Date: Sat, 24 Nov 2012 17:19:47 +0000
From: Ivor Sukwell <isukwell@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: A Boy part 4

This is the fourth in a little series of `boy admiration' short stories.
Each is complete in itself, but each leads to the next. It is not knowingly
based on real persons nor on real events, although the laws of probability
would imply that something very similar has happened at some time and in
some place between characters accidentally similar to the ones portrayed
here.

The usual warnings and disclaimers naturally apply, and if you break any
laws by continuing to read, you do so at your own volition and your own
risk.



Bedding a Boy
By Ivor Sukwell


Bedding a Boy


The evening when I kissed him was our last time in the woods. Summer had
become autumn and autumn was giving serious thought to turning to winter.
Trees were almost bare now and even in late October darkness they did not
provide the same cover as they had in wanking late summer and cock-sucking
early autumn. The risk had been more imagined than real for it would have
taken a dedicated search party or a freak misfortune for anyone to discover
the Jensen and its occupants – a man giving a boy the satisfaction a
boy's cock demands, a man indulging in the pleasures a boy's cock provides.

Tiny though the risk had been, it had been an additional factor in his
enjoyment; all boys like to take risks, it is part of being a boy. He was
being naughty beyond naughty and the outside possibility of discovery gave
an added hardness to his cock, another thrill, another gesture of a boy's
contempt to the conventions of society. Now the risk of discovery was
greater, and, more importantly, the weather was colder. Somewhere safer and
warmer was needed and I had the perfect answer.

Some element of risk was needed though, a little something to add a touch
of spice, an extra something he was `getting away with'.

That little extra was provided by him coming to my house when he should
have been in school. Not an entire day off – that would have been too
easily noticed – just a simple slipping away after his afternoon break,
a slither through the bushes bordering his school car park and into a
waiting Jensen to be whisked away to learn more about sex instead of
chemistry.

It was the first time I had actually seen him properly. At night, when I
picked him up on that street corner, he always wore his hoody, his face a
shadow, and in the dark of the woods there was not light enough to describe
his features. Now, in the daylight of a late October afternoon and without
a hoody to hide in, I could see him clearly.

I had wanked him often, sucked him even more often and kissed him to the
verge of orgasm, but my heart still picked up speed when I actually saw
him. Neat in his grey school jacket, lighter grey shirt and Oxbridge blue
diagonally striped tie, he looked all of, and less than, his little more
than thirteen and a quarter years.

Perhaps five foot two, possibly three – I never measured his height,
though frequently as time went by I measured elsewhere – and slender as
a boy that age has to be slender, though not a skinny slender, not an
uncontrolled early adolescent growth spurt slender, because his slenderness
was solid and all had grown in perfect proportion.

A face that was more round than oval, but curving in from cheekbones to
chin, a chin that was neither round nor pointed, but, like the rest of him,
the perfect fit for his features. His mouth was neither wide nor small and
pinched and I knew already how his lips, the bottom slightly fuller than
the top, could swell as he kissed. His nose sat neatly on his face, a
delicate flare to the nostrils and a hint of snubness, and above it his
eyes, a dark blue under just slightly heavy lids. Hair was straw gold and
combed forward, long fringe, reaching down and partly covering the darker
gold of his eyebrows, but kept short at the sides, no reaching or covering
his full-lobed ears.

He was a sight to make my heart beat faster, my pulse race and my
boy-adoring manhood stir. And if I had not already sampled the delights of
his lips and his centre I would have lusted for him and done no more,
allowing him to age a little before trying my luck. Boys of thirteen may be
infinitely desirable, but in the imagination only, for boys of thirteen are
usually only obtained by men they know well.

I knew him well now, of course, knew of the glory of his delights, but he
had given me those delights, presented them for his pleasure and for mine
and I had no hesitation in accepting him into the Jensen, no society and
convention induced moral qualms over the pleasures that were to come.

"No problems?" I asked as I drove him to my lair.

"Nah," he dismissed the idea, "No-one'll even notice I ain't there."

I took his word for it for I knew he was not a stupid boy; yes, he'd taken
a risk, but a calculated one, weighing the odds and choosing this time to
absent himself as the safest time possible.

"How long have we got?" Not a question I had ever asked him before, knowing
that when we met for our woodland escapades, he was able to stay out as
long as he wanted, but this was different; he was in his school uniform and
questions would certainly be asked if he arrived home after his usual time.

"Safe till `bout half five," he said, making himself comfortable as I drove
away. As it was not yet two, that gave us more than three hours, time
enough for him to enjoy something new.

He didn't ask where we were going, wherever it was it would be somewhere he
could have some sex, and his cock, untouched since he got out of bed this
morning, ached for activity.

I took him straight to my bedroom when I got him home – the enjoyment of
his body was all that was in both our minds, and the sooner that enjoyment
began the better it would be. No time wasted in meaningless conversation,
why waste time that could be used more profitably?

I wasted no time either in starting to undress him, slipping his grey
school blazer off his shoulders and holding it while he eased his arms from
the sleeves. In the Jensen he always revealed himself, lifting up off the
seat and hauling down his trackies so I could get at him, but now he made
no attempt to assist in his undressing. This was not an almost anonymous
night-time meeting in a woodland clearing; this was daylight afternoon in
my bedroom, another big step on that primrose path he had discovered nearly
three months ago.

He did not refrain from undressing himself because he was nervous or
uncertain but because he was presenting himself to me as a gift and he
wanted me to unwrap him, and unwrap him I did.

His school tie followed, carefully untied and placed on his blazer which I
had folded onto a chair in the corner of the room. Then his light grey
school shirt, the type that has buttons all the way down and I undid each
button so he could slip his arms from the sleeves as he had done with his
jacket.

Shirt carefully joined jacket and tie and I put my hands on his shoulders,
narrow shoulders, of course, but already showing clear signs of muscle
development, and admired his top half. This was the first hand to skin
contact I had made with him other than around his intimate areas and the
thrill of contact with boy-flesh flickered through me, making my heart
throb a bit more, and my lips dry with desire.

He was thirteen and a quarter and his unblemished body, skin a delicious
cream, was a sight to admire, the brown of his nipples, tipped with a hint
of deep rose from the as yet unaroused buds, the stuff of dreams.

He watched me as I admired him, a hint of puzzlement in his slightly
mocking eyes; he had no problems understanding that a man would want to
gaze his fill on bits of his anatomy lower down, but, as he had not yet
discovered the sexual nature of the rest of his flesh, could not work out
why I should find his chest so much worth attention.

I tore my gaze from the twin nubs that were calling to my lips and knelt
down to remove his shoes and socks, staying on my knees to unbuckle his
belt and carefully slide down his zip.

Having his nakedness revealed to a man on his knees before him was a
special moment; he was the one standing, in a position of power whilst I
was kneeling before him ready to worship his essential maleness. He was
important; not simply his cock whose importance he had never questioned or
doubted, but all of him, every inch of him and that new understanding
combined with the memory of kissing and made him glow with pleasure and
pride.

All that while his school trousers slipped over his narrow hips and his
hardness bounced into the air – it wasn't just under trackies for night
time meetings that he wore no underwear.

He stepped delicately from the puddle of trousers round his ankles, my eyes
glued on his bouncing hardness, and then stood, arms by his sides, for me
to devour his flesh with my eyes.

"Bed," I whispered and he ambled over to the large double bed, casually
sitting on the side.

"Get in," I told him, and added as an incentive, "Much sexier in than out."

Nothing could have got him into bed more quickly and he slid under the
duvet, knowing now that I would be joining him there, naked man with naked
boy. This was a much greater step than any he had taken so far; his
nakedness did not trouble him, far from it; being naked for me was
exciting, he was the present that had been so carefully unwrapped. But now
his man was to be naked as well, naked with him in the same bed, flesh
against flesh. A giant step for a boy, one from which there may be no
turning back. Allowing himself to be wanked, sucked and kissed had brought
him there and he had no regrets; all he had now was a desire to continue
along the primrose path, follow the summons of the calling notes from Pan's
flute.

His eyes never left me as I undressed for him, just as my eyes had never
left him when I unwrapped his beauty. They widened when he saw my complete
nakedness – he had ten or twenty soft, dark-golden pubic hairs, I had
none. I had shaved before meeting him to ensure no stubble around cock or
balls, no stubble on thighs and certainly none on face; he would have
smooth skin pressed against his own smoothness, no distracting scratches to
interrupt his pleasure.

"You shave?" It was a question born of wonder.

"Much better for wanking," I grinned at him and slipped under the duvet to
join him.

"Mine are starting to grow." Said with pride, but mixed with a hint of
concern that this development of his body may make him less desirable.

"I noticed, but nowhere near enough to spoil things." I could not resist
adding, "Yet," hopefully planting a seed that might grow and keep him
perfect for my pleasure in the months and maybe years to come, if Fate
allowed those months and years to happen.

He giggled, softly and shyly and allowed all such thoughts to be lost as he
allowed his body to be taken into my arms and instinct to take control of
proceedings.

As our bodies met and flesh made contact with flesh a soft sigh escaped his
lips; a young, developing and utterly smooth thigh followed a knee between
my legs and his arms copied mine in wrapping themselves around body, and,
knowing now what should happen next, he offered up his lips for kissing.

He kissed passionately and violently, no submissive, meek surrender to my
needs, but a vigorous asserting that my needs were his needs and that the
solid four inches that were pressed hard against my stomach belonged to a
boy, a real boy, a very male boy and not some submissive wimp that wanted
to be a girl-substitute.

Full body contact can fan the flames of passion to a roaring furnace and
that is what happened here. Somehow I pulled him on top of me, his rigid
prick clamped between my upper thighs, the head grazing my perineum and
poking into my balls as he humped me, mouths still glued together and
tongues dancing frenziedly as Pan's pipes moved towards crescendo.

He was the dominant in this pairing; he was on top, driving his cock
between my thighs with every lust-fuelled thrust, the instinctive rhythm of
fucking as natural to him as if he had practised it a hundred times
before. He asserted his maleness, knowing in his lust-filled mind that this
was what he had to do, to declare that he was a real boy who could use his
cock as well as allow it to be used and that, having made that statement,
the things yet to come would be even sweeter, shared pleasures, not simply
pleasure taken.

He hadn't learned how to stop yet; orgasms, once begun had to be completed
and he shuddered and gasped as his sperm spurted between my thighs, his
spunking violent and sudden.

"Fuck," he panted in my ear as he struggled to drag air back into his
sperm-emptied lungs, "That was too quick."

"Quick, but fucking amazing," I whispered back and stroked his straw hair –
straw to look at, silk to touch.

"Was it?" he asked hopefully, "You didn't get a chance to eat it."

"True," I smiled into his hair, "But there'll be more. I'm sure you ain't
finished yet."

All boys like to be praised for their ability and my calm belief that he
would spunk again before he left my bed pleased and flattered him.

"And I love having you on top of me, spunking between my legs. Makes you a
real boy and I do like real boys."

He moved his face so he could look into my eyes, his deep, blue pools
searching for truth in my words.

"Really?" he questioned.

"Really. And you are not just a real boy, a proper boy; you are a real boy
who is gorgeous and wonderful to be with."

"Like being with you," he muttered, hiding his face so I could not see the
flush of blood on his cheeks, "Like doing sex stuff with you."

"Not as much as I like doing it with you," I said, truthfully, for he was
wonderful to be with; and ran my fingers down his spine to let him know
that it was not just his cock and spunk I wanted from him; his entire body
was a source of pleasure for me, and where I found pleasure, he would as
well.

I didn't go all the way down to his bum, only just to the end of his spine,
the very start of his crack. I didn't go further, not because I didn't want
to – the desire to go further, plunge my fingers between his young
globes and search out his most secret of secret places, burned within me –
but because I wanted to do no more than hint to him of things yet
undiscovered. Once more I was laying temptation in his path and waiting to
see if he would find it, pick it up.

He was still on top of me, his barely softening cock wet with spunk between
my thighs, my hands just short of his buttocks. He was in the position of
power, lying on top of the body he had used for his satisfaction; he'd
followed the instinctive need to fuck. True, it had only been my legs he
had fucked, but he'd obeyed the biological call to hump up and down until
his seed shot forth, to dominate the flesh under him, and, by doing so, he
had proved himself a man. And, having proved to himself that he was a man,
he could be a boy again and obey, without question, qualm or hesitation,
that other biological need boys have – he could give himself, totally
and utterly, to a man.

Till now, in his mind, he had been in control; he had lain back in the seat
of my Jensen and presented his cock for wanking and then for sucking. His
cock, my hands and mouth, but those hands and that mouth used, as far as he
was concerned, to give him pleasure from the relief he needed. That I
obviously enjoyed doing it for him was of no real consequence. It was horny
that I liked to eat his spunk, added to his enjoyment and the more fun his
spunking was the more he wanted to do it again; he had no understanding
that I had led him to needing his cock in my mouth, but what boy, with a
mouth to squirt his seed into, worries about the motives of that mouth? He
was still in control, could still say `Thus far and no further', but,
instead, he whispered, almost croaked, into my shoulder, his face hidden
once again,

"You can do anything you want to me," a boy's ultimate words of power.

And, of course, words any man holding a naked boy in his arms likes to
hear.

In response I ran my fingers down his spine once more, this time just into
the start of his crack, enough for him to know where my finger was, enough
to send the first tingling hint of what was to come through his body,
enough for him to understand just what he was offering, but not enough to
give him pause, wonder if he should qualify his offer.

I rolled him off me so he lay now beside me, my hardness tipping against
his sperm-wet balls, and ran a hand over him from armpit to knee, lingering
on the heavenly smoothness of his warm, silken thigh.

"You've got beautiful legs," I told him, proving my admiration with my
hand; the first time I had enjoyed him there and the first time he realised
that his legs were actually things of sexual importance, and having them
stroked produced a feeling in him that, although only a distant relative of
the feelings he got from his cock, was still something to be enjoyed.

"Thanks," he muttered, showing he was not immune to flattery.

Hands wandering all over his young body, a body he had offered up for my
use, felt good to him; I could see that from the way he stretched at my
touch, hear it from the way he purred softly as his offering was
accepted. My mouth felt even better. What I stroked I also kissed. I
started under an arm, and if it had been a surprise to him that his legs
were sexual objects, it was a shock to find his armpits were as well.

Smooth, soft, sensitive flesh, unused to contact with anything but water,
soap and towel was now nuzzled, licked, kissed and sucked and his body
stretched in appreciation as I ate him there. He giggled slightly when I
finished, amused that I should want to do something like that to him, but
very happy that I had.

A kiss to the mound of is shoulder and then slightly south so he could find
out something else new. His hips bucked off the bed when I took a nipple
into my mouth. No matter how much you play with your own nipples you can
get nowhere remotely close to the sensations created when someone plays
with them for you. He squirmed and twisted, heaved and bucked as I licked,
sucked and nibbled, gasps and pants forced from him until I took pity on
his sensory overload and made a meal of his balls instead.

I pushed his slender, shapely thighs apart so I could get my tongue right
into the crack between leg and balls, licking and savouring there as well
as taking his balls, one at a time and then both together, into my mouth,
once more proving to him that where a hand feels good, a mouth feels a
hundred times better.

He could not stay immune to the call of my cock either, as it twitched
against him and hesitantly he reached a hand for it. He'd played with a boy
when he was eleven, but that was very different from enclosing a man with
his hand: `I'll rub yours if you rub mine' is no more than a game when you
are eleven, but when you are thirteen and a quarter and naked in bed with a
man, feeling his cock is a very different matter.

He wanted to; he'd wanted to from the moment his mouth opened for my tongue
when I kissed him in the Jensen, the moment when this adventure turned from
just a better way of spunking into something much more serious, and now he
was committed. His fingers tips touched it, hovered and hesitated, then
wrapped slowly round it, marvelling at the difference in size from his own
milky-white delight.

Cock-heat throbbed in his hand and permeated his being and holding became
slow manipulation as he accustomed himself to the easy slide of skin over
the hardness beneath, so similar to, and so different from playing with
himself, for someone else's cock is so different in the hand than your own.

He wanked me slowly, noting that my foreskin was tight like his and
stopping when his effort to expose the head met with resistance as the skin
wanted to slide no further. He gripped lower, the base of his fist right
down on my carefully shaved pubis and I knew he was marvelling at how much
was above his fingers.

"Feels nice," I encouraged him and he breathed a, "Yeh," agreeing that it
felt good to him as well.

He'd spunked only minutes before and I did not expect him to start feeling
aroused again just yet, but I had forgotten the speed at which boys of his
age recover and when I reached for him I found sperm-sticky hardness where
I expected softness.

"Sexy boy," I grinned at him and he looked at me, a smile in the deep of
his eyes.

He lifted the duvet so he could see what he was holding and gazed for
several seconds before, suddenly and with no warning, diving his face down
and taking me into his mouth. I'm not huge, six inches or so, but I am
thick and he could get little more than just the head in, and that not
without opening very wide, but I was far from complaining. The feel of his
mouth on me was wonderful indeed, sending floods of lust and pleasure
through me as he explored with his lips and tongue.

It is wonderful for a boy to be used by a man, it is wonderful for a boy
when he can enjoy a man and it is, indeed, a thing of wonder for a man when
a boy uses him. I could have stayed there, allowed him to suck my sperm
from me and felt utterly content, but there was still the boy to think of,
more and different pleasure for him to experience and for me to enjoy.

I moved him so that he knelt astride me, his mouth still wrapped around my
marvelling prick, his bum now before my face, his secret open to view and
open for exploration.

He stopped his suckling, coming off my cock to his loud, "Oh fuck!" as my
tongue slid wetly from his perineum, up and over his hole and on up the
rest of his crack. He was clean and perfect for eating, smooth as silk and
tasty as only a boy can be. This was the most intense moment of his
thirteen year old life, the moment when that small hole, hidden at his
rear, becomes the focal point of his universe.

The initial shock passed, he returned to sucking me, accepting without
question what was happening behind him, and I returned to that happening,
teasing his hole with my tongue until it twitched in anticipation whenever
tongue tip approached and made no effort to resist when tongue tip finally
pushed a little way inside.

Now it was too much for him to be able to suck as well as be eaten. He came
off my cock, a better alternative than biting it, and, head up, body
stretched, he leaned back, pushing his rear into my face, his body
demanding more, demanding, insisting on more tongue inside him.

I stretched in as far as I could, mouth open, achingly wide, tongue thrust
out as eager to penetrate him as he was to be penetrated, but such activity
cannot be continued long; the demands on mouth are too great for comfort,
even for a mouth that had done this many times before.

No longer trying to penetrate him with tongue I sucked at the sweetness of
his wet hole, wet from my attentions but also from the beginnings of the
natural juices that lubricate the anus, clean and clear for it was as
though he had prepared himself for this moment. He whimpered with joy and
lust as I ate him, teasing his body with the distant notes of his ultimate
surrender.

I turned him again, this time so his groin was in my face, his thighs
against my chest, and I used my mouth on his other joy, swallowing his four
inches whole. A finger eased into his crack up against his mouth-wet hole,
and being sucked suddenly became better for him than ever before.

I made no effort to force an entry – a boy's virgin hole will resist
invasion, clamping shut as instinct demands. But that same hole will
welcome a visitor who asks nicely for permission to go inside.

I let my finger rest against his puckered shut door to bliss, no more than
the gentlest of pressure, barely enough to cause it to pulse, unsure if it
should reject whatever it was that knocked so softly. Tentatively his hole
pushed out against my finger and, finding nothing inside to force out, it
withdrew again and, in withdrawing, it dragged my finger in the barest
bit. Now there was something to reject and it pushed out again and, when I
kept my finger still, it concluded there was no danger and once more
relaxed. On the third time of asking the connections were made for, like
all gateways, what is designed to expel and keep outside is also designed
to permit entry. My finger was no enemy, threatening unwanted and painful
invasion, it came as a friend, begging for admission and promising reward.

Slowly at first, and then with sudden, sucking yielding, his hole opened,
dragging my finger inside and clamping shut around it, trapping it inside
his hot, wet, velvet tunnel.

He hardly moaned, he barely moved as my finger slid into him, the feelings
far too intense for physical response and so obviously allied to the other
feelings he was experiencing as I swallowed and sucked his cock that they
all became one.

Where one finger has gone a second can follow and a third follow that,
though slowly and carefully, for a thirteen year old, still virgin boy,
must experience nothing but pleasure and this was the most intense pleasure
of his young life and would be until what was left of his virginity was
finally discarded.

It takes time to get three fingers painlessly inside a tight young boy and
my sucking of him had to continue the whole while without drawing up
freshly made sperm from his lovely balls. At last, three fingers inside, I
could begin to softly finger fuck him, caressing that tiny gland that lurks
hidden away, so small and so powerful.

With his prostrate being massaged and his lovely cock sucked, his body
could contain itself no longer and with a wild yell he flooded my mouth,
squirting more spunk than he had ever squirted, draining his balls in one
tsunami of an orgasm.

He lay still, quiet and exhausted, cuddled safely in my arms and when he
returned to the world his face lit in a brilliant smile, his deep eyes that
usually held a brooding intensity, clear pools of contentment.

Still almost two hours before he had to dress and leave, and he was in no
hurry to be gone; being naked in my arms was where he wanted to be and he
still had a duty to perform. Not a task that I had set him, but one that he
had to fulfil for his own satisfaction, and, when he was ready, he went,
without words, down onto me and took my sperm into his mouth to prove to us
both that he was an equal partner in our pleasure.



isukwell@hotmail.co.uk