Date: Mon, 17 Dec 2007 11:59:55 -0800 (PST)
From: Rob Hoek <storyguy22@yahoo.com>
Subject: Boy Alone (An Epilogue)
Note: Following the recent posting at Nifty.org of my original Boy Alone
series, this masteful epilogue was penned and sent me by my friend
and fellow author, Tapshorts. I found it both first rate, and a
serious inspiration for a possible continuation of Boy Alone,perhaps
a telling of the boy's adventures following his arrival in
Decency, Utah. Any comments that you might feel motivated to offer
will be shared with the author.
storyguy22@yahoo.com
Boy alone....(an epilogue.)
I always dutifully chuckle when someone relates what they think is a
newfound adage that "oldage and cunning will outwit youthful ability and
enthusiasm every time". My inner amusement is the private certainty that
its truth is immutable.
I am indeed old, but honest enough to admit to a near certainty that for
guile and subtlety, my skills in both those and related fields are
unparallelled. I long ago left the cloudy skies and seeming unceasing
rain of my native England, blessed as I was with a substantial lifetime
income from an uncle, who incidentally had introduced me to the delights
of boylove in which I have indulged myself ever since.
In addition to my pleasant apartment in San Diego and a spacious Cadillac
I am free to roam the wide US at my leisure. I also actually have a job as
a salesman for a European manufacturer of sports clothing. This in reality
is merely a cover since the salary involved is meaningless but it allows
me frequent opportunities to be in close proximity to those involved with
my great passion, boys' intimite wear.
I had spent an uneventful night in an unremarkable motel on my way west
and was somewhat apprehensive at the prospect of breakfast in the even
more unimpressive facility advertised by a neon sign stating simply
'DINER'. However I put on a brave face, and pushed open the door amused by
the quaint tinkling of its small bell announcing my entry.
I am not conceited by nature but am well aware that I do have a certain
'presence' or what the English call 'poise'. I was not surprised to find
myself on entry being studied intently by a dozen breakfasters attired
mainly in 'bomber' jackets, lumberjack shirts and baseball caps,many with
a forkful of pancakes or other delicacies half way to their mouths.
I pride myself on being able to engender an affinity with all kinds and
conditions of men. Had my mother not once said "you get on as well with
the dustman* as you do with our titled neighbours"? I was acutely aware
that with my white hair, immaculate pinstripe suit with regimental tie,
patrician features and real veteran's limp I was certainly a 'rara avis'
in this neck of the woods. Anyway with a slight inclination of the head I
murmured "Gentlemen...a very good morning to you all".
(* garbage collector in Britspeak)
Instead of the possible stony silence I knew was possible, there was a
variety of genial responses that confirmed my belief that good manners
will often deflect animosity. "Hi".."yeah"... "mornin".."uhuh"..and even
the odd "Sir" or two. So, encouraged by the prospect of a pleasant day I
sat and ordered what is known commonly as 'steak strine' which is a common
breakfast order in that land of koalas and kangaroos and consists of a
steak topped with four fried eggs . This as usual confirmed suspicions
that I was an eccentric of the first water and therefore someone to be
treated with kindness as one would to a genial drunk or village idiot.
What ensued has already been most succintly and deliciously described in
these pages but at the risk of 'gilding the lily' I would add some
observations and sensations of my own.
13 year old Brett was the epitome of the all american boy with his tousled
hair, fresh face and sturdy smooth legs. His white shorts had seen better
days, creased as they were and grubby rather than actually dirty.
Their ultrashort legs betrayed the fact that they included a much whiter
inner sort of nylon panty with the soft but distinct outline of two ample
orbs surmounted by a no-longer childish tube of firm youthful flesh. When
his companion, a ruffianlike trucker left on some errand, I threw caution
to the winds and approached him with my simple offer which was readily
accepted and in passing permitted myself a small frottage of the soft
wellworn material containing the treasure I sought.
In my room I relished his innate shyness and seeming innocence, even
knowing it to be a fantasy of my own making.He was in awe of the expensive
items I offered to trade for his pathetic garment but I was charmed with
his reluctance to make such a one-sided deal. In truth I would have given
my samples and car too for what I yearned for; those darling little shorts
that had contained his young pubes,thighs and soft curved buttocks and the
treasure they protected.
I was breathing hard as he slowly pulled down his shorts and as I ordered
left them wide open and slightly above his knees
I made my additional proposal and was delighted with his acceptance and
enchanted by the use of his private word I had never heard before. "you
mean you want my cums"!!!
neither 'jizz', 'baby batter','stuff' 'boyjuice' or even the english
'spunk'. Just the lovely 'my cums'.
It seemed almost a pity that my so experienced manual ministrations
brought ' his cums' so quickly but time was of the essence. My usual
careful cunning in the placement of his old shorts paid dividends in that
every drop of every strong jet was forcibly ejected exactly into the thin
worn crotch as I had intended and firmly preserved by their careful
removal.
If I say so myself my farewell to the boy was accomplished in expert
fashion. My many years have taught me just how sensitive a young prick can
be after ejaculation so I ensured that his softening tube was allowed to
merely rest gently in my warm wet mouth. I knew that one sudden rasp of my
tongue under the head or the vacuum of any form of sucking motion would
likely cause its instant removal. Virtue has its own rewards they say and
mine was a slow delicate continuation as the last of his nectar seeped
steadily onto my patient tongue.
As I watched him pull on his new dark blue satin shorts I quietly savoured
the delicate flavour his young testicles had manufactured. Maintaining my
oldworld charm I escorted him to the door and we gravely shook hands after
which I had to firmly fix in my memory those smoothly flexing buttock
muscles as he walked away.
It was with both heavy heart and some satisfaction that I returned to my
armchair. The former because I had perhaps set my sights too low when I
should have engineered his abduction and eventually his presence in my
bed. The latter because I did at least have a trophy of the encounter that
I could now enjoy.
the crotch of the little shorts held a copious pool of rich creamy boy's
spunk which I took infinite care not to spill as I tasted and relished a
large mouthful of its fragrant smooth contents. It virtually slithered
down my gullet reminiscent of a fresh oyster and I could sense my stomach
appreciate the influx of what must be almost pure rich protein.
Wetting my lips gently with the last vestiges in my mouth, I quickly
stripped and pulling the object of my odyssey up my thin shanks I sank
back on the unmade sheets with the remaining contents of the shorts
providing a luscious bath for my aging genitals and a sensation that
caused a rare erection and even a rarer but miniscule discharge of my own
watery seed to join that of the healthy young boy now departed.
It was pure chance that my occupation as a salesman of boy's scanty
clothing took me next day to the small town of Decency in Utah, a
preposterous misnomer as I quickly learned from a synod of three elders in
that sex-rife community with whom I had made instant friends. They were
all married to several wives and thoroughly bored with their humdrum
marital duties.
I soon detected in my subtle steering of our conversation that all three
had a distinct interest in my own field of lust.
At the usual post-worship habit of 'fellowship' on sunday,a middleaged
woman of the congregation asked the town to be ready to welcome a nephew
due to visit any day and the photo they showed me, to my astonishment
turned out to be that of young Brett. I mentioned casually to the synod
that I had seen the boy a few days earlier at a highway restaurant. My
passing observations on his physical attributes was met with great
enthusiasm and my subtle implication that I had enjoyed some physical
contact evoked many enquiries as to what had actually transpired.
They were all eager and pressed me for details which I imparted,
delicately of course, in my non-pareil fashion with my Cambridge abilities
of lexicon and perfect syntax. Needless to say I omitted any mention of
the fact that my luggage contained, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, a
wellworn and considerably stained pair of paperthin boys shorts, the
crotch no longer stiff with his emissions due to my frequent lingual
ministrations.
I was given no peace and forced to reiterate my observations of the sturdy
milkwhite thighs,muscular buttocks, boyish fresh looks, slightly
openmouthed innocence and even my opinion that he obviously was of an age
to permit procreation (a private certainty). It was difficult not to
notice that my simple phraseology caused all three to quite overtly fondle
their groins through their best sunday-go-to-meeting black trousers which
certainly by then contained the usual precoital juices nature had
thoughtfully provided.
Various plans were suggested for the coercing of the unsuspecting boy to
their individual or collective desires. The elderly relative apparently
could easily be persuaded to ensure that young Brett be subjugated to the
training and ministrations of the church elders under the guise of
religious instruction in which their authority was unchallenged.
They seemed genuinely disappointed that an upcoming boys' swim meet in
California necessitated my leaving but were ecstatic at my Parthian gift
to them of a pair of wellworn and badly stained once pure-white shorts.
I have always wondered what ensued after my departure.
Perhaps in some secret canonical archive an account of young Brett's
experience in Decency will survive. I like to think that the account will
be couched in religous terms and begin
' And so it came to pass.......'