Date: Thu, 5 Aug 2010 02:01:43 -0600
From: Quintus Magus <quintus.magus@gmail.com>
Subject: Colin, Adrift: Chapter 1

This story is a work of fiction. It is not meant to depict any real
individuals, alive, dead, dying, overcome with ennui, gassy, cryogenically
preserved, or otherwise. This story also involves graphically-depicted
sexual behavior between an adult male and a male minor, and later between
two male minors. Future installments may involve graphically-depicted sexual
behavior between politicians, prostitutes, ferrets, ducks, aliens,
mushrooms, large wheels of perfectly aged unpasteurized Stilton cheese,
three-legged Mexican midgets, members of the British Royal Family, any
combination of characters from mythology, minor deities of assorted
religious systems, etc. I am not affiliated with any of the aforementioned!
(Except the cheese. I am affiliated with cheese as often as possible.) If
that type of content offends you, don't read it. If that type of content
offends your grandmother, don't make her read it either. If you think you
might like that sort of thing, AND YOU ARE OF LEGAL AGE TO VIEW SUCH
MATERIAL, then go ahead and read it. That's why I wrote it after all. This
story does not constitute any recommendation on my part of behaviors you
ought to pursue or avoid. If this story gives you acne, makes you blind,
causes hair to grow from your palms, etc., THEN DON'T COME CRYING TO ME
ABOUT IT. (If you can even find me, you zitty, blind, hairy-palmed
freak-show, you!) If you read the story and you hated it, tough. If you
enjoy it, I'd love to hear a little feedback: <quintus [dot] magus [at]
gmail [dot] com>


Hugs and kisses,

Q.M.



------------------------------------------------


Chapter 1


Colin moved about the basement room distractedly, adjusting cables, typing a
few commands into the various computer consoles resting on the haphazard
arrangement of tables and desks. It was, technically speaking, a laboratory,
but the combination of cluttered disorder and the smell of Doritos (still
lying about somewhere) seemed more befitting the room of a busy teenager. In
truth, it was both. He had a bedroom, of course, but he did most of his
living down here, especially for the past few months. Professor Harris had
been very good about loaning him whatever equipment he requested--within
reason.


The professor's good-natured inattention may indeed have had more to do with
his upcoming faculty review and the possibility of attaining that pot of
gold at the end of the academic rainbow: tenure. That was why Colin had been
hurrying; when Harris gained tenure (a practical certainty, unless he did
something extraordinarily stupid to give the university's PR department a
black eye, like beating a nun to death on camera in broad
daylight--unlikely, as Harris had an irrational fear of nuns; the product of
a Catholic education) he would likely begin to take a more active role in
supervising the projects of his research fellows. Colin knew he could cobble
together enough fragments of his other research--he had wide-ranging
interests--to make a reasonable body of work that would satisfy the
professor. However, it was essential that he finish the project he
imaginatively called the "X Protocols," his brain-child and preoccupation
for the last year. In reality, the idea had been percolating in his mind
since he was 14, but only in the past year had he been able to finish the
preliminary studies and amass the resources to make a serious attempt at a
practical application--an eminently marketable application. If it worked, he
could become a very wealthy young man indeed. That was part of his rush, as
he would prefer not to share the cash he might make with the university.
Colin was not selfish by nature, but a "troubled" upbringing ('Whatever the
fuck that means,' he thought) had instilled in him a robust sense of
self-preservation. Besides which, the university (an Ivy League institution)
had a financial endowment that had by now grown into the tens of billions,
so they didn't exactly have to go looking under sofa cushions for beer
money.


Apart from financial considerations, he knew that even if "Dr" Harris (Colin
used the title because he knew it annoyed the professor, who was remarkably
self-effacing for a man of his prestige) didn't put the breaks on the
project as soon as he learned about it, someone else in the school would
eventually get wind of it. Perhaps they would be able to obfuscate the plain
facts under a deluge of discipline-specific jargon, or even put a more noble
face on it by appealing to the sacred cow of the sciences: Medicine, with a
capital M. Ultimately, it wouldn't matter. Some shitty bureaucrat in the
administration would finally peel away whatever disguise they'd dreamt up,
and, upon realizing the truth, would proceed to cheerfully garrote everyone
involved with an inexhaustible roll of red tape. They would almost certainly
cite "legal standards" (and there they'd have a legitimate point), and
"morality" (completely irrelevant, but it would play well to the Tea Party
types--and those who were scared of the Tea Party types), and that would be
that. Bureaucrats were like pigeons: rats with wings, who, realizing that
they couldn't possibly justify their oxygen consumption, liked to perch on
the achievements of others and shit on them.


Most of all, Colin knew, the project had to remain absolutely confidential
because of Jake--because about 8 months ago things had gotten...
complicated.


*          *          *          *          *


College students are expected to be a little wild. A young man's university
education is considered incomplete if he has not taken advantage of every
opportunity that presents itself to swill his liver in ethanol, fumigate his
lungs and brain with cannabis (and any-fucking-thing else available), and
generally stuff his tumescent genitals into abso-fucking-lutely every hole
he can find--including some of his own, if he is blessed with equipment and
flexibility equal to the task. Even assuming this open-minded approach to
youthful peccadilloes, though, it shouldn't be too surprising when a
Resident Assistant balks at discovering a sixteen-year-old garnishing a
home-cooked batch of meth on a hot-plate in his dorm room. ("Just like mama
used to make--if only I had some parsley," Colin had said at the time. The
RA wasn't amused. In fact, it is doubtful the RA even heard him, since he
had been wearing a respirator.)


He could have argued that he was not actually making meth, but was
interested only in a chemical derivative with some of the same attributes.
He could have claimed that it was part of a research project he was involved
in. But neither of those (nor any other excuse or explanation) would have
appeased the RA, and they certainly wouldn't have had any effect on the
police officers who arrived a few moments later. Colin did the best thing he
could have in those circumstances. He went quietly to the station in the
back of the squad car and he made his free phone-call. He was lying on a
bench in the holding cell, an arm thrown over his eyes, attempting to sleep,
after being questioned, photographed, questioned, fingerprinted, questioned,
given a cup of lukewarm coffee (which tasted uncannily like fermented
badger-piss) by a kind and unmistakably lesbian officer, questioned, and,
finally, questioned. He despaired of ever being able to nod off, and so had
begun musing on the rather impressive beginnings of a mustache displayed on
the upper lip of the very considerate Officer Dykie McDykington (as he
affectionately thought of her), when the cavalry arrived. In strode a man he
had never seen before in his life, but whom he recognized instantly as his
lawyer. 'Just Bitson's type of lawyer, too,' he said to himself, and was
filled with a warm glow remembering the first cock he'd sucked after
arriving at the university. It hadn't been particularly impressive, as
phalluses go, and the greying pubic hair had been a bit disconcerting, but
at that moment in the police station, he thought he'd never done anything in
his life more intelligent than deciding to fellate Lewis Gerald Bitson, III.


*          *          *          *          *


Bitsy had turned out to be an English professor of considerable seniority,
and a member of a moneyed family to boot, but Colin hadn't known that. On
the second day of "Orientation" (which was otherwise a complete waste of
time), he had pretended to listen to a little speech of the variety some
academics delight in, ("It really is too obscene," his neighbor had leaned
over to say to him, without any introduction, "Not content to jerk off at
home, some of them just can't miss an opportunity to stand at a pulpit and
stroke their own egos.") before an "informal luncheon"--which is also known
as "lunch" by less pretentious people who cannot afford the "eon" suffix.
His neighbor was correct; Bitsy did think pretty highly of himself, having
recently edited a celebrated collection of short fiction that would
accumulate more dust than readers. But during "luncheon," Colin thought
there might be potential there, and so went to tell Dr Bitson how much he
had enjoyed his remarks. (Seeing them glad-handing, his neighbor from
earlier had shaken his head and left in disgust.) Colin looked slightly
mature for his age, and he unarguably had more experience than most
15-year-olds in certain areas (the result of years in the foster care system
and group homes; he had gotten used to the idea of sex-as-currency early in
life, and made the best of it). With barely enough subtlety to stay on the
polite side of blatant prostitution, Colin had made his intentions known:
the slightly-too-long handshake, the intense level of eye contact, the
crooked smile that practically yodeled "Fuck-a-me-hee-hoo!" He'd even used
the lip licking thing, which to a practitioner of Colin's skill seemed too
heavy-handed. But if he was going to extract the maximum possible value out
of this, he needed to close the deal soon, before Bitson had time to learn
that he was really only fifteen. Not that that would have queered the
arrangement, but it certainly would have altered the negotiations.


"I've got so many questions," he laughed, sounding virginal. "Could I stop
by your office later?" Bitson pretended to have a busy schedule, but said
that he could squeeze him in (so to speak) at ten minutes after six. His
grey-haired, prim-looking secretary (who, incidentally, was into rape
fantasies in a big way; that has nothing to do with our story, Gentle
Reader--that's just research) would have left by that time--of course!--"So,
you'll just have to show yourself through, young man." Colin bid him
farewell with a silent, lingering smile that was just as communicative as
nibbling an earlobe or cupping his grey-haired balls would have been.


In the meantime, Colin finished moving his meager possessions into the first
dorm of his college career (a nicer place by far than some of the foster
homes he'd lived in), and took a nap. When his watch beeped him awake at
five-to-six, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, ran a hand over his
nearly shaved head, and--just before setting out--foritfied himself with a
gulp of his homemade hooch. Having skills in the sciences, particularly
chemistry, was definitely beneficial when it came to bootlegging. (Almost
all of his pocket money during his two-year stint in highschool was
extracted one fiery drop at a time from the still he'd set up in the woods
behind his last foster home. It wouldn't have won any awards, but his
moonshine provided the one service his classmate clients were interested in:
packing the maximum possible inebriating power into the smallest possible
volume. He was honestly surprised nobody had gone blind drinking that shit,
but he wasn't their priest or therapist; if they kept paying, he kept
pouring. Besides which, he'd first developed his skill in distillery for the
sake of self defense. After his foster dad, Lester, drank just enough to get
buzzed, Colin would make sure he went from "tipsy" to "potentially
alcohol-poisoned" with only two more beers, secretly mixed with the happy
juice he'd cooked up out back. During that time, Colin's teachers noticed
he'd evidently become more coordinated, "falling down the stairs" and
"waking into the door" at home much less frequently than usual, making it
almost the first time in his life he'd been free from visible welts or
bruises. The noises that came from his foster sister's room late at night
also stopped. She still almost never spoke, but the day he moved out, she'd
given him a wordless, bone-crushing hug and kissed him on the cheek, before
flitting back behind her closed door.)


As he walked toward Bitson's office, he considered the approach he should
take at this stage of the game. His opportunities to move things along
before the professor realized he was a minor were extremely limited. He
hadn't yet revealed his name, so Bitson probably hadn't looked him up in the
school computer system yet. But if it didn't happen tonight, the man would
do his research before another opportunity for sex presented itself. He
seemed like the "fine wine and candles" type, and he obviously loved
listening to the sound of his own voice, so Colin decided that the best bet
was a surprise attack--no chitchat, no foreplay, just pounce. That way
there'd be less opportunity for the thing to get derailed too soon. It would
certainly make an impression. Besides which, Colin smiled to himself, often
the thing they think they're afraid of is just what they're really gagging
for. He patted the bulge of the tube in his right trouser pocket. The secret
weapon. He was hoping to get it into play without Bitsy's being aware (his
subconscious had already bestowed the pet name), in order to maximize its
impact. Unless... unless... 'Aw, fuck. I should've thought of that,' he
berated himself, and--though prayer didn't come naturally to Colin, to say
nothing of an evangelical foster mom he'd lived with for six weeks, who'd
soured him forever on the subject of religion by being completely bat-shit
crazy--he found himself praying now: 'Please, god, let him still have a
prostate.'


As it turned out, Colin shouldn't have worried. Bitsy was still in
possession of his man-walnut. Even better for Colin, it was a very sensitive
walnut, ("cranky," he liked to think of it afterwards). Though it sometimes
made pissing difficult for the venerable professor, it couldn't have reacted
better to a skilled, fifteen-year-old middle finger had it been made to
order. In fact, for one whose young life had been full of hardship, this
pivotal episode unfolded with uncharacteristic perfection. He walked through
the door without even knocking, as though he had "ballsy" tattooed all over
him. The door locked behind him before the surprised professor had time to
say a word. Striding quickly, purposefully around the desk, he straddled
Bitson's legs, sat on his lap, pushed a shushing finger to the lips which
were now considering (feebly) the possibility of mounting a protest, and
before a syllable had passed the fleshy portal, filled him with his probing
tongue. Accompanied by the muted sounds that now indicated anything but
protest, his warm, knowledgeable fingers unknotted the silk tie and went to
work on the buttons beneath. With his eyes closed, it was easy to think
of... someone else, anyway. He pulled open the professor's shirt, kneading
the haired flesh, kissing his way down the throat, the larynx quivering as
the still-silent mouth remembered to breathe. He rose off the lap and knelt
between scholarly legs, hands now reaching deeper under the ('Rather nice,'
he thought) shirt, ('I'll have to ask him where he shops,') fingers trailing
up and down the spine that writhed when he'd found a nipple with his teeth.
Still at this disorienting pace, he set about unfastening the belt, the
button, and the zippered fly, unnoticed by the man in the chair, who could
concentrate on nothing but his firming aureoles, engorged by suction and
stiffened by a nimble, muscular tongue. He jerked roughly, pulling Bitson
part way out of the rolling office chair so his buttocks now hung over the
edge of the seat, resettling trousers and
rather-more-brightly-colored-than-he'd-anticipated boxer shorts at ankle
level, just above a very handsome pair of leather loafers, and revealing the
objective: it wasn't especially large (not a problem as Colin wasn't
planning on getting fucked that evening), but he did smile when he saw it
was uncircumcised. The foreskin was tight and long.


His sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-grade years, Colin had lived in a Group
Home. Twelve boys had resided there in what was intended to be a
pseudo-domestic environment. He wasn't sure what skills the living
arrangement had given him that would translate well to a Brady Bunch or
Leave it to Beaver model of familial bliss, but he sure as hell had learned
how to suck a boy off--and his technique when it came to foreskins was
unparalleled. After a few months, the four un-cut boys (three were older
than him, one younger) went to him exclusively for their servicing needs.
The three older ones also did a fair job of looking out for him, being
unwilling to risk his being put out of commission. In any case, those very
educational years (coupled with his naturally quick mind) had left him
without even a vestigial gag-reflex, and a vast repertoire of skills which
made him a most formidable sexual athlete (and, of course, planted the seeds
that would germinate into the focus of his university research)...


He paused, and looked up to meet Professor Bitson's eyes, still a bit wide
at this mostly-unknown young man, whose pace and ferocity had so stunned
him, who had him--literally--by the balls. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he
let his face slide into the crooked smile that made promises others dared
not even put in to words, let alone hope for their fulfillment. The
yet-untouched cock was utterly turgid, head wet with the lubrication that
had been leaked and trapped under that delicate inch of skin. He knew what
was coming now. This pause was part of the sex too. He felt the tension
building, in the pulse under the professor's skin, how he shifted his legs,
in the thoughts that churned behind those astonished eyes. Right on cue, a
shuddering breath; he was going to speak. To beg for more? To reconsider? It
didn't matter, because before he could say a word, Colin enveloped him,
suddenly, forcefully, taking him to the hilt, engaging tongue and tonsil to
do their work, driving his face into the abdomen where he could feel as well
as hear the animal sounds, transmuting whatever Bitson had been about to say
into raw, groaning need, shattering thought with sensation.


It was a testament to his prowess that even in this moment of satisfaction,
the product of having extraordinary skills and using them to their best
advantage (he would have been grinning, had he not had an appreciative
johnson bottoming out in his gullet), that he remained still one step ahead.
Right hand pinching a nipple, tongue doing its tango, Colin's left
hand--under the seat of the chair and unseen by Bitson--was opening the tube
of lubricant he had brought. He held the tube's opening up against the
professor's back door and squeezed a liberal dollop onto the sphincter.
Bitsy hissed through his teeth at this new development. His head lolled and
he began to sigh as Colin worked his middle finger up and down the slightly
hairy crack. Up and down, back and forth, lingering more and more on the
twitching pucker. Finally, knowing he was ready, the boy inserted his digit
with one quick thrust and instantly found his target. Now it was Colin's
turn to be surprised; this prostate was bigger than he'd expected and was
quite firm. 'Firm?' Colin silently corrected himself, 'The thing's a fucking
boulder.' He began to work it, circling each glandular lobe with confident,
experienced strokes. The older man was almost beside himself now, making
noises that aren't part of any known language, but which communicated
perfectly nevertheless. The kneeling boy began to increase his intensity,
working his tongue harder still and inserting his forefinger to assist it's
neighbor's mining expedition. Bitson's breath had grown ragged and uneven.
His hips writhed, alternately pushing up into the boy's throat or down onto
his fingers. 'He must be close,' Colin thought. He knew he had to focus in
order to time this correctly. He had been careful to keep the professor's
prepuce drawn up over the head of his cock most of the time, using suction
to hold it in place, and using the base of his tongue to massage the glans
(always highly sensitive in the uncircumcised) through the protective cover
of that skin. Now, however, it was time for Colin's signature move, a trick
he was quite proud of. With two fingers now mercilessly grinding and mashing
their way over the sensitive bump inside him, Colin released Bitsy's nipple
with his right hand and grabbed his dick, quickly retracting the foreskin as
far back from the head as possible, creating a new surface of taut skin.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, all the delicate nerve endings of the glans, the
coronal ridge, the frenular delta, and the ridged band (the majority of the
nerve endings on the entire penis, actually) were exposed to the direct and
unforgiving stimulation of Colin's tongue and throat. Professor Bitson
reacted just as Colin knew he would: he practically jumped out of his skin.
With a shriek, he tried to leap from the chair, but the young man held him
down with hooked fingers in his ass and his face pushing firmly against the
spastic abdomen.


Just as Bitsy's backside hit the surface of the chair again, it happened.
Normally, we associate orgasm with the sounds people make when they have
one: "Oh god!" "Unngh!" "Gonna cum!" "Harder!" "Yes, yes, YESYESYESYESYES!"
"Oh, John!" "Oh, Marsha!" But those are not really the sound of a climax. In
a person with no vocal cords, the experience would be largely silent. In
spite of this, Colin enjoyed thinking of the orgasm itself in terms of
sounds, trying to imagine what a particular climax *would* sound like if
audible. Sometimes he thought of a rocket taking off, sometimes it was the
noise a roller coaster makes when plunging down that first, enormous drop.
This time, apart from one frantic groan, the professor himself remained
almost completely quiet. He couldn't get another lungful of air to replenish
himself after that first shriek, because when the climax actually took hold
it knocked the wind out of him. In Colin's mind though, he could only think
of one sound to compare it to: an atom bomb in the Grand Canyon.


KA-BOOOOOOOOOM!!!
(BOOM-splash-BOOM-squirt-BOOM-squirt-BOOM-squirt-BOOM--BOOM--BOOM--BOOM--BOOM!)


The aftershocks lasted almost a whole half-minute, even though he'd run dry
after only ten seconds. Bitson found his voice again before they had ended.
He gasped and shuddered and grunted and sobbed and sighed and finally just
sat there. As Colin pulled his face off and his fingers out, the professor
jumped again. The young man had managed to catch most of the spunk, but
there was a strand running down his chin, which he wiped with the back of
his hand, then wiping that hand with a tissue. (Colin was mostly a
swallower, but it was a matter of professional competence. Swallowing tends
to be a turn-on because it prevents interruption of the orgasm, and some
guys enjoy the macho psychological thrill of thinking that someone else
likes to eat their bodily fluids. Some guys get off being the swallower for
similar reasons. But Colin thought anyone who said they liked to swallow
because they enjoyed the *taste* of semen had to be full of shit. Nobody
makes jizz flavored salad dressing or ice-cream toppings. Taken out of the
context of a sexual act, cum loses any appeal as a food item. Not every man
who enjoys fucking sheep automatically likes the flavor of lamb, or
necessarily loves wearing wool socks.) He cleaned his other hand, flexing
the two fingers that had done so much work. For a minute there, he'd been
worried he might lose them; Bitson's sphincter showed its mettle during that
first contraction. If you used a big enough string of anal beads, the
professor's ass could probably tow a car, Colin thought with a laugh.


*          *          *          *          *


"Yes, he'll be coming with me!" The lawyer sounded upset. "Did I stutter the
last time I said it?"


And in spite of the protest of the arresting officers, that is exactly what
happened. Colin was surprised everything had gone so smoothly. A couple of
papers were signed, and in 20 minutes, Colin found himself riding shotgun in
a rather handsome Lexus. "That was pretty impressive," he said to the lawyer
(whose name he still didn't know).


The man looked over at him and smirked, "Lewis is familiar with using
information to gain leverage."


"You mean 'blackmail'?"


"Of course not. Blackmail is illegal," he said with a wink. He paused. "You
know, in spite of its being a bastardy thing to do, the little--er--prank
you pulled on him did him a world of good. He's much more careful now."


Colin just smiled. Their little arrangement was half business, half
friendship. Bitson hadn't been able to muster up much anger, both because
the blowjob had been phenomenal, and because he couldn't help but feel a
grudging respect toward Colin for carrying off such a sleazy plan without a
hitch. In fact, the teen mused, the word 'blackmail' had never been used
between them. It was an odd kind of relationship they shared. There had been
no more sex between them, but they tended to look out for each other; Bitsy
wielding his long experience circumnavigating the murkier aspects of
university bureaucracy like a dagger, both to further his own career and
look out for the boy's interests. In return, Colin supplied him with
information, gleaned from overheard conversations or plucked from the
college's less-than-secure "secure servers."


"Now," continued the lawyer, "I've been able to have your court date moved
up. The faster we can deal with this, the better. We're going to avoid a
trial, you're going to plead guilty, and we'll skip straight to sentencing.
Quick and painless."


Colin bristled slightly. "Don't you think you should have asked me what I
wanted before you decided all this?"


"Nope. You're not the one paying me," the man said, all business. "If you'd
rather have a court-appointed attorney, then by all means. I wish you all
the best with your trial and the inevitable juvenile detention that will be
waiting at the end of it."


Colin said nothing.


"Glad you've reconsidered," the man said briskly. "I'm going to need two
things from you: first, some plausible excuse for cooking whatever you were
cooking, and second, written statements attesting to your good character.
Lewis will of course supply one of them, but the more you can get, the
better. Professors, past teachers, cub scout leaders--I don't give a fuck.
Just get them."


*          *          *          *          *


Two weeks later, it was finished, and Colin found himself standing outside a
shabby, clapboard home, holding a scrap of paper, checking the address
against the faded numbers painted by the front door. The yard was weedy and
overgrown, the car parked out front seemed to be mostly made up of rust, and
there was a tear in the screen over the nearest window.


The 'trial' (if you could call it that) had gone better than he'd expected.
He hadn't gotten an ankle bracelet. He hadn't even been given a parole
officer. Bitson just had to submit a monthly report to the parole
department, and that only for a year. The single real disappointment of the
thing was community service. Colin had tried to argue that it would
interfere with his studies, but the judge had been adamant. "Young man,"
he'd said, gazing down over his reading glasses, "You have done quite well
for someone with your troubled background. There's no question that you are
smart--perhaps too smart for your own good. You had to learn self-reliance
very early in life. However, what you are not used to, and what I think
would be good for you to experience, is the lesson that comes with having
responsibility for another person. Therefore I am sentencing you to 300
hours of community service, to be carried out as a volunteer for the 'Big
Brothers, Big Sisters' mentoring program." With one smack of the gavel,
that, as they say, was that.


Colin stepped onto the wooden porch and pushed the doorbell, which clanged
once with a rather sad, strangled sound. A moment later he could hear
hurried footsteps and the door opened to reveal a mousy little woman with a
vacant expression.


"Yes?" With only that she managed to convey the message that she was tired,
she was busy, and she didn't have time for interruptions right now
thankyouverymuch.


"I'm Colin." Silence. He tried again, hesitantly, "Jake's new 'Big
Brother'..." He made it a question.


Realization dawned on her face. "Oh, thank god. Come in, come in, come in,"
she said, bustling him into the kitchen. The house, what he could see of it,
was run-down but neat. She motioned him to a chair while shuffling some
papers on the countertop. Finding what she was looking for, a scrap from
torn from a yellow legal pad, she slid the sheet in front of him. "He's
upstairs I think. Anyway, dinner is in the fridge and don't let him forget
to take a bath before he goes to bed, okay? Callifyouhaveanytrouble." She
snatched her purse from the countertop, and even before Colin looked up from
the yellow paper, the front door shut behind her. He stood there in the
kitchen for a moment, a little stunned, before deciding he'd better go
upstairs and find Jake, a little annoyed that this was shaping up to be less
like mentoring and more like babysitting, 'Though it's not like I have any
choice,' he thought.


The staircase was narrow and it creaked, complaining as he climbed. He
walked down the upper floor's hallway and knocked on a few doors. "Hello?
Jake? Are you up here?" He raised his hand again to knock, but just then the
door before him opened to reveal an eight-year-old boy.


"Who are you?"


"My name's Colin. Are you Jake?"


"Yes." He was slender, and a bit small for his age. He peered up at Colin
through an unruly mop of hair so fair it looked silvery. His eyes were large
and strangely colored. They appeared almost brown in this light but Colin
would notice later that they were actually a very dark green. "Why are you
here? Where's my mom?"


"Ummm. You know, I'm actually not sure where your mom went. She kinda left
in a hurry. I'm your new 'Big Brother'."


"I'm an only child."


"Yeah, I know. I meant I'm part of the 'Big Brothers, Big Sisters' program.
Has nobody ever been your 'Big Brother' before? You know, someone who hangs
out with you sometimes?"


"No. Sometimes Carl was here, but he pretty much ignored me."


"Oh. Who's Carl?"


"He used to live here. He was my mom's boyfriend."


"But not anymore?"


Jake shook his head. "When did he leave?"


"It's been about a week, I think."


"Do you know why?" It wasn't really any of his business, but Colin was
curious by nature.


By way of an answer, Jake lifted his right foot off the ground and stuck his
leg out. Colin noticed now that the little boy had a cast extending from his
toes almost to his knee. "What happened?"


"Carl."


"He broke your leg?" Colin's tone seemed unusual to Jake. Normally, the few
adults he had told, including an ER doctor and his third-grade teacher,
reacted with some surprise, even shock. But Colin sounded as though he
thought it was perfectly normal for an adult to fracture a child's leg--and,
to be fair, in Colin's experience, abuse and broken bones were not all that
uncommon.


"No," the boy replied, pulling the collar of his t-shirt down on his left
side, uncovering an ugly, yellowed bruise just below his collarbone. "He
punched  me, and I broke my leg falling down the stairs." He also turned his
left leg to expose what remained of a sutured two-inch wound on the outside
of his calf. "Carpet tack," he explained simply.


Then, Colin lifted the hem of his own shirt and slightly lowered the
waistband of his khakis, revealing a shiny scar low on his abdomen.


"You got stabbed?"


Pausing for dramatic effect, he leaned in toward the boy and widened his
eyes ominously. In a hoarse whisper he replied, "Appendicitis."


Jake grinned, revealing dimples that were too infrequently visible, and the
ice was broken. They understood each other. Colin explained about the 'Big
Brothers, Big Sisters' program, adding, "I'm a little surprised your mom
didn't mention it, actually."


"She works a lot. Sometimes she forgets things."


"Well, it's no big deal. To tell you the truth, I actually haven't planned
what we're going to do today. You have any ideas?"


The boy sighed. "I'm sorry. I have a lot of homework, and it'll probably
take forever. I'm stupid at math. If you want, you can watch TV downstairs."


"Why don't I help you with your math?"


Now Jake was surprised, "Because it's really boring."


"Well then, the sooner we get it done, the sooner we can do something fun.
Come on."


And that was how it all began. Much to his surprise, Colin found that the
judge had been right--not only were care-taking responsibilities new to him,
he found them incredibly fulfilling. They usually met up twice a week,
always spending time on schoolwork before moving on to something more
recreational. Colin enjoyed teaching, and as he and Jake became more used to
each other, he found that he could answer the boy's questions with just the
right words to make him understand. His grades improved dramatically,
eliciting a steady stream of teachers' notes to his mother. She was very
grateful as these new developments quelled some of her guilt and worry about
not being there consistently enough to properly raise her baby boy. While
she had interacted with Colin a few times (he enjoyed taking them out for
dinner on occasion--made possible by Bitson's occasional fits of
generosity--everyone had enjoyed the pizza place, but she just couldn't
understand what those boys saw in sushi, though her dislike may have been
the result of popping the entire dollop of wasabi into her mouth before
Colin could stop her during their first visit) she generally left them to
their own devices. There had even been some overnight baby-sitting, and
Colin had refused payment every time.


This happy little arrangement continued for the better part of two years,
during the course of which Jake's dimples were seen more and more
frequently. The change was the emotional equivalent of watching a
malnourished child nursed back to health. Colin's nearly-frightening
intelligence had enabled him to finish his undergraduate studies in only
three semesters. His high number of AP credits hadn't hurt, and he'd also
developed a highly effective strategy to accelerate his progress: After
spending the first two weeks of a semester making himself a complete pain in
the ass for most of his instructors, he would contact Bitsy, who would pull
some strings and arrange for him to take the final exam for the course in
question, and his grade on that exam would be recorded by the professor as
his grade for the entire course. He attended year-round, never completing
fewer than 25 credits in a term, though he only really attended 3 or 4
classes per semester. Bitsy had also helped by clearing the way for his
acceptance in to the Masters program, and he finally had enough autonomy to
really direct his own research.


Colin would never have predicted that the two focuses of his life--research
and Jake--would ever intertwine, but shortly after Jake's tenth birthday,
that is exactly what happened. Colin had been keeping so busy between school
and his 'Big Brother' responsibilities, he really hadn't done much in the
way of dating. It could be tricky to meet other, similarly interested guys
on campus, and while there were some promising bars and clubs in the area,
that had never really been his scene. In his first semester, he had met Matt
in the library (they were both trying to get the Kinsey reports) and they
had struck up a friendship. Matt wanted to study medicine, but was content
to take his time and would complete his undergrad in a total of 10
semesters. They enjoyed getting off together, occasionally trading blowjobs,
but their relationship was more fun than romantic. Their real focus had
become Colin's current research, to which they both contributed significant
time.


During all that time, Jake had never once betrayed any evidence that he had
any sense of sexuality whatever, never even asking if Colin had a girlfriend
(let alone a boyfriend). That is why it came as a total surprise to him when
his "adopted" little brother asked him one Saturday--completely out of the
blue--"What's 'jerking off'?" They were walking in the park, both a bit
sweaty from an hour of playing with a frisbee, drinking greedily from the
chilled bottles of water Colin had bought from the vendor in a little kiosk.
Colin choked and spent the next minute trying to cough up the water he'd
just aspirated. When he'd finally cleared his lungs, he asked, "Where did
you hear that?"


"At school."


"Oh." They were both silent for a time, but finally Jake spoke up again.
"Well?"


"Look, I'm really not sure if I should be the one to discuss this with you.
It's kind of private. Why don't you ask your mom later."


"I can't talk to her about it. She gets all embarrassed if she walks in
while I'm in the bath, and I think that it must have something to do with...
you know... stuff down there," he said quietly, gesturing vaguely toward his
crotch, "At least that's what is sounded like when they were talking about
it at recess."


"I see what you mean." Colin was not actually sure when or where he'd first
learned about every boy's best friend. (Contrary to popular belief, dogs are
number two.) "Alright, but let's wait until we get back." Jake agreed and
they went to the bus stop.


Forty-five minutes later, they walked through the front door of Jake's
house. His mother wouldn't be back until after midnight; she was on the
late-shift that week. Jake plopped himself into a kitchen chair. "Okay," he
said expectantly. Colin groaned inside. He'd been hoping that a ten-year-old
mind would have lost interest or forgotten during the bus ride. No such
luck.


He took a breath. "Okay, Jake. I'm going to tell you what you want to know,
but you have to promise me that this stays just between us."


"Sure."


"No, I mean it. I could get into a lot of trouble. Like,
arrested-and-sent-to-prison type trouble."


Jake's eyes widened  bit at that. "Just for telling me?"


"Yeah, sort of. When it's between an adult and a child, talking about sex
stuff, or talking about it in the wrong way, can be considered almost the
same as *doing* sex stuff. If it's your parent or a teacher in a sex-ed
class, that's no big deal. But if it's another person, especially if you
don't actually want to talk to them about it, yeah, it can be a big deal. So
do you promise? You never tell anybody about this conversation?"


"I promise," he said solemnly, looking somewhat subdued.


"Alright." Jake grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and began no draw a
few simple diagrams. 'No reason not to be thorough,' he thought. During the
course of the next thirty minutes, he explained the basics of the male and
female reproductive systems, some of the changes that occur during puberty,
as well as sex, conception (complete with smiling zygotes named Speedy the
Sperm and Elanor the Egg), gestation, and childbirth. "Does that all make
sense?" he asked, glad to be finished.


"Yup."


"Good. Now, what do you want for dinner?"


"But Colin," Jake broke in impatiently, "what's 'jerking off'?"


"Ha... You're right, I didn't cover that one." Jake shook his head. "Well,
'jerking off' is a nickname for something that's really called
'masturbation.' When people masturbate, they touch themselves in ways that
mimic what happens during sex. They play with themselves... down there."


"Oh." A pause. "Why do they do that?"


"Because they like how it feels."


"Does it feel good?"


"Yeah, actually. It's pretty much the best feeling in the world."


"But that's not true."


"Really?" He was a bit surprised at the boy's emphatic reaction.


"Colin, when I take a bath, I touch my stuff when I wash it. It feels nice,
but it's not the 'best thing in the world'."


"Well, it's different than just washing."


"Fine. How is it different?" Jake sounded angry now, suspecting that the
whole conversation had been just a big joke at his expense, an attempt to
see how many outlandish lies he could be convinced of.


Colin was stammering."It... It's just... It's different, okay."


Jake stood up, leaving the kitchen. "I knew it," he said quietly, and
hurried out and up the stairs, not wanting his 'Big Brother' to see his
tears. He felt like an idiot, not only because of Colin's little hoax, but
because now he doubted their friendship completely. He'd trusted him.


Colin sat stunned, not moving from his chair for nearly a full five minutes.
What the fuck had just happened? He got himself a drink of water and was
mid-gulp when another thought struck him. If Jake felt  hurt and betrayed
(for whatever reason) would he tell his mom? 'Shit, shit, shit. I am SO
fucked.' There was nothing for it but to try and patch things up. Quickly.


He climbed the stairs and stood outside the door to Jake's room. He knocked
quietly, but there was no response. After a moment he turned the knob and
stuck his head into the room. "Jake?" he asked, hesitant.


"Go away." His voice was muffled, lying on his stomach with his face shoved
into his pillow.


"Jake, we need to talk." When he didn't respond, Colin stepped into the
room, shut the door behind him, and sat on the corner of  the boy's
mattress. He rested a hand gingerly on the back that still quivered with the
aftershocks of tears; he stroked a little, moving up and down between the
shoulder-blades. Jake had grown a bit, but Colin thought he was still too
skinny. After a moment, the gentle physical contact took effect and the boy
melted a little. He suddenly turned, sat up, and threw his arms around
Colin's midriff in a fierce hug. He returned the embrace, a bit surprised at
the intensity of his feelings. Was this what it felt like to be a parent? He
didn't think so, but he didn't feel exactly like a brother either. They just
held each other for a moment.


Jake was the first to break the silence. "That was mean, Colin. Why did you
tease me like that?"


He released the boy, taking the small face in his hands so he could look
right in his eyes. "I didn't lie, Jake. I promise."


"But--"


"Look, I can prove it to you if you want."


"How?"


"Would you let me show you what it feels like? You know...?" He paused. "I
would have to touch you down there, though. And if you don't want me to,
that's fine. But it needs to be completely your decision--don't say yes if
you don't want to. Okay?"


Jake thought for a moment, and then nodded. "You sure?" Another nod.
"Okay... and you really, really, REALLY cannot ever tell anyone about this.
Ever. Promise?"


"I promise."


"Okay, wait here." Colin rose and went toward the door. He paused, turning.
"Actually, why don't you take off your clothes and get under the covers."
The boy giggled a bit at this, but as he left the room he was already
peeling off his t-shirt. Colin went down the stairs two at a time and
grabbed his backpack. He rifled through the pockets until he found his
trusty little tube of lube. 'Be Prepared!' he thought to himself. Though, to
be honest, his boy-scouting skills were of a slightly different variety.
'Well, I guess I *am* good at tying knots, but there probably isn't a
Fuzzy-Handcuffs and Leather Restraints merit badge. Shame, really.' He
climbed the stairs again and grabbed a towel off the rack in the bathroom
before going back into the bedroom.


Jake was lying there obediently with a sheet pulled up to his chin, but not
a stitch on underneath. Colin removed his own shirt, pulled the cover down
and said, "Here, hop up for a sec." He spread the towel over the fitted
sheet, turned and picked up Jake, and tossed him back on the bed. They boy
laughed. He enjoyed roughhousing, but lacked brothers, and the roughhousing
his mom's ex, Carl, enjoyed had put him in the hospital; this innocent
wrestling had been all too rare before his new 'Big Brother' had entered his
life.


Colin rolled him over onto his stomach and told him to relax. With a little
of the lubricant on his fingers, he began to give the boy a back-rub,
working up over his neck and shoulders, kneading the muscles that bordered
the spine. Apart from wordless groans, Jake's only response was "Ahhhh,
that's nice." He moved his moistened hands down the boys flanks (he was very
ticklish on his sides just above his hip bones), working his way back up the
calves, the hamstrings, and spending special attention on his buttocks.


"Alright, now on your back." When he flipped over, Colin could see that his
techniques were starting to take effect, and Jake was now sporting a semi.
'And very respectable too, for a ten-year-old,' he thought, impressed. He
had known the boy was uncut, since (when his mother wasn't around) he liked
to leave the door open and talk to Colin while he bathed,  but this was the
first time Colin had seen him with any degree of erection. He stroked
delicately at the boy's throat, making him squirm a bit, and then down over
the chest, working outward from the sternum with his thumbs. Jake gasped and
then sighed a little when he began to drag his fingernails lightly over the
small pink nipples. They became almost instantaneously rigid, and Colin
rolled the tips between thumbs and forefingers. "You look like you could cut
glass with these." Jake laughed a little, but was too caught up in the
sensation to be very distracted by the joke.


Colin's hands strayed lower still, sliding over the abdominals, one finger
toying with the navel. Jake was rock-hard now. Had he been standing up, his
4-incher would have been about 60 degrees above perpendicular. He shuddered
involuntarily as ten fingers grazed over his hairless pubic bone, not quite
touching his sex, but moving to either side and downward still. Making a
ring of a thumb and forefinger, Colin encircled the base of his taut sack,
drawing his testicles gently away from his body, while his other hand
stroked and kneaded the perineum. "Ohhhh," the boy breathed, his eyes
locking onto Colin's, "That's awesome." Tugging a little more firmly on his
balls, Colin smiled and said, "You ain't seen nothin' yet."


He maintained his hold on the scrotum, but now his other hand claimed the
prize and stroked slowly up his prick, circling the exposed edge of the
prepuce that covered the glans completely. His fingertip went round and
round, and Jake began to writhe and whimper, sometimes gasping as though
he'd forgotten to breathe. "You like that, huh?" he asked, and he
interpreted the boy's next series of noises as an answer in the affirmative,
though none of those sounds were part of any human language. It was time to
begin in earnest. "Just tell me to stop if any of this hurts, okay?" Jake
nodded, and Colin began to slowly retract the foreskin, taking care to watch
for any adhesions. When the delicate skin was completely exposed, he asked
again, "That okay?"


"Mmm-hmm."


"Alright, here we go." He began to get into a rhythm, all the while
maintaining a grip on his balls, preventing them from being drawn back
toward the boy's body. He stroked pretty slowly and very gently, aware that
since this was Jake's first time, he was still extremely sensitive. Apart
from that, he just wanted the little guy to have a chance to savor the
experience. In spite of his best efforts, it wasn't long before Jake began
to make some noise. "Uhhh, Colin? Mmmm..." a groan, and then again, "Colin?"
He began to sound panicky.  "I think... I think... starting... feels..." He
seemed unable to complete a sentence.


"What is it, Jake?"


Suddenly he yelped, "Stop-stop-stop-stop-stop!" grabbing Colin's hands and
jerking them away from his body. He leaped off the bed, out the door and ran
naked down the hallway. After being momentarily stunned into inaction, he
got up to find Jake. He was confused and a little scared. Had he misread the
ten-year-old so completely? He really thought he'd been enjoying it, but
then he just... snapped. He couldn't find him anywhere downstairs, and,
since the door was still locked on the inside, he assumed that his charge
hadn't gone streaking through the neighborhood. Puzzled, he went back up the
stairs and saw Jake just coming out of the bathroom.


"Jake!" he said, washed over with a wave of relief, "Are you okay? What
happened?"


The boy looked at his feet. Was he blushing? "I'm sorry, I just..."


"Look, if you didn't like it we'll stop. We don't ever have to do it again
if you don't want to."


That got his attention. "What are you talking about! That was amazing! I'd
do it every day if we could!" A pause. "Can we?"


Colin felt like laughing. "Then what happened? Why'd you... you know..."


"I thought..." He was embarrassed. "I thought I was gonna pee the bed."


"Oh." Then suddenly everything clicked. "Ooooh! Yeah, that's totally
normal."


"Serious?"


"Yeah." Colin was struck with a brilliant idea. And why not? Might as well
make his first time something really fantastic. Besides, what ten-year-old
has the patience and self-restraint to try 'edging' when they actually know
what an orgasm feels like? Until their late teens at the earliest, most
boys' masturbation habits are only concerned with getting to the grand
finale as quickly as possible, never realizing that with a little effort and
planning you can make the finale much, much more grand! "Look, if you start
feeling like that again, just let me know and we can take a break, okay?"


Jake looked like he'd won the lottery. "Alright," he said, taking Colin by
the hand and practically dragging him back into the bedroom. Colin smirked,
congratulating himself for his very clever plan. He had no idea just how far
the evening's festivities would exceed even his own expectations.


Ensconced back on Jake's bed, the process picked up where they had left off.
Slow stroking with one hand, keeping tension on the balls and massaging the
perineum with the other. It didn't take long for Jake to start feeling
overwhelmed again, and he reached for Colin's arm, who instantly let go,
stopping all stimulation. "Okay, now deep breaths will help," he said, and
the ten-year-old began to take ridiculous gasps. "Whoa, hang on, sparky.
That'll just make you pass out. Slower now. Yeah, just like that." After a
pause and some breathing, they repeated the process. Eventually, though, the
time between starting to jerk him and needing a break began to contract.
After the tenth rest period, Jake could only stand five or six strokes
before he was in danger of "peeing the bed" again.


Colin, who had been thinking how he might turn things up another notch,
said, "Alright. Why don't you go to the bathroom now for a little longer
break. Wait till you get soft and then try to pee. In fact, try to take a
dump too, okay?"


"Okay," Jake replied. His voice was a bit shaky, and before Colin let him
get up, he made him drink a glass of water to stave off dehydration. He
seemed a bit unsteady on his feet as he tottered down the hall.


In fifteen minutes he was back, looking considerably refreshed. "You feeling
okay?"


"Yeah," he said, wearing only a broad smile and an erection.


"How could you pee with that thing?" Colin asked him, grinning too.


"Oh, well... it went down. A bit. I had to push pretty hard though."


"Did you also defecate?" Jake's face was all-over confusion. "Poop, I mean?"


"Oh, yeah."


"Good. Now hop up here," Colin said patting the bed. "We're going to start
with something a little different."


"But--"


Colin held up a hand to forestall his complaints. "Trust me, okay? I promise
you'll like it." Jake climbed back on the bed. "Now, bend your knees--good,
just like that--and put your hands here and hold your legs off the bed.
Perfect." He made sure that Jake kept his knees apart to allow him access to
work his magic. "Okay, this will probably feel a little funny at first, but
in a minute it'll be awesome." He got out the lubricant and squeezed a
little onto his middle finger. Smearing this over Jake's little puckered
hole made the boy squirm and laugh.


"You're gonna put that stuff in my butt?"


"Yes. And you're gonna love it."


"Ooh. That tickles."


"I know. It'll stop in  a second." He applied more lube to his finger and
began to slowly work the digit inside. Jake had a funny look on his face,
but he didn't complain. When fully inserted, Colin started gently exploring.


"That feels really--" Jake gasped as the finger inside him found its target.
"Wow."


"See? Told you." Colin smiled down at him as he began to stroke the little
knot of flesh with a gentle circular motion. "Like that?"


"Yeaaaaaaahhh..." he moaned. Colin continued the stimulation for a few
minutes until he began to feel a familiar tension around his finger. He
stopped until Jake's eyes could focus again.


"Now, when you start to feel like you're gonna pee again, push down
inside--hard--like you're actually trying to pee. I know that sounds crazy,
but if you push down it'll actually push the feeling away for a minute. When
the feeling starts to get strong again, even though you're pushing down as
hard as you can, then tell me to stop and we'll wait a minute for the
feeling to go away. Understand?"


"When the feeling starts, push it away. When I can't push it away anymore,
say 'stop'."


"Perfect." Colin smiled down at him. "I know this has taken a really long
time, but we're almost to the best part. I promise."


Jake looked surprised. "It gets better?" Colin nodded. "Wow."


"Ready?"


"Oh yeah."


For the first few cycles, Colin didn't do much stroking, giving Jake's prick
the occasional squeeze, but relying primarily on prostate stimulation to get
him close. The boy performed like a sexual olympian, screwing up his face
with an intense grimace to keep that strange "feeling" at bay. When he
couldn't stand it any longer, he would yelp a nearly incomprehensible
"Stop!" and begin to pant as he caught his breath. Slowly, Colin added more
penile stimulation into the mix, jerking a little more roughly, squeezing a
little tighter than he'd yet tried that evening. Again and again the cycle
of pained expression, the now-wordless bark of warning, and a brief rest
period, repeated endlessly. It began to take it's toll on little Jake. His
face and chest were flushed red, his breathing was labored, sweat poured off
of him, and his muscles began to quake in exhaustion.


Colin looked at the clock and saw to his surprise that nearly two hours had
passed since Jake had first leaped off the bed to avoid that strange feeling
of immanent orgasm. He couldn't justify extending this much longer. It was
now or never. "Alright Jake, you've been incredible. This time, push down
with everything you've got, okay? Push like your life depends on it!" Jake
could only nod that he had understood. "But don't bother telling me to
stop."


The boy thought he must have misheard. "Wha--?" But he couldn't finish his
question as the overpowering sensations and his attempt to prevent them from
taking hold consumed all his powers of concentration. This time, Colin used
a "take no prisoners" approach. He brought to bear every ounce of his skill,
realizing that this time it was like a battle. He was going to force this
climax to occur and Jake would try to repulse it--and it was this pressure
between them that would make it spectacular. With his long experience, he
could tell they were almost there. In spite of all his effort, Jake couldn't
keep the tension out of his pelvic muscles. The ring of flesh began to
tighten around Colin's finger, the mound of over-responsive tissue inside
him started to retreat, being drawn inward and upward, but Colin pursued it
relentlessly, kneading it faster and harder, while his other hand
concentrated its force over the sensitive cockhead and the nerve-rich
foreskin that covered it. Jake made a final desperate attempt, bearing down
with all his might, grunting like a champion weightlifter, but it was no
use.


Utterly exhausted, Jake went totally slack and began to greedily suck in
breath. Colin loved this part. It was as though the boy were standing on the
tracks, feeling the rumbling of the earth, rattling with the clang of the
warning bell, but unable to escape.


One...


Two...


Three...


Four...


Five...


Five long seconds, knowing defeat was inevitable, knowing he was balanced on
the cusp of... of what? What was this thing overtaking him!


Then the orgasm hit him like a freight train.


The same body that three seconds ago lacked the energy to blink began to
respond violently and involuntarily. His eyes and mouth opened wide in
shock, his back arched so fiercely that only his head and feet remained in
contact with the bed. He gasped drawing in air, but he couldn't breathe out.
Long moments passed before he regained the use of his lungs, but when he did
he began to scream. The pulsing inside him was intense and refused to abate.
Tossed about and writhing with muscles that refused to obey, he was
absolutely at the mercy of this storm inside him. He was reduced to a bundle
of nerves that both plead for the end, and hoped it would never stop.


Colin looked at the clock again, amazed. This had continued for forty-five
seconds--FORTY-FIVE SECONDS!--it may not sound like much, but in the
uniquely excruciating intensity of a dry orgasm, it's a millennium. Jake's
body hit the bed again, but it wasn't finished, his back muscles continuing
to contract of their own volition, as though waves of ecstasy rolled through
his flesh. He was crying and laughing and yelping. He was powerless, out of
control.


Slowly, he began to regain a sense of himself. Able to breathe again, he was
now trying to speak. Colin leaned close in order to hear him, hands still
moving gently inside and around the boy's most delicate territory, milking
the aftershocks a little longer. Suddenly, he understood what Colin was
repeating over and over, his mouth forming the shapes even when he lacked
the breath to make it audible. Colin was shocked, but obeyed.


Jake was saying: "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, don't
stop..." A mantra. A prayer.


Colin picked up the pace again, rolling the foreskin up and down, kneading
the knot inside. Suddenly... But no, that wasn't possible. He closed his
eyes to focus his attention on what his hands felt. "Holy fuck." It may have
been impossible, but it was happening nevertheless. The cock in his hand was
swelling again, the tissues surrounding his finger were reasserting
themselves. He continued, too shocked to do anything else. Less than ten
strokes later, it happened. Jake wailed and began to cum again. His
movements were less violent, certainly, but the pattern was unmistakable,
the relentless throbbing was not so strong as before but it was there. The
boy began to come down from this second (impossible) peak. 'Wow,' thought
Colin, 'that was wild...' That was when he noticed Jake's lips were still
moving.


"Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop..."


Somewhere in his mind, the curiosity of a scientist began to take control.
Colin focused on delivering consistent, reliable stimulation. His hands and
arms felt less tired. He was engrossed, and willing to continue
indefinitely, just to see how this would play out. Jake moaned and the
contractions started again. The intense throbbing tapering away to nothing
over the course of ten seconds. They fell into a pattern, and Colin began
watching the clock carefully. Again and again and again. You could set your
watch by this kid's cock.


Jake would beg, Colin would intensify the stimulation for about five
seconds, the contractions would begin, becoming most intense on the third
contraction (sometimes the fourth), and then taper to nothing in about ten
more seconds.


The ten-year-old just lay there, moving only occasionally, no longer even
forming words, just making a pleading sort of moan when he wanted it turned
up a bit. One cycle took approximately fifteen seconds from the crest of one
wave to the crest of another. That was... wait... Colin forced his stunned
mind into action... 'Fuck, he's coming four times a minute!' He looked at
the clock again. The pattern became reliable about, say, on the fourth
orgasm, about... let's see... a little more than six minutes ago, so...


Thirty orgasms. THIRTY ORGASMS! Like fucking clockwork.


Colin kept on pumping, but his arms were burning. He began to worry that
he'd wear out long before Jake, but a few moments later the little guy
opened his eyes. "Okay," he sighed, "okay."


'Thank god,' Colin thought to himself, but--because he had an ornery streak
in him--he made his voice sound like he was begging and asked, "Just one
more?"


Jake didn't respond for a moment.


"Pleeeeease?"


The exhausted ten-year-old gritted his teeth, gripped the sides of his
mattress and said, "Okay. Do it."


With the last of his strength, Colin went to town. Initially, he slowed down
a bit to prolong the buildup, but Jake began to make little whimpering
noises, so he had mercy. The moment before the final (thirty-third?
thirty-fourth!?) orgasm took hold, Colin busted out his signature move,
retracting the foreskin fully and taking the cock, all its most sensitive
nerves exposed, to the hilt. He massaged the whole surface with every muscle
in tongue and throat he could use on it, never backing down until Jake's
yelping slowly gave way to the sigh of a very tired, but very happy, little
boy.


"Whew," he said, flopping down next to him, staring at the ceiling. "I'm
tired."


By way of an answer, Jake turned and draped himself diagonally over Colin's
torso, administering the tightest hug he could manage after his glorious
ordeal, which Colin returned with interest. When they'd released each other,
he remained there, resting his head on his older 'brother's' chest, toying
with a dark hair that grew near the nipple that was now just beside his
nose. Colin began to idly stroke the younger boy's back. "Enjoy that?"


Jake just snorted and said--with no small amount of sass, "Don't ask stupid
questions."


Colin was a bit taken aback, but then began to laugh. Lying on his chest,
the laughter buzzed in Jake's head, causing him to start in again. For the
next minute or so they were both unable to quit giggling.


Smiling, Jake said, "Let me catch my breath so I can return the favor."


The older boy was suddenly very serious. After a moment he said, "You know
you don't have to do that."


Jake sat up slightly, a bit surprised. He turned his face to he could look
into Colin's eyes. "I know." He paused. "I know I don't have to." And then,
as he resettled the side of his face on the warm chest that now served as
his pillow, playing again with that nipple with the dark hair, he said
simply: "I want to."


And in that moment, cradling each other--in some ways more intimate than
anything else that had passed between them that afternoon--they slept.