Date: Wed, 11 Jul 2001 17:17:02 +0000
From: hobby391@att.net
Subject: Boy From The High Country - Chapter 5

BOY FROM THE HIGH COUNTRY Chapter 5

by Hobbyboy

hobby391@att.net

DISCLAIMER: See the warning before Chapter 1.

WHAT HAPPENED TO MY "VACATION"? I got a one-day reprieve
from pressing work, and decided to take pity on those of you who were
hating me for leaving Art and Kelly just as they were about to step into the
shower together. So here is one more chapter. I'm not entirely satisfied with
it, but what am I expecting, a Pulitzer Prize?

WHO IS READING? I've gotten nearly 40 e-mails, all of them positive.
Thanks. A few of you have told me a little bit about yourselves. I admit I am
curious: what kind of person likes this kind of story. So if you wouldn't mind,
when you e-mail me, you might also tell me your age, occupation and the
region where you live. If enough people do this, when we get to the last
chapter, I'll give you the statistics. Oh, you want me to start? But I've already
done that. The only significant difference between Art and me is that Art is 5
years younger.

CHAPTER 5: BEDTIME

When I opened the curtain to Kelly's cubicle, I found him standing with his
hands crossed in front of his groin. This was a different Kelly than the one
who only ten minutes earlier had so boldly dropped his drawers in the
camper. He seemed younger somehow, more vulnerable. He was rapidly
developing the body of a young man, but somewhere deep inside he was still
a child, a child who needed to be touched tenderly, not sexually, a child who
only wanted to be wanted. How old had he been when his father died? Eight?
When he was eight, his father might still have bathed him from time to time.
The stage of strict modesty, the "I'll do it all myself" stage, the dawning of
independence and separate identity, might not have come until around age
ten, particularly if Kelly were a little more dependent than most because of his
mother's death and his stepmother's indifference or hostility. His step parents
had pushed Kelly away, but had deprived him of the opportunity to choose
independence.

"Turn around, Kelly, let me soap you up." For the sake of clear thinking I
probably should have used a wash cloth, but for better or for worse I
decided he needed direct human touch. I moved the shower head so that
Kelly's back was out of the direct spray. I began at his shoulders, my soapy
hands sliding effortless over his smooth skin. I gently kneaded the cords of
muscle that extended from his neck to his shoulders, then did the same thing
to the muscles at the back of nis neck, combining the washing of his back
with the little I knew of massage. Kelly leaned his head back and closed his
eyes, letting out a loud "Aah," almost a groan of satisfaction. He rotated his
shoulders in slow forward circles as I massaged his back, clearly reveling in
the unaccustomed sensations.

As I leaned down to reach his lower back, my old back injury began to give
me some pain, so I knelt for comfort. As I did so I lost my grip on the bar of
soap and it squirted out of my hand, caromed around the shower stall base,
and came to rest in the corner farthest from me. Kelly bent over to pick up
the soap, and the cheeks of his butt parted, placing his brown pucker directly
in front of my eyes. The view closed almost as quickly as it opened, but it had
lasted long enough for me to notice something else. His little anus was
surrounded by a brownish-red ring more than an inch wide, a band of
bruising that proved he was not a virgin, at least not back there. I had seen no
sign of tenderness or tearing at the opening itself, but there was no way to
know for sure whether the penetration had been painful or damaging, or
whether it had been recent.

I worked my hands around to his chest, stroking across his nipples a little
more gently, a little more teasingly, than I would have done had I been
interested only in getting him clean. I washed down the outsides of his arms,
then back up to his hairless arm pits. Without being asked he raised his arms
one at a time to give me better access. I continued to wash down to his lower
belly, deliberately avoiding the pubic mound where evidence of his developing
sexuality was on display.

I moved next to his feet. As I raised his left foot so I could soap the sole of
his foot and the sensitive spots between his toes, he balanced himself by
leaning his left hand on my shoulder and rotating his body slightly toward me.
This left me facing his genitals directly from a distance of not more than twelve
inches. I wanted to stop washing and just look. Kelly showed no signs of
arousal, but I was stiff as a board. I began to fear that my erection might
brush against his leg, and he would notice and panic, so I tried to hold my
body away from his. As I washed my up his legs, I notice that they were
completely hairless. Perhaps I was wrong about the Mediterranean heritage.
Could be Native American, or even southeast Asian. If someone put a gun to
my head and made me guess, I'd say Cherokee, Oklahoma being so close
by.

When I reached his upper thigh, I shifted my attention to his right foot. Kelly
changed arms and shifted his weight. I tried to rebalance myself on my right
knee while still keeping my boner away from his legs.  The whole procedure
left me so off kilter that I  went into a barely-controlled fall, rolling down onto
my side and around onto my back. Kelly stepped over me to keep from
being bowled over, and I found myself flat on my back with the shower head
spraying my chest and upper abdomen while Kelly stood astride me like a
conquering hero and I stared up at him.

It was a stimulating view. I was staring directly at the juncture of his thighs. I
could see the seam where where his body had stitched itself together while he
was still in the womb, a seam that ran from the tip of his foreskin, along the
shaft of his  penis, around the sac that held his testicles, and along the
perineum until it disappeared into the cleft of his ass. If the genetic
programming had determined that the fetus would become a girl, the seam
would have remained open below the pubic arch, creating the vulva that
would conceal the canal into the interior of the body.

I felt like a beetle turned on its back. The image struck me has wildly funny
and I began to laugh, long and hard enough that tears came to my eyes. Kelly
began to laugh as well. We were both just getting ourselves under control
when Kelly looked down at me and noted clinically, "You're hard."

"Like a broomstick," I said.

"Why?"

Now there was a question I wasn't sure I wanted to answer. But I had
started down this road by telling Kelly nothing but the truth, if not always the
whole truth. There was no good reason to stop now. Since my erection was
no longer a secret I got up onto my knees, picked up the soap, pulled myself
close to Kelly and reached around to soap up his firm little butt. "Kelly, have
you ever had to walk out of class with your books in front of you?"

"Yeah. It's embarrassing when you get a boner in class."

"When that happens, do you ever know why?"

"Sometimes. Usually there isn't any good reason. It just happens."

"Right, it just happens. Now I'm not going to lie to you and tell you there isn't
a reason why I'm hard right now. But I wanted to remind you that we can't
control our erections. When our dicks want to get hard, they get hard. But
when we do get hard, we can decide what to do about it."

"What do you mean?"

"When you get in hard in class, what do you do?"

"I just kind of hide it and walk to the next class and if I don't think about it too
much, it goes away."

"Is there anything else you could do about it?"

"Well, if I had time, maybe I could go into the bathroom and... you know... I
could..."

"Why don't you tell me what you call it, Kelly?"

"I could beat off, okay?"

"Okay. Now we both know what we're talking about. We both know that
you know about masturbation, so we don't have to avoid that topic." I did
notice, however, that for the first time Kelly's little member was becoming not
so little. "I can tell you why I got hard," I continued. "I got hard because it's
exciting to look at you naked. It's probably wrong, but I can't help it. You are
so beau... you are so good looking."

"Really? You think I'm good looking?"

"You are so good looking I would call you beautiful if you wouldn't think that
meant I was treating you like a girl. You are also kind, you are funny, and you
are fun to be with."

In spite of my little speech about how we can decide what to about a hardon,
I was letting my libido decide for me. My hand was sliding down the cleft of
his ass, and I decided to find out whether he was experiencing any rectal
discomfort. At least that's what I told myself I was trying to find out, and in
my own mind "rectal discomfort" is what I called it. Very cold. Very clinical.
But since I was not studying to be a proctologist, there was nothing clinical
about what my hand was doing. My soapy finger slid down across his tight
pucker, then up and across it again. Finally I placed the tip of my finger
directly over his sphincter and began to press forward gently.

"Do you have any pain there?"

He sucked in a breath of air sharply, so that he hissed like the air brakes
releasing on a city bus. "No," he said, "it doesn't hurt. It feels... it's okay."
God forbid he should say it feels good.

A little more pressure and my finger slipped through the modest resistance of
his anal ring and entered a region of moisture and heat greater than that of the
shower. As old as I was, I had never before done this, so I didn't know quite
what to expect. I could tell, though, that my finger was still lubricated by the
soap between his butt cheeks, so I continued to press slowly forward. Kelly
rose up on his toes and threw his head back with a little moan of pleasure.
My finger was inside him past my second knuckle before I felt some soft
resistance. I realized just what it was that I had no doubt encountered, and
the thought discouraged me from any further adventuring. "Still no pain?"

"No," he said, in a choked kind of voice. It was a relief to know that he did
not seem to be injured, even though I was shamelessly molesting him now
with the feeble excuse of discovering important information. He was
completely hard, and erect he was almost as large as me. His engorged penis
was sliding against my chest as he rose up on his toes and settled back down
in time with my plundering finger. Not wanting him to think I was disgusted or
was rejecting him, I began to move my finger slowly in short back-and-forth
strokes, gradually pulling back toward his opening. Kelly continued to give a
little grunt with each forward motion. Finally I stopped and slowly withdrew. I
left my finger in contact with the outside of his pucker for a few moments,
almost as if it were saying goodbye. I soaped my hands again and washed my
hands without looking to see why. I placed my hands on his hips and turned
him around so that his butt cheeks were pressed against my chest.

>From the other side of the wall, I could hear the washing machines go into
their final spin cycle. "Give me a couple of minutes, Kelly," I said, "I need to
take care of the laundry." I stepped out of the shower dripping wet and
quickly donned my shorts. I picked up my stash of quarters and dashed
around to put the laundry into the dryers. This interruption would give Kelly a
chance to end this, to finish his shower and grab his towel and go on toward a
more or less normal evening. But when I returned to the bathroom end of the
building, I heard the shower still running. There was a metal folding chair at
the end of the changing room bench. Evidently some earlier user had felt the
bench was not quite long enough. I collapsed the chair and leaned it against
the exterior door so that the clatter would warn us if someone came in. So
much for any pretense that I didn't know what I was doing.

When I re-entered the shower stall, Kelly was still standing in the same place,
waiting. I knelt behind him again, soaped my hands and reached around to
the region of his belly button, then stopped. "Kelly, when I was in college I
knew a girl who was training to be a nurse," I began. "She told me about
bathing male patients who couldn't get out of bed. The last thing she would do
was to hand the patient the wash cloth and say, 'I've washed you as high as
possible, and I've washed you as low as possible, now you do the possible.'
Kelly, do you think you should do the possible?" I slid my fingers quickly and
lightly across his jutting penis so he could not mistake my meaning.

"No," he said. "You."

That could not be more clear. Kelly knew exactly what he was asking for. As
I moved slowly down toward his proud boyhood I reflected that I could call
this consent, but in my heart I knew better. Kelly was in no position to give
mature consent to sexual activity with me. Even though I did not know the
details, had not in fact heard anything about his sexual experience from his
own lips, I knew beyond doubt that he had been coerced into sex, that he
had been sexualized beyond the bounds of normal development, that issues of
love and sex and affection and attention were hopelessly confused in his
emotional experience, then complicated still further by the onset of puberty
and the relentless drive of his raging hormones. My only consolation was
knowing that that once things had gone this far, what I did next, so long as it
was done with tenderness and love, would not damage him any further, could
in fact eventually become an opportunity for me to talk with him about the
difference between sex and love. Or so I hoped, or deluded myself.

I soaped his groin, gently stroking the wrinkled skin of his hairless scrotum,
aware of the tenderness of the firm ovals contained within. Larger then the
jellybeans of childhood, not yet so large as they would be in adulthood, his
balls were a source of exquisite pleasure for Kelly as I softly rolled them
between my fingers. My hand moved higher and lightly grasped his cock.
Both of us were uncut, so I had been dealing with a foreskin all my life and
knew how to handle his. Gently I drew the foreskin back, exposing the glans,
then I deliberately and firmly drew my thumb around the corona, soaping
away any secretions that might have collected there in the moist darkness.
Kelly's pelvis jutted forward as he tried to drive his erection into my hand. He
uttered a protracted moan, a sound befitting a sensation somewhere between
pleasure and pain, an exclamation that I began to fear might be heard from
outside. I decided to be more careful. The tens of thousands of nerve endings
in the head of his penis were more sensitive than those of a circumcised male,
having always been covered by the soft glove of his foreskin.

Now I grasped the youthful phallus in earnest, slowly and deliberately pulling
the foreskin down and away, then pushing it forward so that he first had the
sensation of the foreskin moving to cover his exposed glans, followed by the
feeling of my fingers sliding over the corona, cushioned by the foreskin. This
double stimulation, the feather touch of the foreskin followed by the firmer
pressure of the fingers, then the same one-two sequence in reverse, is
something that can only be experienced by a man who has not been cut. They
say an uncircumcised man can recreate the feeling for a circumcised partner
through "docking," but I wouldn't know about that from experience.

When I was Kelly's age I had what is known as a hair trigger. It never took
me very long to achieve orgasm, and a good thing too because there was no
lock on our bathroom door and you never knew when someone might walk
in. It was safer to beat off in the barn, witnessed only by a few chickens, a
cow and the family dog, who I always suspected looked a little too
interested. Furthermore, I was focused entirely on the literally mind-blowing
experience of orgasm. The stroking motions of masturbation were for me only
a brief prelude to the main event. It was probably the same way with Kelly.
As time went on however, and my dating life continued to consist of buying
wrist corsages for my right hand, I began to appreciate the pleasures of a
more protracted session. Kelly was not too young to learn. Since I was here,
and might never be in this position again, I fully intended to give him the
climax of his young life.

I continued my relentless slow stroking, even when Kelly began to thrust his
hips forward in the hope of speeding me up. Soon he was softly grunting in
time with my strokes. Then he began to plead, a single word, or at most two,
uttered at the down side of each stroke, interspersed with more grunting
sounds. "Please... Unh... Unh... O God... Unh... Stop... Unh... No... Don't
stop... Please... Unh... Let me... I want... to cum..." And when at last I felt a
stiffening beneath my fingers as his cock tried to get even harder, when at last
the voice of his grunts and pleadings took on a ragged edge, I suddenly
switched to a rapid stroking, a trick that had always worked for me. He gave
a great gasp, and his last grunt became a protracted wail of ecstasy and
release. Jets of milky- white semen leapt from his pulsating penis, first one
that nearly reached his chin, followed by an agonizingly long pause during
which his entire body seemed to tense inward upon itself, coiling like a great
spring, and finally an explosive burst of three or four more pulses that sapped
his strength. His knees gave way and he collapsed against me.  I lowered him
slowly to the floor of the shower stall and watched as the flowing water
sluiced away most of the evidence of his recent climax. His head was resting
against my shoulder. "That was *bad*," he said, meaning, of course, that it
was better than he knew how to say.

Kelly finally noticed that my own penis, trapped between our bodies, was still
hard. "You didn't cum," he said.

"That's okay, Kelly. It's late, and I'm not as desperate for it as I was at your
age." I helped him rise to his feet, and gave him a light slap on his bare rear
end. "Besides," I said, "maybe I want to save something for later." That was
by far the most openly suggestive thing I had said to him, and I instantly
regretted it. The last thing Kelly needed right now was any presure, any
feeling that he had to meet the sexual expectations of any other person. I was
sure he had experienced enough of that in his past. The truth was that I had
created a little fiction for myself. As long as I only did what pleasured him, as
long I as I only did what he clearly wanted, and he did nothing to pleasure
me, then I was not really sexually involved with him. How easily we believe
our own little lies.

Tenderly I toweled him dry, avoiding any further stimulation of his now- limp
penis. Then, to my surprise, he began to do the same for me.We dressed,
brushed our teeth and returned to the camper. I remade the dinette as a bed,
but I had no bedding for it, only a queen-sized comforter I had brought along
in case the nights got really cold. I didn't even have an extra pillow, but I
improvised one from a heavy wool sweater stuffed into an empty pillow case.
I folded the comforter so it would be both sheet and blanket, and settled
Kelly in. I handed him my portable CD player and my case of forty disks.
"Good luck finding anything you like," I said. My taste ran entirely to classical
music and jazz. "I'll be back soon with the laundry."

It only took a few minutes to fold the dry clothing. Kelly had very little -- an
extra pair of jeans, a couple of sets of underwear that had seen too much
wear, two long-sleeved shirts, a ragged towel and seven socks. Had one
never had a mate, or had the dryer eaten it? Nothing was very new. There
were no shorts, no short-sleeved shirts. We were going to need to make a
shopping trip.

Back at the camper, I wanted to see how Kelly was getting along, so I took a
peek through the outside window. His eyes were closed, and his head was
nodding in time to some music. The comforter had slid off his body and he
had shed the running shorts. He was gently playing with his penis. He wasn't
masturbating. He wasn't even hard. He was just slowly pushing it this way
and that with his fingertip, enjoying the way his foreskin slipped and slid over
the sensitive head. I wondered whether a circumcised boy would be able to
engage in this kind of low-key sensuality.

He didn't even try to conceal himself when I opened the door. He grinned
shyly, but his hand did not move away from his crotch. I put his clothing back
into his pack, and my own into the under-bunk storage. Then I turned to
Kelly and spread open the headset so he could hear me. "Did you find
something to listen to?"

"Yeah, here." He put the headset over my ears. The Dukes of Dixieland were
in the middle of "Muskrat Ramble." I sat down in the small space that was
available.

"You like that, Kel?" This was the first time I had shortened his name. He
didn't bat an eye.

"Yeah. My dad had some of this stuff, on those old black plastic records. The
Bitch won't let me listen to them."

It was too late for this conversation. I replaced the headset on his ears and
said, "Good night Kel. I'm going to shut off the light. Don't worry about
wearing out the batteries. It will shut off when you get to the end of the CD.
See you in the morning." I started to get up, but Kelly put one hand on each
of my cheeks, so I sat still. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against
mine. It could hardly even be called a kiss, but it was so heartfelt, so freely
given, and from such a wonderful boy, that it was one of the most erotic
kisses I had ever received.

I shut off the overhead light and dropped my shorts. I liked to sleep in a T-
shirt and nothing else. I lay on my back staring into the darkness, not quite
knowing how do process the events of this most peculiar day. The only light
came from a waning moon. The only sound was the water running over the
rocks in the riverbed, plus the occasional chirp from a frog on the riverbank.

"Uncle Art?" His voice sounded tentative and far away.

"After what we did tonight, Kel, maybe you could just call me Art."

"But I like calling you uncle, it makes me feel... I dunno, I like it."

"Okay, Uncle Art it is. What can I do for you?"

"Can I come up there with you?"

What was I going to say? I had masturbated him in the shower, I couldn't
very well say he had to stay in his own bed. "Sure, come on up."

He was there in a flash, crawling under the covers and snuggling up against
me. I could feel the warmth of his bare skin against mine.  He threw his arm
over my chest and crooked his leg up over my body so that his penis, now
soft and pliable, was pressed against my hip, while mine was cradled at the
back of his knee. He nuzzled against my neck, and breathed a deep sign.

"I knew you would come," he said. "I knew that some day you would come."

Together, we drifted into the darkness of sleep and the night.

NEXT: Chapter 6 (untitled)

NOW, with Art and Kelly resting in post-orgasmic bliss, I'm going to take a
week or more off. I don't want to launch into the next chapter before I have a
better of sense of where the story is going. I'll probably have to write two or
three chapters before I can post anything.