Date: Wed, 21 Nov 2012 11:09:19 +0000
From: Ivor Sukwell <isukwell@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: A Boy, part 3: Kissing a Boy

This is the third 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.



Kissing a Boy
By Ivor Sukwell



Kissing a Boy


His cock; his wonderful, slender, milk-white, tight foreskinned, four
inches when hard cock, was mine now, mine to enjoy as often as he could
bring it to me. And bring it to me he did, most evenings of the week.

He was as addicted to my hands and mouth on it as I was to having it in my
hands and mouth; we shared a mutual craving to deal with his cock as fully
and as frequently as possible. Four, perhaps five evenings a week did not
assuage his addiction, satisfy his craving; he was thirteen and his needs
were endless. Before he had met me he'd masturbated four, five and even six
times a day, demanding constant pleasure from his young prick, just as that
young prick demanded constant attention from him. Now he had made a
sacrifice to pleasure, reducing that number to just one, the
before-getting-up-in-the morning release of the night's build up of sperm
that made his balls ache and his cock rigid when he woke.

Sometimes, he confessed to me with a shy giggle in the concealing,
embarrassment-free darkness as we sat in the woods in my Jensen, he did
yield to the need for a second, flogging his never-reluctant-to-be-flogged
tube of joy to hardness once more as he lay, warm and snuggled in bed on
returning home from one of our encounters, reliving the pleasures of an
hour or so before and wishing I was there to make those pleasures real
again.

His abstinence was due, not to some loss of desire or to an onset of belief
that he too much played with himself, but because he liked spunking in my
mouth far more than in his own hand, and the more sperm he could pump out
the more we both enjoyed his orgasms.

But though I sucked him regularly and ate his protein offerings, his
understanding of the pleasures his body had to offer, both to him and to
me, were still limited to his cock. He knew, of course, that there was more
to sex than just enjoying his young prick; he was thirteen, if only by a
few weeks now, and this is the age of the internet, but what he knew and
what he understood were different things. He understood that men would want
and enjoy his cock; that made perfect sense to him – I was his third
man, although the other two had been no more than brief, masturbatory
encounters – and being wanked and sucked by a man was much more fun than
wanking himself. More fun, even, than the tossing he had done with his
friend when they mutually discovered the pleasure that is prick, but beyond
that was grey vagueness.

I knew his thoughts as though I could read his mind; I too had been a
cock-crazed thirteen year old boy, cock –crazed but innocent as he was
innocent for I had also believed that the wonderful, forbidden games were
for my gratification only and centred solely on my prick. It had taken a
man of infinite skill and patience to lead me to another understanding, an
understanding that lasted throughout my teenage years.

I had wanked him and then, when the need had grown in him, sucked him,
satisfying at first the need in his groin and then the need that grew in
his mind. I sucked him so now he felt that any orgasm that did not involve
my mouth and the eating of his sperm was an orgasm wasted. He saved his
sperm for me, wanking only when the need was too strong to resist, the lure
of sperming into my mouth too powerful to ignore. But when a craving is
satisfied, is guaranteed to be satisfied, another need begins to grow and a
new need was forming in his mind now. Not as a conscious thought, but as an
instinctive desire, a desire to explore further, to go further along the
path he had started on.

He would not, could not, take the next step for himself; the path ahead was
blocked, invisible. He needed to be led into the shaft of sunlight, shown
that it was not a wall ahead but simply a stile, a stile he could climb
with ease if he dared to try.

I pulled the Jenson into the familiar clearing but this time, when he went,
as he always did now, to pull his trackies down to his ankles, I stopped
him.

"Not yet," I whispered in the darkness and put my arm round his shoulder
instead of my hand onto his cock.

He was surprised, but my arm around him was comforting, not in the least
threatening and he allowed himself to be drawn by the gentle pressure so
his head rested on my shoulder. Although, when I first wanked him, he had
rested his head there, he had never been cuddled, made to feel safe and
protected in my arms. At first he was a fraction distant, a fraction stiff
in his body, for this was something new, something that was not immediately
and obviously associated with his cock and his understanding that his cock
was the reason he was here with me.

Slowly the tenseness left him, his mind reasoning that he was here with me
to have his cock dealt with and that this new thing, this cuddling, must
have something to do with that; perhaps it was a slow lead in, building the
need for sexual release so he would spunk even more, for he still measured
the success in our encounters by the amount he could feed me.

As he relaxed, moulding his body with mine, I kissed him softly on his hair
and when he didn't recoil in horror I repeated the kiss, lower this time,
nuzzling his fringe aside so my lips could brush his forehead. Still no
sign of concern, but a tiny giggle covering the hint of shyness at being
treated in this way

The giggle covered something else as well; I knew his brain was making the
connection between these gentle nuzzles and what usually happened to his
cock. He wasn't yet sure what the connection was and to where it would
lead, but he knew there was a connection.

More connections when I kissed, so very softly, his nose, his cheek and his
chin and, inside, he knew now where this was going, though he had not
admitted that to himself yet. He could deny the understanding no longer
when I repeated the exercise, lingering longer with each kiss, but he still
had yet to answer the two questions his mind was asking. Kissing, surely,
was something you did with girls – not that he ever had or even wanted
to kiss a girl – men did not kiss boys, did they? And if they did, if
this was part of having cock seen to, did he want that part? Play this part
of the game? His mind was uncertain, his body yet to be convinced.

I could have cheated, reached down inside his trackies and kissed him while
he was enjoying the feel of my hand on his prized possessions, but that
would have made his decision for him and I wanted him to choose for
himself, take this next step because he wanted to and not because he had
been pushed.

But, even though I did not want to push him, I saw no reason why I should
not lay temptation in his way, leave it there and trust him to find it. I
knew my hands on his body felt good to him, one round his shoulder and one
roving around his ribs. He could feel the warmth of my hands through his
hoody, the only garment on his upper half, just as his trackies were the
only clothing on his lower part; he could feel that warmth as I could feel
the heat of his body on my hands. Body heat is sensuous and sensual; it is
both comforting and arousing and I was certain that if I did go inside his
trackies I would find him already fully aroused; it took almost nothing to
bring him to hardness and need.

On the next pass of my lips I brushed against his, still shut of course,
both his and mine, and I felt his body tense a little as lip contact was
made, and the next time I lingered a little, just long enough for the
tenseness to recede from him. Now he knew where the path lay ahead; he
could not see it fully yet, as it faded into the mists of the unknown, but
the sirens were calling softly to him, their tempting voices drifting
through that mist.

Temptation lay in his way and he found it, irresistible as such temptations
of the flesh are to all who do not set their minds firmly against them,
enforce control over the demands of the body. He had no such control and no
desire to have and although I had made no move towards his throbbing
boyhood he understood that this new thing was something he needed to do if
the satisfaction that throbbing piece of flesh craved and demanded was to
happen.

The next time he allowed my lips to stay on his and, slowly as he adjusted
to the somehow erotic feeling the lip contact promised, he returned the
gentle pressure of my mouth on his.

 His lips stayed closed when I parted mine, not knowing he should open,
that kissing of this nature demanded full surrender and even when my tongue
tip poked out and softly teased his closed lips it took him an eternity to
yield. Being wanked by a man, being sucked by a man – these were things
his thirteen year old mind could comprehend as easily as his thirteen year
old body delighted in them, being kissed by a man was something way beyond
simple cock satisfaction and he hesitated, unsure, uncertain.

The siren call became louder, clearer, as my tongue brushed his lips, lips
that began, not to part but to pout a fraction, offering more lip for
tongue to brush and when no sensations of horror or revulsion swept through
him, they opened enough for me to reach the soft, warm, wetness of his
inner lips.

The mists dissolved for him, enough for him to see that the path ahead was
blocked, not by a wall but by a closed mouth, and with the siren song of
passion growing louder he opened his mouth and the path ahead was clear and
shining brightly in the darkness inside my Jensen in a clearing in the
night-time woods.

He accepted my tongue with no remaining resistance, his only uncertainty
now was what to do, how to proceed, how to run down that path that now
called loudly to him.

Hesitantly his tongue met mine and I knew he was shocked, as I had been
shocked at his age, at the feelings that a tongue can give to another
tongue and how those feelings expand and consume the entire body.

Hesitant no longer his lips forced against mine, his tongue twisting and
twirling against the tongue in his mouth in a dance of passion the like of
which he had not known existed, and as that passion built his arms clasped
round me, small hands pulling me closer to him as though he was trying to
blend us into one.

It was the first time he had touched me; till now, in all our encounters,
he had done no more than lie back in the Jensen's seat and allow his body
to absorb the pleasure my hand or my mouth generated in him as I worked his
cock to wonderful orgasms. Now he was clinging to me, his fingers digging
into my back as I kissed him and he kissed me, his body demanding a surfeit
of this new pleasure, this new, unstoppable lust.

His mouth was wonderful, as boys' mouths are. Kissing women is like kissing
a wet cabbage, kissing a boy is relishing the essence of a hot pepper.
There is no sogginess when you kiss a boy; however softly, however lovingly
he is kissed, he responds as a boy should, with a passionate firmness no
female could replicate.

I explored all of his mouth as he explored all of mine, delving deep and
swirling around; tongue, soft palate, hard palate, teeth, inside of cheeks
and even gums, all were searched for, found and tasted. There was a
sweetness in his mouth, traces perhaps of a drink he had consumed before he
met me and I savoured it as a boy-taste as he savoured whatever flavours he
found in me in his frantic, tongue twisting searches.

We kissed and breathed each other's air for however long a kiss can last,
and parted, both panting softly with lust and desire. I lip-nibbled his top
lip as we regained breath, taking on air for another assault on each
other's mouths, and while we were dragging that needed sustenance into our
lungs I pressed my cheek against his, his soft boy-cheek, flushed with
passion. I had shaved so carefully for this moment, all traces of stubble
removed, so my cheek was a smooth as his, though the skin was far less
soft, but burning with a similar lust as his.

Drawn like magnets, our mouths met again, open wide and lips parted this
time, eager for the clash of tongues and another dance of desire and once
more our entire beings were concentrated in that exchange of small, supple,
swirling, flesh.

He made noises now, soft noises that lay somewhere between pants and moans
and his fingers dug deeper into me, clamouring to find flesh beneath the
cotton shirt that denied them.

I could have put a hand under his hoody, relished his skin with my hand; I
could have delved lower, inside his trackies and grasped his boy-hardness,
but this moment was all about kissing him, no other sensations or feelings
were allowed to interfere. Time for those later, for now it was about
bringing his lust to the boil, generate, if possible, the movement of his
seed from kissing alone.

And I did. How long it took I had no idea; it may have been minutes or
hours – time has no meaning when you kiss a boy, but, eventually, he
broke the contact between our locked-together mouths and gasped with an
urgency of need.

He did not need to give words to his need and I went down on him, pulling
open the top of his trackies and swallowing his cock mere moments before it
spurted, spurted hard and thick into my boy-washed mouth.

"Fuckin' hell!" was his only comment as the siren voices faded into
darkness. "Fuckin' hell!"



isukwell@hotmail.co.uk