Date: Tue, 22 Jul 2003 12:04:43 -0500
From: Fredric L. Brothers <flbrothers@hotmail.com>
Subject: ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY - Part 5 (Man/Teen)
A Disclaimer: If you don't appreciate gay, intergenerational (that
means man/boy love to the uninitiated or brain dead) stories, or
you're under 18 years old, please leave this site now. Okay! You have
been warned. Enough said!
The following story is fiction. It bears no connection or
resemblance to actual or specific persons and/or life experiences or
situations.
ANOTHER LAWN BOY STORY
------------------------------------------------
By Fred Brothers
Copyright (c) 2003 Fredric Law Brothers - All Rights Reserved
NOTE CAREFULLY: The following is a copyrighted work and is intended for
private, individual use. It may not be reproduced by any known method,
distributed or posted on additional web sites, without the expressed
written consent of the author.
-----------------------------------
Part 5
Clayton Narrating
Cole drops me off at home. I take a quick shower. While I'm
drying myself, there's a knock on the bathroom door.
"Clayton? Are you all right, dear?"
It's my gramma. She's just checking up on me; she always does
that whenever I shower. She's always afraid I'll fall or hurt myself
somehow. But there are these bars for me to hold onto and also stool
so I can sit when I'm washing.
"Yes, I'm fine gramma. I'll be out in a few mmminutes. Okay?"
"Yes, dear. And please come into the living room when you are
presentable."
"Okay. No problem."
"Good."
I'm very tired but tremendously happy. I can't ever remember
feeling this happy. I'm not happy about what gramma and grampa wanna
talk about. That's my schoolwork. I know. The dean was scheduled to
send out the warning report notices this week and mine probably arrived
right on time today. I'm sure there's trouble ahead.
What I am happy about is Cole...and how he seems to accept me...
and my work...and seems to like me...and how friendly he is...and how
he doesn't seem to see me as a freak...missing half my limbs...and a
stammering doof...like so many people. I'm surprised how quickly he
accepts me... both my stomach-churning physical appearance...and my
exciting, original landscaping designs.
I dry myself thoroughly, blow-dry my hair, slip on my boxers, a
bathrobe and my moccasin and hop out to the living room.
There're gramma and grampa...waiting. She reading a book and he's
sitting with his eyes closed. There's some classical music playing on
the stereo - Mozart, I think. Anyway, they're dressed for bed and I'm
sure they'll be on their way as soon as our "discussion" is over. Of
course, it's going to be a very one-sided discussion. They'll talk and
I'll pretend to listen and take them seriously.
"How many times have I told you to use your crutches, Clayton?"
Grampa's speaking even with his eyes closed. "I hate it when you hop
around the house. You know that, do you not? You have a terrible
tendency to break things." Yes, things are starting completely as I
could predict.
"Yes, sir, I know that."
"So why do you persist in doing it? It is dangerous - to us and
to you."
"Yes, sir."
"Please sit down, dear," gramma says. "We have something very
important to discuss with you."
"Yes. I'm sure. I know they sent out the warning notices this
week."
"Then you know that you are failing two subjects. Do you not?"
"Yes, sir." Grampa's now leans forward in his seat and stares
straight at me.
"Why have you not told us about this or sought our help?"
I just shrug. "Guess I forgot."
Now gramma speaks. "This is not like you, Clayton. You've always
been so open with us...and so honest. What has happened with algebra
and social science?"
I shrug again. "Dunno."
"What?" my grampa shouts. "Stop! Stop using that pathetic,
street slang in this house!"
"Yes, sir." I swallow hard. "I do not know...sir. I guess I
just let things get out of hand...and out of mmmmy control."
"Then tell us how you propose to get them once again in hand and
in your control."
"Studying harder! Studying much harder. But...but...these
classes are so horribly boring...and the teachers so ttterrible...and..."
He interrupts me...not letting me finish what I want to say.
"That always seems to be the situation. At every school you have
ever attended. The subjects are boring...the classes too long...the
teachers incompetent. Why? How come some of the students...most of
the students for that matter...are able to survive the terrible
circumstances you describe?"
I shrug.
"That's your answer?"
"I need to apply mmmyself mmmore...putting all my energies into my
schoolwork."
"Wonderful!" he says with deep sarcasm in his voice. "With eight
weeks left in the school year, your answer to the problems is that you
are going to study harder and apply yourself. Just wonderful!" He
snorts. "I think it is a little late for that kind of hogwash!"
"Clarence, dear, a little self control. Please. I think you're
overlooking something very important. Are you not? Is it on purpose...
or do you need constant reminders?" Grampa sits back in the chair,
looking mighty pissed. Gramma turns to me. "Clayton, we think it has
gone beyond just studying harder and applying yourself more. We
believe that there is only one way to bring your grades up in the
requisite time...and that is for you to have a tutor in these
subjects."
"A tutor?" I shake my head violently. "I don't wwwant one!"
"It is not your decision to make Clayton, dear. I am afraid that
it is out of your purview now. It is what is necessary, what has to be
done and what will be done."
I know I'm fighting a losing battle here. No use arguing with
them. I've lived with them long enough to know. I nod. "Yeah, I
sssuppose." I can see grampa getting all red in the face again because
I'm using "slang." Well, screw him!
Grampa now takes over.
Also, anything and everything extracurricular will immediately
be halted." He says this while leaning forward in his chair and
jabbing his finger in the air. "Everything! This means all `social
engagements,' any gardening work you may be doing for other people
and all those afternoons at that Reardon boy's home."
"Whaaaat? NO! I can't! I WON'T!"
"YES! You WILL!" he says in very clear terms.
I drop my chin to my chest. "It's only one afternoon a week."
"Yes. And that is one afternoon too many!"
"Yes, sssir."
"If we see marked improvement in you grades then we may reconsider
those extras activities again, Clayton dear," gramma says in her
honeyest tones.
"Good! Now we have to decide on a tutor...or tutors, as the case
may be, since there are two problem subject areas. I called the school
and received a listing of those who they deem acceptable. There are
eight name for math...algebra specifically...and five for your social
science class."
He gives me a handwritten list. I immediately know that none of
these assholes on the algebra list are any good. They're all teachers
or teaching assistants at the school and each and every one is barely
capable. I had a few of them in passed years and I know them from
experience. I could not stand to be with them...stand to be in the
same room with them . more than five minutes at a time. They are all
jerks with the personalities and usefulness of a pack of wet matches.
How am I going to fight this? These here guys are all a bunch of
losers...and morons. Worse...they're a pack of worthless losers!
"Clayton, we know you have certain difficulties learning." Gramma
is speaking and she looks very concerned. "We recognize that as a
fact." Grampa grunts and she gives him a withering glance. He looks
aside. "But we also know that when you are interested in a subject,
you learn and absorb everything rapidly and completely. So we need to
get you a tutor who you think will help make the subjects interesting...
and exciting."
"Yeah, I agree." But who...who could make such lousy, dull,
lifeless subjects like math and social science interesting? Who?
And then... And then it suddenly dawns on me. I have an idea.
It's so outlandish...so bizarre...that it just might work. Why not
Cole? Why not? He has a doctorate in mathematics...and a Master's
Degree in economics, and that means he knows the basic parts of the
social science course. But will they buy it...will the old folks buy
the idea...or him?
"Let mmme put out an idea. Okay? I'm thinking of Dr. Avery.
Getting Dr. Avery to tttutor mmme."
"What is this obsession you have with that man?" grampa asks
immediately. "That's all we have been hearing for the last week. Dr.
Avery this...Dr. Avery that! Now you want him as a tutor? This is
getting tiresome, Clayton." He shakes his head vigorously.
"Unacceptable! Totally unacceptable!"
"Now, now, Clarence dear. Let us hear the boy out. Go ahead
Clayton. What do you have to say about Dr. Avery?"
"Well, he's got a doctorate from MIT in mmmathematics. He also
has a mmmaster's from the London School of Economics. So he knows both
area where I'm having troubles."
"Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous!"
"Why?" I ask. "Why's it ssso ridiculous?
"Yes," says gramma, "why is it so ridiculous, Clarence?"
"Because...because...because the man is not an educator."
"Look how screwed up all these so-called educators mmmade mmme!
Maybe I need sssomeone who knows what I need...and also knows how to get
through to mmme."
Gramma looks directly at grampa...and nods slowly. "There is no
harm in asking the man, Clarence. Is there? Just asking?"
Grampa is quiet. He's thinking...and knowing that gramma's not on
his side completely makes him take even longer to come to a decision.
He also knows he's lost this argument. "I will call him in the
morning." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I am going
to bed now. Good night, Clayton. Are you coming, Francine?"
^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^
I hop back to my room. This pisses grampa off all over again. I
glance back at him half rising from his chair but I close the door
before he can say anything.
Before I slip into bed, I have certain maintenance work to do. I
remove the batteries from my arm and leg and put them into the charger.
I'll use the set being recharged now when I put the prostheses on
tomorrow.
I shuck my robe, rub some Vitamin-E lotion on my arm stump. Don't
need any on my leg. Cole takes care of that part...and takes real good
care of it.
I take a real good, long look at myself in the full-length mirror
behind the closet door. I do this every night...it's become a
formalized ritual...going through everything...adding up the things
that're wrong with me. It's a mental checklist...a checklist of my
physical shortcomings. This takes a while `cause there are so many
things wrong!
Shit! What a mess! What a goddamned mess! What a total loser I
am! No wonder nobody...nobody wants to be...with....
Tonight I start with all these freckles I got. I mean freckles
are great when you're four or five and they're cute, but when you're
sixteen, they become a mighty pain...and an embarrassment! "Oh, look
how cute Clay is with all those darling freckles." "He looks like a
baby." "They make him look disfigured...well, more disfigured than he
already is." "They make his skin look so blotchy." It's enough to
want to make me heave! And the stupid girls who keep saying those
things - they also want to make me heave! Freckles! They're on my
face (my rather long, horse-faced face) and my neck (my long, thin,
geeky neck) and long but scrawny arms and thin shoulders and chest...
and just about everywhere else! Christ! What a friggin' disaster!
Okay. One down! Two: When I'm not wearing my prostheses, I
gotta stand leaning to my left. This makes up for the absence of both
my limbs on one side of my body. My body has to be balanced! Anyways,
I look crooked...like I got a kinda spinal problem on top of my other
atrocities.
Then I stare at my stumps...these two goddamned, hideous,
remaining limb-parts I got. They are so gross! I feel like puking
every time I have to look at them.
What makes me even more revolted than lookin' at them is when
people say how great I've adjusted to my loss. "Oh Clayton, I think
it's so marvelous that you have made such a wonderful adjustment and
get along so well with these artificial limbs." Shut up you morons!
Fuck you too! Even a stupid douche bag like you could adjust if it
meant leading an almost normal life.
I move my leg stump...and short forearm stump. I look at the
scars across the ends...and rub both lightly. I think that's what
grampa hates the most when I hop...that both my stumps wiggle and flap
almost uncontrollably. I mean, they gotta wiggle and flap; it helps me
keep my stability. I know he can't stand to see `em...or have any kinda
attention drawn to `em. He can't stand to see his grandson's smashed
up condition - like second rate, damaged good. I feel kinda sorry for
the old guy.
Then I think back...back to Cole...and the way he treated my leg
stump...touched it...and rubbed it. Funny, though, how he liked
rubbing it...the remains...the hideous, dangling piece of flesh and
bone...comin' down from my hip. He seems to like massagin' in that
lotion. And he really did a great job too. I can still feel his
strong fingers moving up and down...up and down...the entire length...
soothing the muscles...kneading my flesh...makin' me feel good...good
all over.
He was really into that massaging...and surely sportin' some
boner. Maybe he's another one of those guys fascinated by amputees.
Wow! I'll bet he thought I didn't notice it throbbing away in his
pants. Shit! I always notice those things...those big things! And I
mark him as having a really big, fat one. Just the way I like `em...
for sure...for sure...big...and fat...and juicy...and thick!
But shit! I get a little tired of the stares and attentions of
some of these pervs. Why the hell don't they just leave me alone?
Of course, I did ask Cole to rub in that cream...so I'm to blame,
I suppose, Can't really blame him, I guess. But he surely did jump at
the chance...took me right up on it...and started workin' away straight
off. He did like it...seemed to like it a lot. He stared at it a lot
too...lookin' at it so long. I wonder if he'll like my arm stump as
much as he...as he seems to love...my cut off leg.
I lift the remnant of my right arm. The upper arm looks good...
good for me anyway. But the lower arm...shit! It and my hand are gone
about 2-1/2 inches below the elbow. I wiggle the short stubby around.
It has a nice taper and it's rather smooth...and looks decent...I
suppose...for a stump! It just sorta looks funny when I move it...
looks like it's just hangin' there...like it doesn't belong. I can
move it so quick, `cause there isn't any weight to it...it's by itself
...all alone.
I raise both arms and "make" a muscle - trying to make my biceps
bulge out. HA! What biceps? Nothing. Barely showing. What a joke.
What a useless loser...what a pathetic joke...I am. What a miserable
excuse for a man... or even a boy!
Okay. Starting to get anxious now. Not good to get anxious. Not
good right before bed. Gotta calm down. Keep cool. Yeah, gotta keep
cool - play along `til it's over and I prove myself.
I move my arm stub over my chest...my smooth, hairless, totally
undefined chest. Look at those scars...from the plastic surgery.
Okay! So, it was successful and the results look okay, I guess, but
these scars...these scars look so awful - so distinct and so friggin'
obvious. "What a nice smooth chest you've got Clay." If I hear that
one more time I gonna choke the guy who says it. Not a hair...not a
muscle...no distinctive pecs...or abs...nothing! Just a smooth chest...
like a little boy's...only bigger and broader.
Wednesday's another visit to the doctor. I'm just hopin' he
increases the dosage this time. I keep asking...but he keeps saying
that I'm on the correct amount. Correct amount? Christ! Can't I tell
best? Please, please...please let him increase the dosage this time.
Almost nothing's happenin'...nothing at all. All that's happening is
I keep gettin' taller...and I'm sick of that! And I'm startin' to get
this little, rounded belly. As if I wasn't hideous enough!
And I get so tired...so quickly. I can barely stay awake in those
miserable, boring classes. That's why I'm doing so awful in school.
There's nothing to hold my attention! My attention span is shot to
shit...and those goddamned classes don't help none.
I'm glad the boxers I'm wearin' cover a lotta my embarrassment...
and my misery.
But nothing covers my huge hand and oversize foot. They're so big
...and so ugly. A size fifteen shoe. Christ! And that means the phony
foot has to be that big too. Cole made a comment about that tonight...
how hideous he finds the size of my foot...and the fake foot too. I'll
bet he finds them gross. And my one good arm's so long. Gramma's gotta
buy me these special shirts.
I turn away from the mirror.
Why do I do this? Why do I do this every night? Why do I put
myself through this horrible bullshit every single night? Why? It's
nothin' but the same crap...same anxiety...same problems - that don't
go away...that don't change. Tomorrow night I'll do the same thing. I
know I will...I know.
Oh shit! I need to call Kerry. I'm not in the mood to speak to
him. But he knows my plans for this afternoon and he's gonna wanna
report. I'll make it short.
^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^V^
Under the covers...with the lights out...finally! Now I can
think. No distractions...nothing to interfere with the planning.
Okay. Yes! Yes, things will need to change. Dr. Cole Avery is
gonna tutor me. I know he'll jump at the chance. We'll be together
more often than I'd planned. No real big changes...just a bunch of
little ones.
So far, things are good...on schedule. He likes me...likes what I
do with him. That's good. He sees and touches my leg tonight...that's
good. He likes what I let him do...what I ask him to do. And I gotta
admit, I like it too...very much. I like the way he does it...like the
way he looks at me. There seems to be a lotta feelin' there.
Affection? Love? Who the hell knows? Next time I should be able to
get him to touch the arm stub.
HA! I'll never forget that business of me playin' with his nipple
bar. Christ! He blew his whole damned wad over that action. Was that
ever awesome or what?
Yeah...yeah...thing are goin' good.
And I've got a real hot special delivery message for you, Dr.
Avery. I know when you're flirting, big boy. That business of you
watchin' me close when I'm eatin'...or doin' anythin' else? Flirting!
Flirting pure and simple. Jeez! A two year old could figure that
out!
But it's okay...yeah, okay I suppose. Yeah. I rather like it
when a guy flirts with me...not that many of `em do. I don't have
experience with guys out to nab me...to make me be attracted to them.
I'm certainly no man magnet. But I gotta admit I'm flattered that he
would even consider flirting with me. Yeah! It's a pretty nice
feelin'.
I guess the guy likes twinkies with lotsa problems, `cause what I
am is a big twinkie - the giant economy size twink. A twinkie who's
missing more than a few working parts. There's not much about me to
attract anyone. I guess when they see the hook...and the limp...well,
any sexual feelings just get turned right the hell off...permanently.
Yet Cole seems to...he seems to be interested. Right from the
beginning - when he first opens the door to his house - he seems
interested. It's like I can read it in his face. Is he? Is he really
interested...in me...me as a person? Or does he just want to nail my
thin, bony twink ass? And then adios?
But...maybe...maybe my first knee-jerk reaction was right - maybe
the guy really does care...maybe he's one of the good guys. They gotta
be out there. Right? There's gotta be a few around. Doesn't there?
I move my arm stubby to my chest. I rub the scarred end lightly
over one nipple. It makes me feel good. I move my hand and cup the
end of the stump, rubbing it gently, soothingly and delicately. Yeah,
that feels great. I can feel the tension start leavin' my bod. Yeah!
That's good!
I move my hand down to my crotch, and let the fine, silken hairs
of my mound delicately tickle the palm. I move it down again, lightly
fingering my cock and the balls under it. I marvel, for the millionth
times, I guess, at the fantastic smoothness - the incredible silkiness
- the exquisite feel of the male sex organs...and of the skin
coverin' them.
God. It feels so great...they feel so great! The velvety, almost
wet feel of the cock head. The soft, smooth, silken skin of the shaft
...the lusciousness of the scrotum holding those two precious jewels. I
begin to get teary as I continue to move my hand all around - loving
them, caressing them tenderly, making sure they know how much I adore
them.
And then...then...then that wonderful tingly feeling begins...
begins again...that feeling I love above all others. The feeling that
tells me I'm still connected...connected to my maleness...to my
manhood. I continue to delicately finger myself...while my arm stub
lightly strokes my tits...gently pushing the nubs first this way...then
that.
I start applying pressure...to increase the feelin' to heighten
the sensations. I wrap my big hand around my cock and my balls...
grasping everythin' together...and givin' `em a tremendous squeeze...
squeezin' and squeezin'...harder and harder...`til I'm on the edge of
crying out...it's that deliriously painful. Christ! Does it ever feel
great! Does it get any better than this?
I relax...then start doin' it again - putting awesome pressures on
my equipment...my package...and thinking about Cole. The pain is so
fuckin' intense and so...so incredibly glorious.
I picture him...picture him in front of me.
When I play with myself, I love to picture someone...fresh my mind.
He's not a bad lookin' dude...not at all.
I'm puttin' on more and more pressure.
He's actually rather good lookin'...seems to have a real nice bod.
The pain is totally delicious.
He's slim...for an old guy...seems to be in real good shape.
And he's so terribly horny.
The pain is becoming almost unbearable.
I like `em horny! Big and horny! Yeah! And Cole seems to fit!
God almighty! The old pecker and nuts feel like they're in a vice!
It's a delicious, all powerful hurt...a fantastic pain!
I roll over onto my stomach, while keepin' my hand coverin' and
squeezin' my stuff. AH! What a marvelous...complete sensation...this is.
I grab one of my balls between my thumb and first finger...and I
give it a really hard pinch. The pain is incredible...I can feel the
shocks of hurt goin' through my whole bod. Fuck! It's great! Better
and better! I do it again...and again...then switch off to the other
nut...and do the same...with even better results. My eyes are waterin'
and my nuts feel numb...and I feel like screamin' out, but I think I'm
feelin' great, great, great! Better 'n I have all day.
With the tutorin' and all, I'll get to see him lots more...maybe
even get to stay over at his place. The garden work...the studyin'...
yeah, it's all comin' together...for all of us.
I tell Kerry that it'll take only two weeks. In two weeks, he'll
be mine. I'm positive of it. I'll have my gorgeous, hunky Kerry...and
that enormous cock...that thick, succulent, fuck-pole...the pride of
TABFA...the best of all possible prizes...will be mine!
Ah Cole, Cole, Cole!
Just you wait!
Can you wait?
Yes, you can...and yes, you will!
Wait `til you see this incredible package...this yummy present here.
This delectable surprise...I've got waiting for you, my friend.
Waiting...waiting...and wanting...just you...just for you.
Ah, Kerry! Yes!
Yes! The prize will be mine!
You will be mine.
Totally mine!
So...just you wait!
The End of Part 5
(To Be Continued....)
If you have comments about this or any other of my stories, please send
them to flbrothers@hotmail.com I appreciate all emails - ALL!
Thanks