Date: Thu, 29 Nov 2012 09:15:28 +0000
From: Ivor Sukwell <isukwell@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: A Boy part 5: Fucking a Boy

This is the fifth 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.

Fucking  a Boy
By Ivor Sukwell

I would not permit him to abscond from school again despite pleas that he
preferred sex to chemistry and that the education I provided was of more
use to him than that offered in school. Though the danger of discovery
added spice to his spunking, the risk outweighed the reward. He was an
intelligent boy and he had progressed far enough along the primrose path to
understand that the pleasures of his prick were prohibited, his desires
deemed depraved, although to him they were urgent and natural.

His evenings were also more restricted, the onset of cold weather making
street corners unattractive and the lack of leaves leaving the woods too
bare and open for concealment of cars. But his cock craved attention and my
bed beckoned and, as my need for his naked flesh was as great as his need
to be brought to regular and frequent orgasms, a way was found.

He understood the necessity of not alerting neighbours to his visits and,
boy like, found the simple and obvious answer. Someone was eventually bound
to see him and make unwanted connections if he appeared, evening after
evening, at my front door. Similarly if, evening after evening, my Jenson
left my drive and returned, minutes later with a boy as a passenger. Risk
was acceptable if desire was to be satisfied, avoidable risk was not.

He lived not far from me; if he walked into town he would use a footpath
that ran between the football ground and the back of my street, an unlit
path and the chances of a casual observer seeing a boy ease his way through
a gap in a hedge, from path into back garden, were hardly even minimal. A
tap on the glass of my lounge patio doors and he was inside and in my arms,
his lips parted for kissing before his hoody left his body.

We did not always use the bed; although I lusted for his flesh as much, or
even more, than he lusted for my hands and mouth on his body, we had no
longer need to cram every meeting moment over-full with sex. He understood,
without words ever being spoken, that, although his prime attraction was
his body and the availability of his flesh, it was not his cock alone that
bound us together. The man who used and enjoyed him also liked him and he
liked being liked, perhaps even more than he liked being licked. He slipped
through the hedge every evening and every evening he returned home without
the sperm he had arrived with, but the manner of its extraction varied from
evening to evening.

Most evenings were spent on the sofa with him cuddled into my enfolding
arms, mouths glued, for, having discovered kissing he had rapidly become
addicted and indeed very skilful in the art of tongue dancing. Later he
would surrender to my adoring hands as they wandered over his welcoming
body, his unwanted trackies long since discarded, and finally, his cock in
my mouth, he would feed me his cream with a satisfied sigh.

Sometimes he wanted more, wanted attention paid to his rear, seeking
confirmation by repetition that being eaten out was something he enjoyed
and, naturally, when the time came to empty his balls, I sucked him dry
with fingers deep inside him. As the weeks passed he came to want more and
more attention to his arse, announcing as I gently stroked his crack while
sucking his balls,

"Fuckin' love it when you does stuff to me bum."

It was the moment I had been waiting for, the moment when he saw clearly
where the final gate on the path led and he was ready to be led through it
and take cock inside him.

I fucked him on an early December Saturday, four months and countless
spunkings after I had first been privileged to enjoy his young cock. Then
it had been barely thirteen, now it was well on the way to being fourteen
and almost an inch longer and an unmeasured amount thicker than it had been
when I had first taken it into my mouth. Where there had been no more than
a dozen silky hairs there was now a slowly spreading small bush, but his
legs, and, vitally important for my enjoyment, his crack and hole remained
smooth and hair innocent.

He arrived earlier on Saturdays, came more often and left later –
Saturdays were spent in bed.

This Saturday there was something different about him. He came into my arms
eagerly enough, he kissed with the same enthusiasm as always and, once
upstairs, he shed his clothes without hesitation, but I knew there was
something on his mind, something he needed to say, needed to share. I have
taken many boys along the path from first cock pleasure to loss of
virginity, but none as slowly and carefully as I had done with him. Some
needed to be persuaded, some gave avidly, but for all there came that
moment when they knew that being fucked was soon to happen. Some wanted it,
demanded it; others failed at the ultimate moment. Some had fallen by the
wayside long since, their fronts available, their rears not, and whatever a
boy is willing to give I take with pleasure, always respecting their
individual limits and desires. I knew he had reached that final gate,
looked through it and wondered, considered the consequences of opening it.

We lay entwined, young teen thigh between adult thigh, mine shaved as
smooth as his still not needing to be shaved things of beauty, lungs slowly
dragging air back into kissing-emptied bodies.

"Wanna be yours properly," he muttered into my ear, his face turned so I
could not look into his eyes; "Love bein' naked for yer; loves yer lookin'
at me an' feelin' me an' kissin' me all over. Love it when yer sucks me an'
does stuff to me bum an' gets yer fingers in me when yer sucks me spunk
out. Wants yer to do it loads." He paused and I could tell from the way his
body had ever so slightly stiffened that he was summoning up the courage to
say something else. "Wants yer to fuck me an' all."

I held him tight and kissed his ear with a little nibble.

"So glad I met you on a street corner in the summer holidays," I whispered
to him.

"Yeh," he muttered in agreement, but he hadn't finished yet. "Know yer
likes me body," he muttered again, "An' that's alright `cos I likes yer
likin' it," he paused again, the next bit difficult, hard to say but he had
to say it anyway, be certain there were no misunderstandings before he took
that final step. "Don't give a fuck if yer don't like me, just wants me
cock an' me arse," he lied, "Don't matter a toss if yer just wants some kid
what yer can suck an' fuck, `cos yer can do that to me much as yer wants."

"How about if I like you as well?" I whispered. It was partly true, at
least – I did like his body a lot.

I could feel him shudder, his tears wet on my ear.

"Fer fuck's sake, stick yer cock in me!" he begged.

I pulled his head round, his tear wet cheek against mine and went for his
mouth. I've had boys tell me they loved me before; what they meant was that
they loved sex and I was providing it; he meant a little more than that,
but sex was his driving force all the same.

I devoured his eager mouth as he devoured mine and when kissing had
inflamed passion to a point where care and consideration no longer mattered
to either of us I flipped him over and around so his arse was in the air
and devoured his arse lips as violently as I had devoured his other ones.

With every push of my mouth at his hole he pushed back, trying to force
tongue inside him and, when for both of us, tongue was no longer enough, I
reached for the always handy lube and fingered him open.

"First time can hurt a bit," I warned him.

"Don't fuckin' care," he gasped back. "Wanna be fucked. Want you to fuck
me."

And I wanted to fuck him, so fucking it would be.

I had him on his back, legs in the air, cheeks parted and hole open to air,
to sight and to cock.

His hole had been trained now to welcome visitors – my tongue and my
fingers – and I could see it pulsing in anticipation of what was to
come, pulsing and glistening with the lube I had coated it with. I eased my
tip against his twitching entrance and he gave a little whine of want and
screwed his eyes tight shut in anticipation of the probability of initial
pain. His hole was used to fingers, taking three with no trouble, but a
thick, six inch cock was going to stretch him wider and go in deeper than
fingers and he knew it.

He had no cause to worry, his eager hole accepted cock tip like a mouth
responding to a dentist's request to `open wide', his elastic ring
stretching comfortably and gripping fast around its penetrator. No need to
describe that moment of wonder when the first half inch goes into a boy,
the way his hot hole sears the senses and the way his final ring of defence
grips tight, holding firm while it decides whether to accept or reject. His
hole knew what it wanted and knew how to welcome visitors, though this was
its first cock it had weeks ago learned that the way to open the door of
bliss was to grip and push back, wrapping the entry ring around the
invader, dragging it inside.

His whine turned to a gasp, a sudden intake of air as I slowly slid in
further. A cock's tip is not thick, what follows is. A blunt, hard but
spongy arrow head forcing the gripping ring wide in an instant, the ridge
behind the head the widest part of all and a virgin ring has no choice but
to snap shut behind that ridge locking cock into hole and allowing the full
length of shaft to follow, driving boy and man into the paradise of bliss
that is fucking.

He cried out as I entered him fully, not so much in pain, though there must
have been some, but more in shock at the sheer size of what he now had
inside him, deeper, far deeper than finger had ever gone.

I fed him my length, not miserly millimetre by millimetre, but in a slow,
steady single push. A boy should remember his deflowering as a rocket
ascent to the heavens from a whirl of a giant Catherine wheel, not as the
bit by bit danger of a jumping firecracker. His tight face with its eyes
screwed up and its lips clenched, ready to deny the reality of pain, slowly
relaxed as body relayed sensations of blissful wonder to brain and brain
told boy that here there were not dragons and demons but daffodils and
butterflies. When his lips parted once more it was not to emit a whimper of
worry but a sigh of satisfaction; boys are born to be buggered and he was
fulfilling his destiny.

I allowed his only minutes ago virgin thirteen year old arse time to adjust
to its new role in his life and then began to move slowly inside him, his
tight-gripping ring almost as much for me to bear as his cock-filled bowels
were for him. The little noises he made now were noises of pleasure and his
eyes opened to smile at me and then peer between his held-up legs at my
cock as it softly buggered him. I leaned forward, pushing his legs further
back and reaching for his mouth with my lips and he responded, lifting his
head so our mouths could meet and our tongues twist together.

The hot, tight, velvet, slippery grip of his ring was paradise for both my
cock and for me, the engloving sheath of his bowels almost an overload of
delight. For him, the hard ridge of my helmet as I drew back inside him and
the soft thrust when I pushed in again were enough to make him purr with
pleasure, his face a soft smile even when his eyes were closed. And closed
they were, closed so he could concentrate all his mind on the sensations
inside him with no distractions from the outside world.

My large helmet ridge and the smaller, though harder, ridges of my shaft
caressed his prostate, filled him with undreamed of feelings; the pleasure
of being masturbated, the sensations of being sucked were mere pale
imitations of the feelings that flooded him as my cock fucked him, and as I
pushed into him air was eased from his lungs, escaping from his mouth as,
"Yes, oh yes, oh yes."

I brought his legs down so he lay, fully on his back, legs stretched as
wide apart as comfort would allow, and fucked him much as one might fuck a
girl, chest to chest and face to face. The different angle of penetration
pumped different feelings into him, he felt more of my cock in places that
had previously not been subject to its full attention and he mewled with
joy and clung fiercely to me so that we rolled onto our sides and he could
lift a leg over my thigh and encourage more and deeper thrusts.

He broke away and arched his body backwards, a fear only doable by a young,
supple boy, concentrating only on the single contact of cock inside him,
forcing himself deep onto me so his cheeks pushed hard onto my shaved groin
and every millimetre of my cock was inside him. And still it was not
enough; had my prick been twice as long he would have wanted it all.

I had been inside him for longer than I would have dreamed possible, all my
skill at holding back tested to the full and only made possible by the
slow, unhurried nature of this fucking. His body was demanding release now
– a young boy rarely spunks on his first fucking by cock on prostate
action alone, though his balls fill to bursting. We changed position again
and, once more thanks to his suppleness, my cock never left him.

Now he knelt astride me my prick deep in him as he rose and fell and I
reached for his throbbing four and a half inches, wanking him as he fucked
himself on my rod. Orgasm was swift, his cock needing only minimal
stimulation to achieve what his body demanded. His first, blasting spurt
cleared my head, the second landed in my hair and the third , fourth and
fifth on my face. Further, less powerful eruptions followed, laying pearls
on my chest and stomach, the final, after-shock dribbles dripping onto my
shaven groin. It was incredible that a boy of thirteen and a half could
shoot so much, but his prostate had been stimulated almost to the extreme
and every seed he had made was sent forth.

His internal contractions as he orgasmed were my cue to cease all effort to
restrain and I filled his insides with all I had to offer in return for the
offering he had squirted over me.



He lay, curled up in the warm comfort of my arms for minutes before he
gained strength enough to first smile and then ask, with some concern, if
he had been any good.

"Was I okay?" he whispered, "Worth fucking?"

"Need to make some more tests," I whispered back, "Say a hundred or so."

He giggled softly, called me a dirty old man and almost purred with
contentment. It is a huge step for a boy to take, to admit to himself that
he wants a man's cock inside him. Different when his virginity goes when
experimenting with a friend of his own age, easily explained as being
merely an imitation of heterosexual copulation, but allowing a man to take
him admits no such mind-assuaging convenience. It is an act of sacrifice, a
need buried in primal psyche from a time when, to survive, a boy needed a
man to protect him; the modern world is a different jungle, presents
different dangers, but race memory does not disappear, it simply becomes
hidden. For him it was no longer hidden though it had been rediscovered in
a different way: wanking was an irresistible urge, being wanked added extra
pleasure and being sucked added more still. Kissing ignited new, unexpected
and far from unpleasant sexual pleasure and desire and the almost complete
surrender of being naked in bed with a man awoke the long hidden ancestral
need, and, once awakened, that need grew and grew until it could no longer
be ignored, resisted or denied.

He did not need my protection, though other boys may give themselves to a
man because they needed an adult male in their life; he surrendered to me
because I had led him down the path of delight and he wanted to reach the
end of that path. I was the man who had wanked, sucked, kissed and bedded
him; I was his man and he wanted to be completely and utterly my boy. He
also wanted simply to be fucked, to experience the ultimate, to know what
it was like to have cock inside him. Now he needed to know that he had been
worth fucking, that he was all a boy should be for his man.

"Only a hundred?" he whispered, a mixture of coyness and blatant sexuality.

"For starters," I whispered back and he snuggled closer, content that his
sacrifice had been accepted and that his man would not discard him now that
there was nothing left to give.

"But before that, when you've recovered a bit, it's your turn."

He wriggled around to look in my eyes,

"My turn?"

"Not properly lost your virginity until you've had a fuck as well as been
fucked, have you."

"You want me to fuck you?" His voice lifted in surprise, this he had not
expected.

"I fuck you, you fuck me; only fair, isn't it? And you're a real boy,
aren't you? Want to use your cock?"

"Yeh," he purred. "Yeh," he said again a moment or two later, said it with
more determination, "Yeh, wanna fuck you." His face broke into a wide smile
as the full realisation came to him; he'd given himself and now he could
re-establish his essential maleness, dominate another with his prick, "Fuck
your brains out, he promised."

"Please do," I squeezed him tightly.

He did.

I did the necessary preliminaries myself, there was no need for a thirteen
and a half year old boy to poke lube into hole, fucking for him should be
simple and uncomplicated. I coated his lovely, slender, hard again cock, a
cock that had provided both of us with hours of pleasure in the past four
months, and then lay full length so he could climb on me, lay on me and
drive his pleasure rod deep inside me.

"Just stick it in," I told him as I parted my cheeks to reveal his target
for him; "Shove it in and let yourself go."

"Won't that hurt?" he asked, concerned, remembering how carefully I had
entered him, how gently I had fucked him.

"Bit," I agreed, "But I've been fucked before. Anyway, I hurt you a bit,
didn't I."

I had, I knew I had, no boy can lose his virginity to a man without some
pain. He never admitted it when I went into him, didn't admit it now, but I
knew my offer to make things even would glow within him and that later
there would be no remorse, no naggings of unwanted guilt when he remembered
he had given his arse to a man.

Less than five slender inches, but I would still know that it was going
into me; fucked before I had been, but not for a long time and I would have
to control myself to accept him without letting him know how much it hurt –
nothing must spoil the pleasure of his first time.

I have always loved having a young boy on me and in me and the sensory
delights of his body, his weight on me as his cock penetrated, overwhelmed
the sharp, sudden sear of pain and I relaxed to the joy of feeling a boy
inside me once again as he slid inside.

He made more noise as he felt the hot velvet sheath grip him than he had
when his own sheath had been filled. "Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck, oh fuck, fuck,
fuck, fuck," he gasped into my neck as his boyhood experienced the ultimate
sensations. And then even those sensations were no longer enough, he had to
increase them, force more and more pleasure to flood through him and his
hips, without prompting, began to move, driving himself in as deeply and as
forcibly as he could.

This was what I wanted for him and from him; total, utter, uninhibited
fucking, driving himself into me and driving his spunk out and into me,
making me his as I had made him mine.

Now there would be no remorse when he lay in the darkness of his own bed;
no remorse, only a desire for more, a desire I would be happy to satisfy.

isukwell@hotmail.co.uk