeny was not around, but I grabbed my fishing gear anyway
and took the bus to the nearest decent spot, and spent the afternoon
missing almost every strike and being oddly happy about it.

Dusk was falling as I returned to the house. My aunt, who had found my note
about going fishing on her return from work came and gave me a big hug,
crushing me close to her.

"I'm so glad you got out and did something," she said, kissing me on the
cheek. I'm not sure even now that I understand why she was quite so
pleased, but perhaps it was just a sign of how far into my depressed loner
roll I'd really sunk.

"Yeah, well..." I said, and didn't finish the sentence. I took my gear to
the utility room to wash it down, as Yvgeny taught me. As I stared at the
water spiralling down the plughole, my mind filled with thoughts of Jack, I
heard their car pulling into their drive. I finished as quickly as I could
and rushed upstairs.

In the rapidly falling gloom I saw the light go on in Jack's room. He was
carrying a plastic shopping back with the Lego logo emblazoned across the
front, filled with a chunky-looking box. He pulled it out and laid it on
the bed, and with no little jealousy I saw him open the box of what was
clearly a very impressive Technics set; the truck and trailer, maybe? I'd
been very keen on Lego before my parents died, though since their assets
had been seized, which included just about all of my possessions, I'd not
played with a piece. Perhaps I was a little old at thirteen to still be
interested, but perhaps not.

Jack was still slightly in awe of his gift. I watched as he eagerly pulled
out the instructions and read through them. I remembered the feeling of
doing so, the pleasure of drawn out anticipation, the almost masochistic
denial of gratification. Given the opportunity, I would have analysed every
last diagram in the book, and then carefully arranged all of the parts, and
only then begun the slow process of building the kit, pressing each piece
into place with a sense of the utmost relish.

He placed the instruction booklet reverentially back onto the bed, and
stood. On stealthy feet he made his way to his bedroom door and peered out,
looking this way and that, and, apparently satisfied with what he saw he
closed the door. My heart leapt into my mouth and my mind raced at the
possibilities this act represented, but his secrecy was related to
something else altogether. He went to the table where I'd often seen him
doing his homework, and pulled a sheet of paper out of the draw, then rose
and took down a book from his shelf, pulling something from between the
pages. He unfolded the latter and smoothed it out on the desk, and I
twigged that it must have been the note I sent to him.

He set to writing a response. Occasionally he would glance my way, but my
bedroom was in darkness and I knew he could not see me watching him. He was
a careful, slow writer, taking his time over every sentence. It warmed my
heart to think he took so much care over the note to me, as if he, too,
were nervous that it came across the right way. In no version of reality
could he possibly be as nervous as I was, especially not for the same
reasons, but perhaps this friendship was important to him. I couldn't
imagine a boy like Jack having trouble finding friends, so maybe it was
just his determination to defy his father.

By the time I'd come out of my private musings he was done. He carefully
folded the note, and mine, and placed them both in the book before
returning to his shelf. His secret task done he left the room, switching
off the light as he went.

---

Morning came bright and crisp and cold, and dewy. I went on bare feet to
the tree, anticipation blocking the unpleasant sensation of the cold, wet
grass beneath my feet. I glanced across at their house, but it was dormant,
quiet, asleep. As anyone sensible would be in this murky half-light. A
white rectangle of paper was my reward, slightly damp-feeling, cold.

Zack (it read), I'm really glad you want to be friends too. We have to keep
it secret from my dad. I heard him saying stuff about you to my mum. He
wasn't very nice, sorry. I have to ask you about what he said, but not in
this letter. I want to ask you yourself. I'm going to tell my mum I'm going
to play football, but do you want to sneak off and go to the woods instead?
If you do, put something up in your window and I'll meet you down at the
rec at 10.  If you have changed your mind that is okay too.  From, Jack

---

I collapsed back onto my bed. I'd read the letter a dozen times, just to
see if I'd missed anything, and my Rubik's Cube was sitting in the window;
my sign. My emotions were mixed - there was the building sensation of
butterflies, the anticipation of seeing Jack and going into the woods to
play. I understood the draw of the place, but I'd never been in.

Then, overlying those positive emotions was the sick feeling of knowing I
was being gossiped about behind my back, of knowing that Jack's dad had
been speaking ill of me, and that at least part of it had reached Jack's
ears. I cared far more for his opinion than that of his father, yet it
pained me to know that suspicion followed me around, as if I were some sort
of criminal, as if people should be warned about me, and warned off. I
couldn't stop the feeling of nausea it brought on, and refused breakfast
when my aunt offered.

Ten o'clock couldn't come round fast enough, though I convinced myself to
wait just a little longer, so as not to appear over-eager. Then, when I
looked at my watch and discovered it was three minutes to, and there was a
five minute walk ahead of me, I panicked and rushed out of the door.

Jack was waiting there, and gave me a little wave and a shy smile.

"Thought you weren't coming," he said, the relief apparent in his voice.

"Yeah, sorry. So, what do you want to do?"

"There's a place in the woods with a rope swing. Want to go there?"

I shrugged, but accepted. It seemed a little juvenile, but then Jack was a
couple of years younger than me. As we walked he chattered away about this
and that. My initial nervousness evaporated as the minutes passed, until we
were having an enthusiastic conversation, laughing more often than not. It
was easy, and comfortable, and the happiest I'd been since James and I were
together.

The rope swing, despite my initial scepticism, turned out to be more fun
than I would have imagined. We took turns flying out over a dried out
gully, its sides thick with moss-covered, crawling tree roots. A magical
place to spend the day, with a cute boy who I fancied the heck out of.

We explored the woods afterwards. No-one else was there as far as we could
tell, so we took liberties, like pissing off the side of a high path into
the leaves of the tree below, seeing who could fire furthest. I took guilty
pleasure in seeing what little I could of Jack's treasures, and when he
caught me looking he grinned and stole a glance at mine. Of course he just
messing around, still in the dick comparing stage of his life, not the
lusting-after-an-innocent-morsel-of-flesh voyeurism I was practising. It
took all my strength to hold back from reaching out and touching the prize
I had so desperately sought, and by the time we were done my hands were
shaking with the adrenaline which had flooded my body.

"Yours is really big," he said, grinning. I shrugged.

"I'm older than you," I replied. "Yours will start getting bigger soon."

"You reckon?" he asked, pulling on his foreskin and stretching it
out. "It's pretty small."

"Oh, I don't know," I said, not really thinking what I was saying, "I think
it's nice."

He gave me a strange look - questioning, almost, rather than disgusted -
and put his away. I stood mortified for a moment longer, then snapped out
of it and also tucked mine back in my shorts.

The spell was broken, and we returned to being just two mates messing about
in the woods, and before we knew it darkness was beginning to fall. We
split up at the edge of the woods and I took a longer way home than he
did. By the time I slipped through the door and into my kitchen it was
almost dark. My head was full of thoughts of him, my heart with the soaring
feelings of nascent love, and my loins with fire at the memories of his
perfectly formed little willy. And, floating above it all, threatening to
overwhelm my emotions, was the pact we had made to meet the next day and do
it all over again.

---

"Zack, what does being a poof mean?" he asked as we walked along. It was an
innocent question, one borne of naivety, rather than an intention to cause
offence.

"Is that what your dad was calling me?"

He nodded. "A 'fucking poof', that's what he said."

I sighed. I knew this would come up eventually. He'd even warned me in his
letter that it might. But there was no escaping the truth of who I was. I
could lie to him, but I was tired of lies and concealment. If he couldn't
handle who I was, then our friendship was doomed anyway, so why keep it
from him any longer?

"It means I'm gay," I said, and when that didn't register with him
(remember, this was a more innocent time), I said, "It means I fancy boys
instead of girls."

His eyes flew wide. "Oh!" he said, the shock clear on his face. In his
innocence he made no attempt to hide it, and strangely I was thankful to
him for that. "Isn't that a bit icky?"

I had to laugh at the absurdity of the question.

"What?" he asked, looking a little offended.

"Well, put it this way," I replied, "I don't think it's icky. I think it's
great."

"Oh. Is that why you said my willy is nice?"

I nodded.

"Oh, right. Isn't it bad to be gay? Like against the law or something?"

"No, it's not illegal. Some people think it should be. Some people - like
your dad - think I'm sick in the head."

"Are you? You haven't done anything crazy while you've been with me."

"Yeah, well..." I said, "I did look at your willy, didn't I?"

"So? I looked at yours. And you can look at mine whenever you want, I don't
mind."

And with that he pulled down the front of his shorts, waving his little
worm at me. I gasped and went light-headed with the sudden rush of blood to
my loins. He giggled at my shocked expression, and pulled his pants up.

"Anyway," he went on, as if he hadn't just flashed me, "my dad isn't always
right. Sometimes I know the answers to my maths homework and he doesn't."

And that, apparently, was that. Jack's issue was with his father's attitude
to me, rather than the fact that I was gay. We didn't mention it again for
some weeks.

----

"Zack, do you know what a blowjob is?"

It was a characteristically straightforward and blunt question from Jack,
and highlighted his naivety once more. Most people his age would have felt
uncomfortable admitting their ignorance regarding sex, but with Jack I got
the impression that nothing would have embarrassed him.

"It's... well, it's when someone sucks on your willy, when it gets hard."

"Why?"

"Because it feels good."

"But why would they suck it?"

"Because they want you to feel good. Or they just like sucking dicks."

"That's weird. Has anyone ever done it to you?"

"Yeah. It was... it was the best thing ever."

That was a lie, actually, but I couldn't quite tell him, nor admit to
myself, that the one act I craved to repeat more than any other was getting
fucked.

"How do you think I get a girl to do it to me?"

This was one of those crossroads, those moments when your life can turn one
way or the other. I knew that I wanted him in my mouth, that was a
certainty I didn't need to question. The issue was, would he want to let me
hoover his little spike. The decision, it turned out, was easier than I
thought.

"I'll suck you if you want," I said, my libido taking the choice away from
me. Immediately his face darkened, and I realised I'd made a huge mistake.

"Eurgh, no! That's gay, isn't it? I don't want some boy sucking on my
dick!"

My heart dropped like a stone into the pit of my stomach. How could I have
been so stupid? I should've just controlled my burgeoning desire for Jack
and just admitted that I'd never actually made anyone want to suck me, as
such; James had always desperately wanted to suck me off.

Jack made his excuses and went home shortly after that. It was a relief
when he did so, to be honest, because the tension between us was
palpable. As I wandered home through the gathering darkness, I wondered if
I would ever get to play with him again.

---

Isn't it marvellous what short memories boys have? The very next day my
transgression appeared to have either been forgiven or forgotten, as there
we were playing together in the woods once more. I managed not to say
anything too disturbing, and Jack successfully avoided raising any topics
of a sexual nature, and for that day, and a few weeks after, our world was
a little more regular, a little less charged. Things returned to normal for
a fourteen year old boy and his eleven year old friend.

---

The porno changed a lot. Finding those few scraps of damp paper, separating
them, carefully drying them like some engineering puzzle, it occupied us
with a fervour which heretofore we had hardly experienced. It was a
hardcore, too, a proper rarity in those days. It's hard to imagine now, in
the world of the internet where every conceivable kind of pornography is
available at the click of a button, the level of excitement engendered by
finding such a thing. It was almost a complete magazine, dumped by someone
in the hedges and found by us. I still remember to this day the damp smell
of the pages, and feel the tingling of anticipation in my groin at that
musty fragrance.

The porno had something for us both - for Jack, it had women with their
filthy cunts spread wide open, hairy, gaping. And for me, the hunky men
with their rampant poles, huge members of such enormity that it made my
arse twitch, spouting thick geysers of semen, of which I was truly
jealous. And on one page, the young stud who became the focus of my
masturbatory fantasies for days or even weeks. A northern European magazine
from the seventies, it had a section which I would imagine was called
'Rising Stars', had I been able to read the language in which it was
written. And there, in glorious technicolour, was the most gorgeous boy I
had ever seen - my age, blond haired, with a five inch prick which made
mine look a little insignificant (though his was barely thicker) and a fine
patch of pubes which sparked jealousy and arousal in equal measure. I
didn't care for the older woman he was fucking, but she didn't matter, as
long as I could have that cock.

Some pages we argued over dividing between us, but those pages were
mine. Jack didn't even comment, just passed them to me with a slight grin
curling the corner of his lips, as if to say 'there you go, you dirty
poof!', but in a friendly way (if that were possible).

I lay in bed at night fascinated by the images portrayed on those scraps of
paper. How could someone so young be so lucky? I didn't envy him bedding
the woman, but to be in porn at all, to have all the sex you wanted? That
was truly something to desire. I kept returning to one image above all - a
close-up of his rigid shaft, the woman's tongue licking at the exposed
head, her hand around it possessively, her little finger sticking straight
out and buried in the immature bush of hair at its base. I came and came,
virtual torrents for me at that age, while I imagined being that lucky,
lucky bitch.

---

Perhaps surprisingly, the images in that magazine seemed to have gone some
way to thawing Jack's attitude, too, because it was shortly after its
discovery, and distribution between us, that for the first time we shared a
sexual experience.

"You play with yours when you look at the pictures, don't you?" he asked
out of the blue.

I hesitated, not wanting to risk ruining things again by being 'too gay' at
him. But he had raised it, and just admitting the truth without going into
too much detail surely couldn't be harmful.

"Er, yeah. Sometimes."

Actually, all the fucking time, but I wasn't going to admit quite how
frequently. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh, thank God. I thought it was just me."

I looked at him, slightly surprised. I wasn't that worldly wise, but one
thing I did know was that any boy who told you he didn't have a wank every
now and again was lying.

"All boys do it, Jack," I said, in a tone which I realised far too late was
thoroughly patronizing.

"Oh yeah, I mean, I knew that. Of course."

He was blushing, making him look even cuter than ever. I had a brief flash
of an image of him standing there in one of the poses of the boy from the
magazine - hand on hips, which were thrust forward, with his boyish spike
presented to the world. I had a vague idea of what his erection looked
like, from having spied on him wanking, but up close was another matter
altogether, and even the daydream made my heart beat faster.

"How do you... um.. how do you do it?" he asked, eyes downcast.

"Like this," I said, pressing my thumb to my middle and forefingers.

"Oh good!" he said, with a nervous giggle. "At least I'm doing it right. Do
you get the feeling?"

"An orgasm?"

"Is that what it's called?"

"Yeah. And I get it every time. What would be the point if you didn't get
the feeling?"

He giggled again, and said, "I suppose so."

"How often do you do it?" I asked.

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"About one every two days. Is that too much?"

I don't know why he thought I would have the answer to that, but based on
my own frequency I was forced to laugh, which angered him.

"What?!" he snapped.

"Don't worry," I replied, "you're not doing it too much. I do it way more."

"What, like once a day?"

"Um... I think my record was nine times."

His eyes flew wide at that.

"Nine times?! How?"

"Dunno. S'pose I was just feeling really bonky."

"Didn't it get sore?"

"Haha, yeah, after about the fifth time. It started really hurting to have
my orgasm, and there was no spunk left to come out."

"Spunk?"

"Yeah, you know, the white stuff which comes out of the end when you have
an orgasm. Like in the magazine."

"Oh, is that what that is? I was wondering..."

He fell silent for a moment, suddenly looking very unsure of himself. I
went out on a limb, suspecting that I knew the issue.

"But you probably won't get that until you're like twelve or thirteen," I
reassured him. It worked - he looked up at me, his face brightening, and
said,

"Oh, OK!"

For a few minutes we carried on with the game we'd been playing before the
interruption, but it was clear that he was distracted, occasionally
grabbing at his crotch.

"You need to do it now, don't you?" I asked, teasing him.

"No!" he responded, but I could tell it was a lie.

"Go ahead if you want to, I don't mind."

"You just want to watch me do it!" he retorted, and he was right. I was
encouraging him to do it so I could watch.

"Yeah, well, you're the one who's got an erection."

My response was weak, largely because it was quite apparent from the front
of my jeans that I, too, was struggling with the same issue.

"Fine, I'll do it!" he almost shouted, as if he wanted to but wouldn't
admit it. "But you have to do it too."

That, as it happened, was not going to be as much of a problem for me as
he'd hoped.

So, as we agreed, on three we both pushed our jeans and pants to the floor,
right there in the middle of the woods, standing two feet apart with our
stiffies out in the open. It felt amazing to be there, with my fingers and
thumb on my dick, with Jack doing the same to his narrow, three inch spike
opposite. We made no pretence, he staring at my dick just as avidly as I
was watching him work at his, and not used to delayed gratification we
pounded away.

It was all too short, looking back. We should've taken our time, relaxed a
little, but barely two minutes after we started Jack, who had already been
horny for quite a while I guessed, started panting and doubling over. He
put out a hand to lean on a tree trunk for support, and was suddenly there,
drawing breath through clenched teeth then expelling it in one huge
puff. He crushed his erection with his fingers as he came, squeezing the
head hard and shaking all over. His head was down, hands on his knees, and
so he didn't see my explosion, triggered by the sight in front of me. I
came hard, firing a shower of watery semen to land between us, gasping at
an intensity of feeling I'd not experienced since I, too, had been dry.

After that, there really was no point in being shy about it. I wanked once
or twice at night at the memory of our daytime adventures, but that had
nothing on the fact that without hesitation we would wank off together in
the woods whenever we were there. Sometimes Jack used to tell dirty stories
to get himself in the mood, but more often than not there would be no need
- we were horny boys, always in the mood. I grew used to the sight of his
ramrod straight, hairless three inches, and in every fantasy he overtook
the boy from the magazine. Oh God, how I wanted that morsel of rigid flesh
in my hand, my mouth... my arse.

---

We didn't often discuss what we did during those sessions; they were more
like a break between activities, a chance to relieve tension and then get
on with more important things. It was usually he who initiated things, and
it was always the same question:

"Do you need to do it yet?"

Always the same answer, too: of course I did! And if I didn't before he
asked, the prospect of seeing his willy again, no matter how often I'd seen
it before, would always get me interested.

One day, though, after our session, as we lay back on a grass bank to catch
our breath, pants still around our ankles, willies deflating, the patch of
grass to my left glistening with my semen, he asked me something really
rather revolutionary.

"Do you remember when you said you'd suck my willy for me? Well, would you
still do it?"

I hesitated for a moment, but it was unlike Jack to try to trap me. no, if
he was asking, it was for genuine reasons.

"Yeah, sure," I said, trying to act all nonchalant, "if you want me to."

"Do I have to do you?"

"Not if you don't want. But can I wank off when I'm sucking you?"

"Yeah, OK."

And that was that. He lay with his head on his arms whilst his willy
inflated of its own accord, going from a curled up little snail to a proud
monument to boyhood in a matter of moments. I rolled over toward him and
scooted down the bank a little, and came face to face with the most
wonderful thing I'd ever laid my eyes upon.

He was hard as nails, his anaemic little spike quivering with his
heartbeat, the protruding foreskin which hung over the end vibrating with
each pulse. It pointed up at forty five degrees, its very stiffness
preventing it falling onto his tummy. I marvelled at its almost luminescent
whiteness, and the minute tracery of thin blue veins which criss-crossed
its underside, and the way the head was clearly outlined beneath the
skin. I'd never before been so attracted to a penis, and that was saying
something. It was fatter than I realised, too, and my mouth began to water
in anticipation of nestling it on my tongue and wrapping my lips around its
perfectly smooth, hairless base.

I wasted no time, leaning forward and, for the first time in months,
feeling the soft, warm skin of a penis in my mouth. It was harder than
James' ever managed to be, even at the point of eruption, but the skin was
softer than I could possibly have imagined. It slid so easily over the
hardness beneath, and as I rolled it back off the his head with my lips I
tasted something altogether new. It was unadulterated boy, fresher than
James, a cleaner taste, slightly salty from the thinnest smear of seminal
fluid which leaked out of him as he came. A hint of something metallic to
the flavour, too.

I turned on the suction, and allowed my tongue to swirl around the head,
and before long he was curling up beneath me, hands on the back of my head,
stomach tensed until the muscles bulged, knees coming up to press his
thighs against the side of my head. He gasped and shuddered as he came, and
the little finger in my mouth kicked and bucked uselessly.

Beneath me on the grass my untouched boyhood spewed out another meagre
load.

---

Blowjobs became part of the routine, just as wanking had. They didn't
happen every time, but if Jack was horny enough (and he was growing more so
every day, a sure sign of impending puberty) he would shyly ask,

"Would you..."

The sentence was never finished, nor the question answered. I merely
scooted down and took him into my mouth, grateful for the opportunity to
have access to that wonderful, smooth spike of perfect boy.

My fourteenth birthday should have passed without note, just as my
thirteenth had. My aunt, not quite willing to give up so easily on me, at
least bought me a card and some fishing gear; after all, I was still
spending the odd Saturday with the taciturn Yvgeny - now my aunt's
fiancée and therefore soon to become my stepfather - and had grown to
really love angling. He himself even managed to crack a smile, and told me
with a wink and a grin that I was a man now, at least by the reckoning of
the old ways, and ought to mark such an occasion properly. To my credit, I
didn't throw the vodka straight back up again.

Jack's gift to me was a surprise in more ways than one. For a start, he
shouldn't have known it was my birthday, but, sneaky bugger that he was,
he'd spotted the card my aunt had bought me through the kitchen window and
had put two and two together. The other element of the surprise was in the
nature of the present.

We lay wanking, as we often did, on the pile of old blankets in our little
hideaway in the woods. He'd not indicated that I should suck him off, but
suddenly he rolled up and leaned on his elbow, looking at me. I stopped
what I was doing, surprised that he had deviated from the routine.

"It's your birthday today, isn't it?"

I shrugged, not really wanting to commit to the answer, but not that
bothered about denying it either.

"Happy birthday!" he said with a bright smile, and confidently reached
across the gap between us, pushing my hand away from my softening dick and
replacing it with his own. I gasped and closed my eyes, head sinking back
onto the ground and back arching at the sheer ecstasy of the touch. I
thought I had reached nirvana, that heaven had come to claim me. Nothing
could have felt better than the gentle up-and-down motion of his hand on my
dick.

Nothing, perhaps, except for what happened next. As I lay there, gasping
with pleasure, writhing from side to side, I felt a hot wetness engulf the
head of my dick. A soft, wriggling worm teased the opening of my foreskin,
and without having to open my eyes I knew what had just happened. But open
my eyes I did, to the sight of the side of Jack's head, and, below that, my
willy disappearing into his mouth.

It was all too much for me. I came, and came hard, pumping and pumping into
his mouth. He took it all in, then turned away to spit it out onto the
ground. When he turned back to me he was grinning.

"Actually," he said, ignoring the mingled expressions of shock and
adoration on my face, "that wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would
be. Might even do that again, if you ask nicely."

---

His mum stood on our doorstep in the darkness of a November evening. She
looked pale in the light spilling out of the house, and her eyes were
rimmed red; she'd been crying.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course!" I said, my fear at finding her there evaporating as I realised
she was no threat to me. Her manner was of someone in desperate need. I
moved to the side and she stepped past me with a whispered 'thanks'. I
followed her down the hall to the kitchen, where she stood holding herself,
as if freezing despite the warmth of the room. I waited for her to speak,
not quite sure what I should be saying or doing. She took her time, but
eventually, following a huge sigh, looked up at me with eyes full of fear
and spoke.

"Jack's dad had left us," she said bluntly. "He announced it this
afternoon. Jack ran off straight after and I haven't been able to find him
since. I know you boys have been playing together even though we didn't
want you to. Could you find him for me? Please?"

Though part of me wanted to say no, given how they'd treated me, a much
larger part wanted to agree, for two reasons: Jack's mum was distraught and
had come to me even though it must have hurt to do so, and somewhere out
there on this freezing night was the boy who had worked his way into my
heart.

"Of course. I know few places to look."

"Thanks, Zack. Take this," she said, handing me his favourite blue and
green coat. "He only had a jumper on, he'll be freezing."

I took it, grabbed my own coat and the torch from the cupboard under the
stairs, and headed for the woods.

---

It didn't take too long for me to find him. We'd come across an old,
abandoned hut in the woods some weeks before, and made it our own with a
handful of old blankets and other bits and pieces. He was sitting in the
middle of the floor when I arrived, hugging his knees. He looked up into
the torchlight and I could see he'd been crying.

"I could hear you coming a mile off," he said. "You'd make a rubbish spy."

He tried to laugh at his own joke, but his heart wasn't in it. I went and
sat down next to him, and put his coat around him and my arm around his
shoulders. My heart broke to see him like this. I held him to me and we sat
in the dark, not saying anything for ages.

"Is this what happened to your parents?" he asked, at last. I'd never even
explained my past to him; it had never seemed appropriate.

"No, they died a few years ago."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I hardly knew them. They abandoned me in a boarding school so
they could keep on having a big party all the time."

"That's rubbish."

"Yep. But then they died and I came to live with my aunt."

"What's going to happen to me?" he asked. There was genuine fear in his
voice.

"Don't know, mate. I suppose you'll live with your mum or something. Your
dad will probably send money or something. Your mum's dead worried about
you, you know."

"Yeah, I knew she would be."

"You should go home."

"Yeah. I know. Thanks."

We rose, and he threw his arm around me, hugging me tightly to him for a
moment. It was nothing more than childish affection, brotherly love, but to
me it meant the world.

---

I stood at the end of his drive as he walked up and opened the front
door. Warm, soft light spilled out into the night, casting him in
silhouette, a vast shadow which reached half the length of his lawn. His
mum rushed up to him and grabbed him into a hug, then looked past him to
where I stood, nervously. She nodded ever so slightly, as if thanking me
but unable to say it, then turned with him and went inside. He hadn't even
looked back.

---

Over the weeks which followed, Jack went through the mill emotionally. He
became erratic, and would shout at me for no reason at all, storming off
and refusing to speak to me for days, then returning to our normal routine
as if nothing had been said. My aunt pleaded with me to understand, to help
him where I could, but it became increasingly difficult, and although I
felt a great deal of affection for him, I was still basically a selfish
teenager. I didn't want someone who was dependent on me, I wanted a
playmate, both platonic and erotic.

I missed our wanking off sessions. I missed the feel of his dick in my
mouth when he was horny enough to let me suck him off, and the soft heat of
his own mouth on those rare occasions he was hornier still and would agree
to suck me. I missed the cute way his eyes would drift shut and his whole
body would stiffen and shudder as his orgasm overtook him. I missed the
little high pitched noises which came from the back of his throat at the
same time, like a little puppy whimpering in distress, though his only
cause to whimper was the strength of feelings in his young body.

But more than just the physical side of our friendship, I missed the
companionship he gave me. He was just about the only friend I had in the
whole world at that point, partly due to my self-imposed exile, and partly
due to my reputation. He alone amongst my peers didn't seem to mind that I
was gay.

I needed him back, and soon.

END OF PART 5