Date: Mon, 5 Nov 2012 17:05:10 +0000
From: Ivor Sukwell <isukwell@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: A Boy Part 1 Wanking a Boy

This is the first 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.

`A Boy' by Ivor Sukwell.

Wanking a Boy

My fingers loved it, loved the inimitable feel of young, teen cock.
Blindfolded and `feel testing' a dozen boys of assorted teenage years, my
hand would unerring know which was the youngest, which one belonged to a
boy who had only just become a teenager, and it would know from the feel of
the cock alone.

Yes, I know there are obvious differences; a boy of barely thirteen will
have far less hair to interfere with the feel of skin on skin, finger skin
on cock skin; a boy of fifteen or sixteen will probably be bigger, longer
and thicker than a fresh-to-teen thirteen year old, but it is not length or
girth or pubic hair that is the essential difference.

I have coaxed the sperm from boys of sixteen who had cocks no bigger than
the one I was feeling now; I have brought boys of fourteen and fifteen to
wonderful orgasms, boys who found the growth of hair around their
playthings to be an unwanted blemish on their perfect bodies and removed it
so they remained as smooth as they were when they first discovered the
pleasures of masturbation.

I have known boys who surprised me with their age, boys younger or older
than I had taken them to be; but it has always been their facial and
physical features that caused that surprise, not their cocks. The instant I
have a boy's cock in my hand I know if he has been truthful or not when
telling me his age. Not easy, perhaps, to tell the difference between
fifteen and sixteen, or between sixteen and seventeen; hard, eager,
youthful cocks, confident in their ability to perform; but between thirteen
and fourteen...a world of difference.

There is the hardness: all teenage cock gets wonderfully hard, much harder,
somehow, than it will ever get as an adult cock, or when, in later, mature
years, real hardness is a distant, fond memory. New-to-being teen cock is
even harder, there is a rigidity to it, the difference, perhaps, between
steel and tungsten; both have unyielding solidity, but steel fails before
tungsten.

There is the feel of the skin covering that rigidity, that tungsten hard
shaft with every tiny ridge sharply defined, so easily sensed by the
fingers that slide the soft skin up and down. And the skin is soft, velvet
to the touch, its delicacy not yet worn away by countless hours in the
hand, soft and thin, barely able to cover and contain the tungsten beneath.

It matters not if the foreskin is long or short, loose or tight, or even
if, horror of all horrors, mutilation has occurred and the pleasure
enhancing hood has been removed.

I knew, without him telling me, that this boy was barely thirteen, the
cards from his birthday only recently consigned to the waste bin or put in
a drawer or album to be forgotten for years to come.

I'd picked him up on a street corner where he was sitting on a wall, idly
swinging his legs back and forth. He had nothing to do and nowhere in mind
to go and he should not have been there. Police in this town regularly
round up anything that looks under sixteen and ushers it back home once the
unofficial curfew hour of nine has struck. It was now ten and he had either
somehow escaped the attention of any passing police vehicle or he had just
sneaked out and now had nowhere else to sneak to.

I stopped because he was a teenage boy, and perhaps I stopped more quickly
than usual because he looked like a young teenage boy.

Although late summer and almost dark it was warm, warm enough for me to
have the top down on my classic Jenson, and surely too warm for the hoody
and trackies the boy was wearing, perhaps he thought they might conceal his
obvious youth, as though his size alone would have not been a give away.

I stopped beside him abruptly, though with not quite locked up brakes and
no squeal of wasted tyre rubber. He looked up sharply and having registered
that my vehicle was not one that could possibly be used by the forces of
law and order, he relaxed again and returned to aimlessly swinging his
legs.

Since he made no attempt to remark on my stopping beside him, I said the
obvious and banal;

"Bit late for you to be out, in't it?" I managed to say it without threat
or censure, but merely provoked a teenage shrug, the ubiquitous
non-committal answer to any question.

"Not bothered about plod?" I asked again, still keeping my voice friendly.

"Nah," he shrugged again, eyes fixed on my wheels, "They goes past just
before ten. Won't be back for an hour."

"And what are you going to be doing for that hour? Just sitting on a wall
and swinging your legs?"

Another shrug.

"They know you're out?" I meant, and he knew I meant, his parents.

"Dunno an' don't care," the pitch and tone betraying that, whilst balls may
have dropped, his voice hadn't thought about breaking yet.

"What if they find out?"

"No chance."

He hadn't taken off, hadn't told me to `f' off and mind my own business so
I invited him to extend the bounds of his nocturnal escape.

"Like my car?"

He nodded, "Yeh, different."

"Old," I told him, "Getting on for forty years old, in fact."

"Cool," he slid off the wall, overcome by the urge to have a closer look.

"Fancy a quick ride?" I asked, "If you don't think it's too risky, going
for a ride in an old car with a strange man, that is."

"Nah," he said, "Can I?" dismissing the risk and accepting the ride.

"Hop in," and my heart pounded a little at the thought of having a boy
sitting beside me for a while.

He did, settling comfortably into the soft leather of the Jenson's
passenger seat.

I eased the car away as quietly as the burble of the three litre engine
allowed, and headed towards the edge of town.

"Anywhere in particular?" I enquired as I joined the road heading west away
from town.

"Anywhere," he said in his temptingly treble voice.

The Jenson is a big car, so there was no need for my hand to be anywhere
near his thigh when I changed gear, but I brushed his trackie covered thigh
anyway and then did it again so he understood it was no accident the first
time.

"If I turn off left, we'll be heading into the woods;" there was no need
for me to tell him that, he lived here, knew the woods were there as well
as I did.

My hand gave up brushing his thigh when I changed gear, just rested on
there instead, my intentions obvious.

"Tell me if you'd rather I take you back."

"Nah," he said in the increasing darkness, the last, freshly on, street
lamps just ahead. "Fancy a ride."

I had to take my hand from his leg in order to do the left turn onto a
smaller, unlit road, and when I completed the turn I put it back again, a
bit higher up this time.

"Still time to turn back," I offered him one last chance, but he was having
none of it, and, since he was having none of it, I decided I would have
some of it.

It was only a short trip for my hand from the top of his leg to the centre
of his trackies and once there I encountered an unexpected and tell-tale
hardness. If he was hard already there could be no doubt that he was aware
of what was to come, aware of and excited by, what was to come.

There was not even a hint of a reaction as I squeezed him through the nylon
satin of his trackies, though after a few seconds of squeezing he did ease
down his seat a little in order to give me better access.

I mentally blessed the boy for wearing trackies and not jeans; the chances
of feeling anything meaningful though the thick material of jeans is
minimal, trackies are so much better. My fingers traced the outline of his
hardness, a hardness that was up against his stomach and certainly not a
hardness that was confined inside briefs, it was too easy to feel, too easy
to move for it to have been so constricted.

I drove, quite slowly for the road is narrow with sharp bends, and felt him
for a few minutes, heading deeper into the woods, almost a small forest
really, well away from any human habitation; an ideal place to take a boy
at night.

I wanted more, of course, more than to just feel him through his trackies,
so I moved my hand up to the elasticated waist band of his trackies.

"May I?" I asked.

"Course," he agreed instantly and I started to fumble my hand inside; no
easy task one handed with eyes concentrating on the lane ahead.

Obligingly he pulled the top open for me so I could get inside without
crashing into a tree. My hand slipped into the depths, relishing the
silkiness of his skin and realising, with a sudden burst of lust, that
there was only boy underneath those trackies, no confining, restricting
underwear at all.

"Lovely," I breathed as I held him properly.

"Yeh," he breathed in agreement as he was held properly.

He shuffled again, trying to slide further down his seat and open himself
up more for me.

"You press the little button at the side of your seat, the back will go
back a bit more," I told him.

He searched for, found and pressed the button and the little electric motor
under the seat purred and eased the backrest away from behind him. He kept
his finger on it until he was almost lying straight out, his cock now easy
to get at, hold and delight in.

"Find somewhere to stop if you want," he offered.

"Sure?"

"Course. I love bein' wanked."

That surprised me. His voice and his size said he was around thirteen, the
almost absence of pubic hair added to that belief and the feel of his cock
in my hand confirmed it. He was, indeed thirteen, only just thirteen, and
already able to announce that he loved being wanked. Not that he loved
wanking, but actually being wanked. This was not his first time!

I had no concerns about that. Of course it is nice to be the first to use a
boy, to be the first to let him know how good it is to have his cock seen
to; but a boy who already knows that is a boy who knows how to enjoy
himself and how to go about obtaining that enjoyment.

I found a little track into a small, but concealed clearing – he was not
the first boy I have taken into those woods at night- and stopped the
Jensen, immediately moving so I could use my right hand on him instead of
my left.

"Hang on," he muttered, lifted himself and pulled his trackies down to his
ankles, giving me unrestricted access.

"Lovely," I whispered, my left hand going round his slender shoulder and
easing him into me while my right hand explored his every detail, making
itself familiar with length and girth and the smoothness of his pouch.

A wonderful cock; all boys have wonderful cocks, even the ones who have
suffered the misfortune of mutilation, but he had a particularly wonderful
one.

Some four inches long, slender of course, he was only thirteen and no-where
near fully developed, but enough there to give a decent handful and not so
much that the handful could not include balls as well as cock. That
wonderful silky, thin-feeling skin that slid so easily up and down the
tungsten rigidity beneath, the utter solidity of the sides and top and the
soft hardness of the underneath, the sharpness of the head ridge and the
slightly softer, spongier head itself, absolute perfection of
boy-cock. Plato postulated the ideal of every object – there must be an
ideal chair, and ideal table, and if he'd ever conceived of an ideal
boy-cock, then I was holding it now.

Slowly, lovingly and caressingly, I moved my gripping fingers up and down,
sending my forefinger on a foreskin search and delighting to find that,
even as hard as he could possibly get, there was still a bud of skin at the
end.

"It's a bit tight," he muttered to me, "Don't pull it back too hard."

I know some men like to pull the skin right back, to expose the sensitive,
purple glans beneath. I don't; I like cock to be covered when I wank it, I
like it covered when I suck it as well, though I do enjoy poking the tip of
my tongue inside the foreskin, teasing and stimulating the sensitiveness
beneath.

I wanked him very slowly, savouring every millisecond of him in my hand,
marvelling time and time again at the hardness, the silkiness, the contrast
between shaft and head; loving the tiny ridges my careful fingers found and
fondled.

"Fuck!" he breathed in my ear as he snuggled into me while I very slowly
tossed him, "I love bein' wanked!"

"I rather like wanking you," I grinned unseen in the darkness and he
sniggered, such a pleasing sound.

"Have you been wanked often?" I wanted to know because it is a thing I
always want to know about a boy I am wanking for the first time.

"Few times," he confessed to my ear. Had I asked him that when he was
dressed and in daylight he would probably have told me to fuck off, but,
almost naked, in the dark and with his cock in my hand, it was no problem
for him to tell me that truth.

"Boys?" I whispered.

"Yeh, one. Me mate."

"Not just boys then?" It might, dreadful thought, have been a girl the
other times.

"Nah, been wanked by a couple of guys as well. You're the third," he
confided to me, and my own cock throbbed with the knowledge.

"Cool," I whispered to him and gave his ear a little kiss, nothing
threatening, nothing to suggest that this could go much beyond a
wank. "Keep doing it; just be careful not to get caught and never give the
men away."

"Ain't stupid," he defended himself.

"Been sucked as well?"

"Nah, just wanked. Dunno if I wants to get sucked, but I loves getting'
wanked."

I wanted to suck him, feel that young teenage hardness in my mouth, tease
and stimulate it with my lips and tongue, have it shoot its young teen load
onto my taste buds, but he was not the first young teen I have enjoyed who
had not yet got round to wanting to have his cock swallowed.

"How long you been spunking?" I asked instead of begging him to let me suck
him.

"Couple of months. Spunked before I was thirteen," he announced proudly.

"And when you first get wanked?"

"Me mate, or men?"

"Both." I teased the side of his helmet with forefinger and thumb, then
used my thumbnail to send shivers through him as I worked it over his
helmet ridge.

"Been doing stuff with me mate for a couple of years. We was still in
primary school when we started," he giggled into my shoulder, darkness and
the feelings from his cock eliminating any possible embarrassment at his
confession. "First got done by a bloke about three weeks ago."

"Really?" I wanted him to tell me more, of course, and he obligingly did.

"Yeh. Eyed me up in town. Fuckin' obvious what he was after, so I followed
him into supermarket bogs."

"And the second?"

"Picked me up same as you. Wanked me in his car."

"Like this?" I used my fingers as skilfully as I knew how, sometimes just
finger and thumb, sometimes whole hand, reverse grip as well so each set of
sensations for him was slightly different from the preceding ones. They
were different for me as well; wanking a boy is an art form, not just a
matter of grabbing it and tossing it. I even gave him my favourite tease,
the foreskin finger twiddle, as much foreskin as I could pull up over the
head, gripped between thumb and first two fingers and twiddled hard and
fast. The sensations from that are amazing but subtle, take time to build
and all the time they are building the cock strains to get more. And then
you change things a little, something you can only do with a really tight
foreskin; you ease the skin back as far as it will comfortably go, holding
it with the same grip of fingers and thumb and then knead it up, down and
across. Only the nerve endings at the very tip of the cock get stimulated,
nothing touches the shaft, and you can drive a boy wild. I know, I did
myself that way for all of my rock-hard teenage years.

"Nothin' like as good as this," he purred, "You're fuckin' good at it!"

Should be, I thought, considering the number of boys I'd done it for!

"Sure you wouldn't like me to suck you?" I asked, hopefully.

"Nah, just wank me. I loves what you're doin'"

A compromise then,

"How about if you tell me when you're about to shoot so I can get down
there and toss you off so you spunk in my mouth?"

"You want that?" His head came off my shoulder so he could look in my eyes,
not that he'd have been able to see much in the darkness. I knew he was
wondering why anyone should want spunk in their mouth; his thoughts had so
far only got to producing the stuff, not what you could do with it.

"I'd love it," I told him truthfully, "At least as much as you love being
wanked."

"Yeh, well, okay, if you likes it that much," he giggled, his initial
thought of `How gross is that!' giving way to `That is so dirty...and well
sexy!', and he put his head back on my shoulder and I knew from the feel of
him that it was time to give him what he wanted and move him towards
completion.

Slowly I increased both grip and pace, stopping occasionally so he didn't
spunk too soon and so, hopefully, he'd spunk big when the inevitable
finally happened.

"Keep goin'" he muttered after I stopped for the third time, "Wanna shoot."

I obliged, rubbing him hard but carefully, conscious of his desire not to
have his foreskin forced, and when his panting began I lowered my head
towards his groin, ready for at least a faceful if he forgot to warn me.

He didn't forget.

"Any second," he gasped as his legs went out straight and stiff and his
stomach tautened.

I got things arranged so my mouth was open and my lips just brushing his
foreskin bud as I wanked him, the feel of that silky skin gliding and
sliding over his oh, so hard shaft almost enough to give me an orgasm of my
own.

I actually felt his discharge move the short journey up his shaft brief
moments before he spurted into my waiting mouth in three, watery but hot,
delicious, taste bud coating spurts and a few more dribbles that I
carefully milked from him and licked off the end of his sperm-wet foreskin.

He sighed and relaxed against me, in no hurry to cover himself, so I took
the opportunity to stroke his smooth, young-boy-silk thighs and kiss the
rapidly softening source of his pleasure.

"Magic," he breathed after a moment's rest.

"Certainly was," I agreed, "Thank you. You are one gorgeous boy."

I knew he was grinning, pleased at the thanks and the compliment.

He pulled up his trackies and returned the seatback to a normal position,
ready to be driven home now.

"You can do it for me again if you want," he offered just before we reached
the corner where I had found him.

"I want."

"Cool. You knows where to find me."

And he was gone, out of the car and off, up an alley between the houses.

I watched him disappear, knowing just where I would be tomorrow shortly
after ten in the evening!




I do hope you enjoyed reading; there will b more because, as I am sure you
will know, there are more things that can be done with a boy than simply
wanking him.


Ivor Sukwell: isukwell@hotmail.co.uk