Date: Thu, 29 Dec 2016 17:27:43 +0100
From: Rick Brown <trevor_s@mail.com>
Subject: Bees

Please Note: This story of man-boy love is pure fiction and pure fantasy
and does not in any way condone actual sexual relations between adults
and minors. It is intended for entertainment purposes ONLY.

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This story is something I call Conscience Erotica. It attempts to place
erotic connections between people in a larger societal context, where the
one mirrors the other in a social, and sometimes disturbing, critique.
Anything less in my estimation is simply too easy, too simple. Too banal.
I'll be the first to admit these stories are not for everyone.


	My best friend Nick's father Mr. Samson liked to fondle us in the
shower. And the longer he played with his two ten-year-old "boy toys" the
harder he got. My Samson's erection was my introduction to the varieties
and vagaries of the human penis. I was still a couple of years away from
junior high, gym class, the group showers that followed and the
opportunities it presented to discreetly observe male genitalia in all
their glory: a wet panoply of shapes, sizes, colors and oddities. There was
even a religious element to it: circumcision. Though one did not have to be
Jewish, I learned, to have his foreskin lopped off. Hence my circumcised
cock. (This did not prevent some of the racist bullies from making fun of
me however. Between my Germanic last name and my "Jewish" cock I could not
win.)
	The cock I was most used to, aside from my own of course, was
dad's. His, when engorged, was at its least thick at the head
(uncircumcised) and base. From there it bulged out in the middle resembling
more than anything a kind of flesh-and-vein zeppelin. Albeit one pointing
at the sky, rather than floating parallel to it. The shape of dad's aroused
penis made it appear shorter than it actually was. Its bloated, stubby
shape relegated it to a visual five inches, when in fact I feel quite
certain in retrospect it was closer to a full "normal" six.
	Mr. Samson, by contrast, was tall and skinny, and so to was his
penis. Unlike dad's his was circumcised, and from just below his modest
mushroom head to the base that disappeared into his golden-brown pubic hair
his cock was uniformly thick. When fully engorged it also made a slight
upward arc. A prominent vein surfaced on this arcing upside, but aside from
that the skin of his penis was uniformly smooth. Mr. Samson's cock was a
healthy seven inches' long. I know this because, on a lark, he once made
Nick run a seamstress's tape measure up its underside after challenging
"his" two naked boys to guess its length. I believe I guessed eight inches
while Nick said a half-foot. At any rate a disgruntled Nick was assigned
dishwashing duties after pizza and Coke that night. One thing was for sure:
Mr. Samson was quite proud of his manhood, and I could not blame him. It
was like the elongated pistil of a beautiful flower, a hibiscus say.
	Just as dad's stubby anatomy made his penis appear shorter than it
actually was; so Mr. Samson's length made his seem thinner. This was
another optical illusion. In fact it was impossible for my middle finger to
meet thumb when I wrapped my hand around Mr. Samson's cock, and I had
longish fingers for my age. In that regard it was only nominally thinner
than my dad's at bulgy center. Because of its length, however, it was far
more fun stroking Mr. Samson's than dad's. The former would have both us
boys get on either side of him and each wrap a hand around his soapy
cock. The base of my hand would be in Mr. Samson's pubic hair while Nick's,
tangent to mine, would stop just under below his dad's glans; or vice
versa. Nick preferred being at the base because he didn't like getting cum
on his hand. He was squeamish in that regard.
	By age 10 I knew all about the birds and the bees. The bees
anyway. And how the male "stinger," once you were old enough, went stiff
when aroused and shot out white seed produced by the vulnerable testicles
clumped below. I remember asking my dad once why our balls weren't lodged
inside our bodies, where they'd be protected. And he shrugged and said:
"Because that's the way God intended it." Dad was a devout southern
Baptist. Though I had my doubts. "And that's how babies are made," dad
huffed, the first time he ejaculated in front of me. Ditto
Mr. Samson. Obviously it had not been Nick's first rodeo either, because he
said in response to the baby remark, "Duh-uh!"
	What our fathers should have averred was that this was only half
the reproductive equation. All this happened decades before the internet
and the birds girls remained mostly a mystery to me. I think both
Nick and I still believed at age 10 that girls too had penises. They were
just in a different location. On the side maybe. Isn't that where most
girls' skirt zippers were?
	Once school let out that summer Nick went off to camp for three
weeks. It may've even been four. I was not so lucky. Or, depending on how
you looked at it, I lucked out. My dad was not nearly as affluent as
Mr. Samson and I ended up "stuck" at home doing chores, sleeping 10 or 12
hours a day, reading James Bond novels and sneaking peeks at my dad's
collection of Playboys which he kept neatly stacked in boxes under his
bed. A discovery: females did not have cocks after all. But what did they
have, precisely? Or had their penises been removed at an early age in a
rather more radical form of circumcision? While I mostly goofed off dad
spent his 12 hours at the plant six days a week. No wonder mom left him for
the milkman. At least that guy got home at a decent hour.
	One reluctant mid-June afternoon, between rainstorms, I was out
mowing the front lawn when the lanky Mr. Samson strolled over from down the
street, hands in his pockets. He asked me if I'd to come over later,
correctly predicting that I would need a shower after that day's sweaty
labor in 90 degree heat. He admitted, with Nick away at camp, it was kind
of lonely over at his big house. Mr. Samson was an architect and he'd both
designed and supervised the building of his modern-style, somewhat quirky
abode. The quite roomy, sunken shower with its tile walls and sloping floor
was a plus, however. You probably could have fit a dozen bodies in there,
though movement would have been at a premium under those cramped, naked,
squeaky conditions.
	As Mr. Samson first rinsed my body off then soaped me up good then
rinsed me off again all the while getting in his usual fondles, he admitted
to me something I already partially knew: his son Nick was sperm-adverse
(to put it in modern terms). The boy didn't like to get it on him and, more
problematically, didn't like the taste. The one time, Mr. Samson confessed,
that he'd attempted to shoot his "load" into his son's mouth, the boy had
not only turned his head before his dad was finished, but immediately spit
the partial deposit out and begun coughing and gagging. Nick claimed he was
going to be sick, though apparently he stopped just short of that
embarrassment.
	That, Mr. Samson went on, as one of his long-fingered hands played
with my balls while the other made a circling, kneading motion over my wet
buttocks, was the first and last time he'd attempted "oral" with his
son. You, on the other hand, he continued, don't seem to have a problem
with it.
	"With what?" Oral hadn't popped up in our spelling lessons yet, as
far I could remember.
	"A grown man's seed."
	"Sperm?" This word I knew. It was easy to remember. It rhymed with
germ.
	"Exactly, son. Now what do you say you kneel down in front of
me I'll shut the water off so you don't drown ha-ha kneel down in
front of me and I'll jack off into your mouth?"
	Jack? Off? Another term we hadn't studied yet.
	"Masturbate," Mr. Samson explained. "Stroke myself."
	"You don't want me to stroke you today?"
	"No," Mr. Samson smiled. "I'll do the work today. This'll be more
fun."
	And as Nick's dad leaned into me to reach behind and shut off the
shower whose installation he'd probably supervised, on company time, his
seven-inch erection pressed against my upper belly. I'd never felt anything
so stiff! And this was at least the tenth time I'd showered with the skinny
architect, though never before without Nick beside me.
	Mr. Samson instructed me to get down on my knees, look up at him
and open my mouth as wide as it would go. I felt for a moment like I was at
the dentist's. It did not help things that Mr. Samson, unlike my dad (hence
the milkman's success), was not a quick-cummer. With my bird's eye view of
the dilated "eye" of his penis, and of his swollen pink glans just an inch
or so from my mouth, I was not sure which ached more as minute piled upon
masturbatory minute: my knees on the tile or my locked jaw in midair? The
muscles in my lower face would be sore for days afterward, I would
discover.
	Finally the man sighed a preparatory groan, then said: "It's
coming. Here it comes!"
	But it didn't. His hand's he was a lefty furious motion not
only continued but sped up. The next sound he made was guttural. Almost
death-rattle like. ThenÉ
	A loop of thick semen shot up my face, from my upper lip alongside
my nose nearly to my eyebrow. I lifted my ass off my heels a tad, bringing
my mouth closer as the first warm, salty-sweet seed painted my throat and
began pooling on my tongue. I swallowed had no choice. More sperm
splashed on my lips as I endeavored to reopen them as quickly as
possible. Now Mr. Samson's semen no longer shot but merely oozed. It
dripped straight down into my craning mouth. I said what the heck and
wrapped my lips around the spermy head, thereby sucking, albeit minimally,
my first cock. The first of hundreds over an admittedly promiscuous
lifetime.
	I'd swallowed. Every thick drop that'd managed to enter my
mouth. It filled my nostrils with a curious "clean" smell and tasted of
cream. Sweet cream. I found it delicious. Exotic.
	Mr. Samson's deflating head popped out of my willing mouth as he
fell backwards against the tile wall, the single blaspheme "Jesus!" knocked
out of him by the impact. Another guttural, semi-human sound issued. Then
he gave my wet hair a quick tussle before exiting his custom shower with
all the desperate intensity his pent-up semen had shot from his penis
moments before. I rose, dried off, put back on my sweaty work clothes and
left the house. Mr. Samson? He'd disappeared like a rabbit down a hole.

	After Nick returned from camp, and after our threesome shower
adventures had resumed, my best friend seemed taken aback by the fact that
oral sex was now part of the erotic routine. Where had that come from?
Mr. Samson tried to incorporate his son into the twosome sex we'd been
having in his absence, allowing Nick to stroke him while I knelt in front,
tilted mouth wide-open as usual. But Nick's rhythm was off and he failed to
learn that his dad's cock, under the circumstances, had to be bent down
somewhat from its natural zenith bent down in line with my receiving
mouth. Otherwise the sperm, well, got wasted. In short order Nick found
himself relegated, after our usual co-authored foreplay, to the role of
observer. Sullenly one day he left the shower declaring, "You guys don't
need me no moreÉ"
	"Any more," his dad corrected.
	"Fuck you."
	"Is that what they teach you in military camp?"
	"Leave me alone!" Nick was close to tears as he left the bathroom,
his body undried. Through all this Mr. Samson' left hand never missed a
beat, and soon enough I was swallowing my creamy reward yet again.

	I must confess my friendship with Nick became strained after
this. Which in turn affected my "relationship" with his dad. After all, I
could not very well continue to visit the Samson household if my former
best friend no longer tendered invitations. His dad likewise was caught
between a rock and a hard place: his erotic desire for me
counterbalanced more than counterbalanced by his obligations to his
own son.
	On what I believe was my last time in the shower with Mr. Samson he
confided whispered conspiratorially as I kissed and licked his
balls worshipped in fact the source of all that lovely oral cream, that
he was considering shipping Nick off to military school. I found this
disturbing, perverse even. Consign your own son to a path of military
service in the middle of an endless warÉjust so you could masturbate
into another boy's willing mouth?
	But I was young and na•ve then. Puberty had not yet arrived and
I was still unaware of the power a sexual obsession can have on a human
being. And even though, longing for my doses of Mr. Samson's delicious
cream I sometimes contradictorally, if that's a word got on my knees
and prayed Nick would in fact be sent off, it never happened.
	Though living on the same block Nick and I attended different
junior highs and high schools. Then I went off to college to study biology
while Nick took a radically different course at first attending a police
academy before becoming "politicized" and joining the dreaded Military
Police, Domestic version. He rose quickly through the ranks, apparently.
	In fact, rumor has it that it was Nick who had me arrested a few
years ago. On grounds of being an "intellectual" (I taught
community-college biology) and, worse, homosexual. And it is from my cell
in a camp holding political prisoners while awaiting final sentence that I
write this tale. At least the sex is good. My cellmate's cream being
sweetly reminiscent of the late Mr. Samson'sÉ