Date: Sat, 10 Mar 2012 16:51:59 +0000
From: Ivor Sukwell <isukwell@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Decisions 1: Decision Time

This story is wish fulfilment and masturbation fantasy. The characters are
all fictional. If your laws prohibit you from reading material that
contains descriptions of sexual actions between man and boy you read it at
your own risk. If you are deemed to be of insufficient age to read such
material, then, again, you continue by your own choice and at your own
risk.

I have attempted to reproduce the sounds made by west London, English
teenagers -- some degree of authenticity requires the boy to speak
English like wot it's spoke, like. I hope this does not make it impossible
to follow.

Should anyone actually read the story and enjoy it, please feel free to let
me know.


Decision Time
A story by
Ivor Sukwell

Summer evening in suburban north west London; hints of twilight still kept
at bay full darkness, not that the darkness was ever really full with all
the street lights blazing, but there was still just enough natural light
for people to be three dimensional, not just the silhouettes that sodium
lamps turned them into.

The road was quiet, quiet that is for a distributor road in north west
London. Not the constant traffic stream of the North Circular, that was
about half a mile away, but this road fed into that and, no matter what the
time of day or night, there were always people wanting to join that mayhem
for some reason or another.

Like nearly all suburban roads, this one was not straight, bends and turns
every hundred yards or so, and parked vehicles along both sides obscuring
vision of the pavements for drivers, so alertness was a constant necessity
-- pedestrians, and there were always pedestrians, crossed the road where
it was convenient for them and rarely at the crossing places designed for
their safety.

Two bends back he had been forced to ease over and almost stop in order for
the bus coming towards him to pass, parked cars forcing them both to use
more the middle of the road than their own side. Without thinking, he
checked the dashboard clock; he drove this road every evening and had not
expected to meet the bus there. Twenty five past ten, his clock said -- the
bus was a good five minutes early.

As he rounded the next bend he spotted a figure on the right hand pavement,
a running figure, and he was instantly alert. Running pedestrians were
always a potential danger; they had the habit of suddenly veering out and
crossing the road without slowing down or properly checking. Traffic
incidents involving pedestrians included a significant number of joggers.
This was not a jogger; the running figure reached a bus stop, ceased
running and looked at his wrist. Even from some seventy yards away, the
driver could tell it was a he; the manner of the running, the stance when
stopped, all indicated maleness.

He eased the pressure on the accelerator, losing four or five miles an
hour; at fifty yards he could see that the figure was a young male, and at
thirty yards it was evident, even in the poor light, that it was a teenage
boy. He eased off even more, slowing down further, his attention fixed on
the figure by the bus stop; not now because he represented a potential
danger, but because he was a boy and in the driver's opinion, all boys were
worth attention, worth assessing.

The boy did not notice that he was being stared at, assessed; he was far
too busy peering up the road in the direction he had been running from,
obviously hoping to see the bus he would not see because it had been five
minutes early and he had already missed it.

As the driver drew level he could tell that the boy was in his early or mid
teens, dressed in a pale coloured, short sleeved shirt and dark trackies.
Little else could be distinguished, the sodium lamps now being powerful
enough to eliminate colour. He was slender though, slender and boyish, the
sort of boy the driver knew, had he been able to get a better view, he
would have said to himself that he `wouldn't mind sucking the spunk out of
that!' He thought that about a lot of boys, in fact he thought it about
almost every boy he saw who was in his early to late teens and was not
overweight. He amused himself by giving boys a `suckability rating', where
`one' meant `yes I would', and `ten' was `here and now and hope I can get
you to cum before I am arrested'. Unable to distinguish enough to be
accurate, he gave the boy a `five' just on the grounds of his slenderness
and apparent age.

That should have been where it ended; he'd passed the boy and was
continuing his journey home to his supper, just as he did every night of
the working week. He could think about the boy later; thinking about the
boy would help to give him the necessary erection when his wife pressed
herself against him in bed.

He had always been attracted to boys, but he had denied that to himself for
almost twenty years. He'd done stuff with mates when he was at school, of
course he had, what boy didn't? And then there was Peter, when he was at
college. His landlady's fifteen year old son who was more than happy to
have his spunk sucked out by an eighteen year old student, right up until
he was almost sixteen and found himself a girlfriend. He'd done the same,
found a girl, married and produced two boys of his own, fourteen and twelve
now, and, for nearly twenty years he had forgotten all about boys and the
things they did together.

He didn't really know why that had changed; perhaps because sex with his
wife no longer interested him, perhaps because his boys developing into
teenagers had recalled teenage memories for him. He didn't think of his
sons in that way, had no sexual interest in them whatsoever, except that he
did occasionally wonder how often they wanked and if they ever did that
with each other. He knew he would have done if he had been blessed with a
brother, and sometimes, secretly, he hoped they did.

Whatever the reason, he now looked at teenage boys with sexual longing,
remembered, each time he saw one, how much he had liked the hot, slimy,
salty, creamy, floodings of spunk into his mouth and how he wished he could
savour that again. He did nothing about that wish, nothing except rate the
boys he looked at and wish he could taste their cream; and those wishes,
those thoughts, helped harden him for his unwanted, marital duties.

He was not consciously thinking those thoughts when he saw the side road to
the left and turned into it, not actually intending to turn his car round
and head back towards the boy at the bus stop; it was one of those things
that just happened. He knew, though, the moment he turned left, that he was
going to do it, to head back towards the boy, but, even as he pulled back
out onto the major road, he didn't know if he was actually going to stop,
or just drive slowly past and look again.

And if he did actually stop, if he had the courage to really do that, what
would he say to the boy? And how would the boy react? All he knew, as he
headed slowly back towards the figure at the bus stop, the boy waiting for
a bus that would never come, was that he had made a decision, a fateful
decision that could affect the rest of his life.

At the bus stop the boy saw the car turn into the road and head towards
him, headlights bright in the ever increasing, sodium lit gloom. He did not
recognise it as the car that had recently passed him, heading the other
way, why should he? He had taken no notice of traffic going in the other
direction, his attention was focussed on the awaited bus that he had missed
by five minutes.

He did notice, though, that the car was travelling slowly and his senses
became alert. Even in civilised, urban, suburban, west London, danger
lurks, and teenage boys have been conditioned by stabbings, abductions and
media horror stories of sexual assault to be aware that a lone, young,
teenage boy is potential prey when the light has faded. Instinctively he
identified the make and model of the car, no difficult feat for a teenage
boy, even in the dark, and some of his fears subsided. No gang of youths,
intent on the easy acquisition of a mobile phone, would be driving around
in a Ford Mondeo estate car, so he was safe from mugging and stabbing.

The car pulled to a stop beside him and the boy identified the driver as a
male; to teenage boys, men are either old enough to be their father or
their grandfather; this one was definitely father age. Reassuring in one
way, but not in another. There were a limited number of reasons why a man
of that age would stop his car beside a boy at a bus stop at twenty five to
eleven in the evening. He might be in need of directions somewhere,
unlikely in an age of sat-navs. He might be plain clothes police, and the
boy hoped not, because, although he had done nothing wrong, all teenagers
knew that police were, at best, a hassle, and he did not want to go through
lengthy explanations as to why a boy of his age was out at this time of
night; to be searched for drink or drugs and whatever else it was the
police did to you. It might be a pervert, hoping to pick up a young boy for
his pleasure. He'd heard of men like that, had their existence drummed into
him all the way through primary school and the first two years at
comprehensive. They were, so he was given to believe, out there in their
thousands, preying on unsuspecting young boys, although he had never come
across one and did not know of any boy who had.

The possibility of being molested by a pervert bothered him not at all; he
would simply tell him to fuck off and that would be that, but he mentally
made a note of the car's registration plate, just in case.

The window on the front passenger side came down and the driver looked at
him for a moment before speaking.

"You waiting for the bus?" he asked.

Fuckin' stupid question, the boy thought, what the fuck else would `ee be
standin' by a bus stop for? But it was the sort of question, he thought,
that a pervert might start with, so his answer was less than polite.

"What the fuck else would I be doin?" his tone was aggressive.

The driver did not seem offended by the belligerent nature of the reply, he
forced a smile and said. "Thought you might be. You've missed it."

The boy looked at his watch instinctively, noting that the bus was now
late, but he had been here on time and late busses were nothing unusual.

"Bollocks," the boy said.

"You have," the driver insisted, "I passed it about ten minutes ago."

"If yer passed it, then it's fuckin' be'ind yer, in't it!" the boy almost
sneered. If this was the best a potential pervert could come up with, then
perverts were nothing to be worried about!

"No," the driver smiled weakly, "I was going the other way."

"So if yer was goin' the uvver way, wot's yer doin' goin' this way nah?"
The boy was no fool, he could not be taken in that easily!

The driver swallowed, his mouth suddenly full and dry at the same time. It
was time for him to say, `Just thought you'd want to know', and drive off
safe and secure even though his heart was thumping madly. Instead, the
words came out as, "I saw you running to the bus stop and......well.....I
just turned round and came back to tell you, that's all."

Now that just `ad ter be a load of bollocks! Normal people din't do stuff
like that! Normal people would probly not even noticed `ee were runnin' to
the bus stop, an' even if they `ad, an' knew `ee'd missed the fuckin' bus,
they'd jus' say to `emselves somfin like, `tough shit, kid, now yer gotta
walk `cos that was the last bus'. No way would they turn round an' come
back an' tell `im. So, if this guy weren't no pervert, an' of course, `ee
probly was, then `ee was def. some sorta weirdo.

"Yer fuckin' wot?" came from the boy's mouth without him thinking.

"I saw you running for it, and I guessed you needed to catch it in order to
get home. Having to walk would make you late back, and I know my wife would
go ape at our boys if they got home after eleven." The driver smiled again,
just as weakly. He knew how lame that sounded, how it must have been
obvious to the boy that all he really wanted to do was taste his cock.

"You ain't sum fuckin' vicar are yer? Or pleece or sumfin?" The boy tried
to rationalise; only some sort of do-gooder would behave like this
man. Do-gooder, or pervert, of course. Maybe even a do-gooder pervert.

"No, nothing like that," the driver tried to smile -- he was sure it must
have looked like a leer. "I thought I may be able to give you a lift home,
if that would help."

That settled it! The guy was a pervert, a fuckin' perv `opin' to pick up
sum kid for `is arse or sumfin.

The realisation was strangely exciting in a weird sort of way. This was his
first real, live pervert and he looked quite ordinary. He'd read enough
porn, accessed enough sites on the internet to know all about the things
men did to boys, and he'd had more than one wank when watchin' and readin'
as well. Of course he `ad, he was a boy. `Ee also knew, with uncomplicated
teenage logic, that if the man had bin chatting up a sixteen year old boy
an' not `im, then the guy wouldn't `ave been a pervert, ee'd `ave just been
gay, cos it was quite legal to `ave a cock in yer arse when yer was
sixteen. Legal, but that din't make it all right, cos it were still gay an'
everyone knew what `appened to peeps who's gay.

An' that were fuckin' stupid an' all. Cos it were still eighteen mumfs
before `ee were sixteen, `ee couldn't `ave `is cock sucked, well, not
legal, anyway, an' wot if `ee wanted `is cock sucked? Not that `ee did, of
course, but `sposin' `ee `ad? An' that were a load of bollocks an' all!
Course `ee wanted `is fuckin' cock sucked, just not by sum fuckin' perv wot
was old enuff to be `is farver. Well, not if there were any chance ov
anyone findin' aht abaht it, anyway.

"Yer married, then?" he asked. `Ee knew from all the stuff in the papers
an' on the telly that lots of the men wot turned up in court for doin'
stuff wiv boys was married -- well the famous ones always were anyway.

The driver nodded, "Yeh," he said, "Married with two boys. One fourteen,
the other twelve."

The boy nodded, thinking. "Yer gonna take me straight `ome?" he asked. Not
that `ee fort the perv were gonna say `ee was gonna take `im sumware so he
could do stuff wiv `im, but it were makin' the point, like, that `ee
weren't `angin' arahnd so `ee could get picked up by a passin' perv.

"Yes," the driver agreed. He didn't want to do that, of course, but just
having the boy sitting beside him for a few minutes was far more than he
had hoped for when he made that fateful decision to turn around.

The boy got in the car, fastened his seatbelt.

The driver put the car into gear and moved off in the direction the bus had
taken.

"You have to go far?" he asked. "We might even catch the bus up, so you
won't be too late home."

"Don' matter wot time I gets `ome," the boy said, his decision made, "I
were runnin' fer the bus cos the corner shop shuts at eleven an' I needs
ter get sum fags."

"You want one? I've got some here," the driver fumbled in his pocket and
produced a packet and his lighter.

"Ta," the boy took the offered packet, lit one and made to hand the items
back.

"Light one for me," the driver asked, and their fingers brushed when he
took the lit cigarette from the boy's hand. Did the boy make that happen,
or did he?

"Wot time's yer wife spectin' yer?" the boy asked, knowing he was now
hinting at something he should not be hinting at.

"When I get there," the driver shrugged. "She'll give up waiting about half
eleven and go off to bed."

"Often late `ome are yer?" the boy asked, dragging on his cigarette and
feeling a lot more confident that he was in control of the situation, "Cos
yer picked up a boy?"

Even in the darkness the driver's blush was noticeable. "First time I've
ever done it," he confessed, and then, emboldened by that brush with the
boy's fingers, he daringly added, knowing that he was uttering a sexual
innuendo, "Picked up a boy."

"Me an' all," the boy agreed, spotting the innuendo, and giving one back,
"Well, got picked up, like."

They shared a small laugh, slightly false and embarrassed, before the boy
asked, seeing no further reason to extend the small talk,

"Where yer gonna take me, then, yer know, ter do stuff. Fink me ol' lady'd
`ave a fit if I took yer up ter me bedroom."

The driver's mind registered shock at the easy way the boy was agreeing to
`do stuff'.

"Think my wife would as well," he agreed, laughing to cover his surprise
and embarrassment. Even though the boy was obviously agreeable, it was
still embarrassing to be so easily recognised as wanting to `do stuff' with
him. Embarrassed or not, his left hand strayed daringly from the wheel to
the boy's centre, finding the hardness inside his trackies.

The boy found the lever that adjusted the seat back, and pulled it so that
he was laying back, legs stretched, so the driver's hand could explore
inside his trackies without awkwardness. Inside the trackies the driver
found just boy, no restricting underwear. Surprised, he glanced across to
the boy who grinned wickedly.

"Likes it like that," he said, "Wiv me balls `anging free."

"I like you like that as well," the driver grinned, wondering now why he
had not made that fateful decision years ago.

The boy sighed as, for the first time, a hand that was not his own, fondled
his pride and joy. Them wankers wot dissed gay stuff was fuckin' nutters he
thought as his body relished the new feelings the hand was giving him. He
loved playing with `imself, loved wanking, did it loads, but it weren't
nuffin' like `avin' it done like this; an' this weren't even wankin', jus'
lettin' the bloke play wiv it.

"Yer gonna take me sumwhere yer can suck me?" he asked, half hopefully,
half fearfully. He wanted to be sucked, but he was scared of the possible
consequences, how `gay' it might be; and still a bit bothered about it
being done by a man.

 Not that bovered, though, he admitted to himself, cos wot the man was
doin' to `is cock was fuckin' nice, an' it didn't matter a fuck that the
guy was old enuff to be `is ol' man.

"Car park at the athletic stadium?" the man suggested, his hand relishing
the feel of the boy's five inch erection, "They don't shut the gates to the
car park, just the stadium itself."

"Yer ain't gonna tell no-one `baht this, is yer?" the boy asked as, in the
unlit car park he lifted himself so his trackies could be pulled down to
his knees, "Get kicked ter fuckin' pulp if kids fahnd aht abaht it."

"And I'd be facing time inside," the man said, "So, no, no chance I'm going
to say anything."

The boy knew he was eighteen months from being legally able to do this, but
he had no wish to be giving evidence in court.

"Ain't no fuckin' way I'm gonna dob yer in, is there," the boy reassured
him as he kicked his trackies the rest of the way down, "Me life'd be
fuckin' shit if me mates fahnd aht I'd let a bloke `ave me cock."

"Didn't think for one second you might," the man lied, the consequences of
the boy saying anything looming over him like a lead balloon. His heart was
still beating hard, but a little less fearfully.

"Oohhh, fuckin' yeeess!" were the boy's next words as the driver's mouth
slipped over his cock, engulfing it in a hot wetness, the like of which he
had never even imagined.

God, the driver thought as he used his lips and tongue on the warm, hard
tube of flesh, why haven't I taken the risk before? Memories of sucking his
landlady's boy back when he was in college filled his mind, given a new
life by the wonderful feel of teenage prick in his mouth once more. His
lips slid down to the base, nuzzling the boy's sparse pubes, and then back
up, slowly, slowly, so he could relish every millimetre of the prize in his
mouth. He swirled his tongue around the head, still skin covered -- the boy
was not an easy peeler, but that was a matter of absolutely no concern
because when he poked the tip of his tongue inside the foreskin bud to get
at the super-sensitive glans underneath, the boy's hips bucked and adorable
little moans escaped from his slightly parted lips.

Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh yes! Oh Shit, fuck, YES!!! were the boy's thoughts as
his slender five inches were sucked. Any thoughts that it should be a girl
and not a man doing this had disappeared at the first touch of mouth on
cock. A hand found its way round the man's shoulder, it must have been his
hand, but he had no knowledge of giving it an instruction to go there, but
it felt right, holding the man's back and encouraging him to continue the
amazing things he was doing.

Feeling the boy's response, the driver was encouraged, his left hand
fumbled beneath the boy's back, searching for skin under the shirt he so
wanted out of the way; his other hand fondled smooth boy ball sac and then
went sweeping down the long, slender curve of smooth adolescent thigh, but
neither of these movements interrupted the steady bobbing up and down of
his head as he suctioned on the prick in his mouth.

All good things have to come to an end, though some good things end in
something even better. With a shuddering gasp the boy spunked, not a huge
spunking, nowhere near enough to present any problems about swallowing;
just enough for the man to allow the fairly thin produce to trickle down
his throat and still savour the full flavour of boy protein.

"Di'nt mean ter spunk in yer marf," the boy apologised, "But yer got me a
bit carried away wiv wot yer wos doin'."

"Only way to spunk when you're being sucked," the man assured him, "And I'd
have been well pissed off if you hadn't"

"Ain't it fuckin' gross?" the boy was astonished that even a perv would
want to eat spunk.

"No way," the man smiled, "It's delicious."

It were fuckin' decent, sittin' in the perv's car, smokin' an after spunk
fag wiv the perv's arm rahnd `is shoulder. The feel of the perv's hand on
his skin were well fuckin' good. `Adn't got a fuckin' clue `ow `is fuckin'
shirt `ad come orf, but `ee were fuckin' naked nah, well `part from `is
trackies rahnd `is ankles, but bein' dahn there they weren't coverin'
nuffin, were they. Course, the perv were lookin' at `im a bit strange like,
wiv this random smile on `is chops, but `ee di'nt mind that. Did wonder wot
the perv were smilin' at, though.

"Wot yer grinning at?" he asked.

"Wasn't grinning, was I?" the perv said, "I was just thinking how gorgeous
you look."

"I ain't fuckin' gorjus," the boy snorted.

"Ever seen yourself naked?" the man grinned again.

Well, praps the perv `ad a point. `Ee did rarver like wot `ee looked at
when `ee stood in frunt ov `is bedroom mirrer `avin' a wank in the nude.

He giggled, "Yeh," he admitted, "Wanks in frunt ov the mirrer sumtimes."

"Naked?"

"Too fuckin' right!" the boy said, "Fuckin' luvs bein' fuckin' naked. Goes
rahnd the `ouse starkers wen there ain't no-one in."

"So you know just how gorgeous you are naked," the man said, and stroked
him from shoulder to knee and back again.

"Fuckin' perv," the boy said with a pleased smile. Yeh, it were a perv wot
was tellin' `im that, but it were still fuckin' good `earin' it. Fuckin'
good bein' felt all over an' all!

"You think I'm a perv, do you?" the man asked, knowing the boy had not said
it unkindly.

"Course yer's a fuckin' perv, wouldn't wanna suck a kid's cock if yer
weren't, would yer."

"So what does that make the kid who wanted his cock sucked?" the man
teased.

"Fuckin' perv kid, I spose," the boy grinned, "Fuckin' good, though!"

"Enjoyed it, did you?" Unnecessary question, because if the boy hadn't, he
wouldn't be sitting there naked, smoking a fag and allowing himself to be
stroked and fondled, would he.

"Course I fuckin' did," the boy's voice conveying his opinion of the
stupidity of the question. "Do it fer you next time if yer wants," he
offered.

"Next time?" the man was more than just surprised. Not for one moment did
he ever think the boy would want a next time.

"If yer wants it," the boy sounded a fraction disappointed, a shade
rejected.

"Want it?" the man said fervently. "I'd love it!"

"Cool," the boy said, relieved. "Wen?"

"Whenever's good for you."

"Friday tomorrer," the boy said hopefully, "that be ok wiv yer?"

"Same time? Be a bit awkward much earlier because it'll still be light."

"Yer," the boy agreed, "Shall I meet yer `ere? Ain't far from me `ouse."

"Perfect," the man agreed, "Especially if your balls are hanging free
again."

"Always are, mate," the boy grinned. "'An' I won't wank too much so yer
gets a decent marf full, seein' as yer likes it."

"You wank a lot?"

"Six or seven, most days," the boy said as though that was quite a small
number. "Better get `ome nah; we can chat loads tomorrer, spesh'lly if yer
meets me earlier, an' we can chat abaht stuff like, `fore it gets dark an'
yer sucks me agin. Ain't got anuver couple of fags, `as yer?" he asked
hopefully.

He discarded his trainers, shirt and trackies almost as soon as he entered
the small, terraced house he and his mother occupied, dropping them on the
floor and switching on the telly. His mother was in bed, would have been
for well over an hour. She had to leave the house at six thirty every
weekday morning in order to get in her three hour shift of cleaning at the
local school, before going on to her `proper' job at the supermarket, a job
that kept her there until six in the evening. She would not be coming
downstairs to disturb his nakedness. He liked being naked, liked the daring
freedom of it.

`Playin' wiv yer cock's much better wen yers naked', he thought to himself
as he settled down, lighting one of the cigarettes the perv had given him,
`An' I does like playin' wiv me cock.'

As his hand idly toyed with his only half hard pride he allowed the events
of his meeting with the perv to run through his mind.

`Dunno why I did it, I mean, knew `ee was after me cock soon as I saw `im,'
he told himself, taking a thoughtful drag on his cigarette, `Gotta `ave bin
a perv, pickin' me up like that. Fuckin' lush gettin' me cock sucked,
though.' He fondled his smooth balls, enjoying the way they rolled in his
fingers. `Weren't nuffin gay, like,' he rationalised with himself, `Mean,
it sorta jus' like wankin' in a way, ain't it, only it wos `im doin' it,
not me, an' `ee used `is `marf instead ov `is `and. Fuckin' lush an' all!'

He smoked some more, hand moving between balls and prick and back again.

`Can't let no-one find aht abaht it though, cos if anyone knew then it'd be
gay stuff we was doin' an' I ain't gay am I; jus' me an' `im `avin' a bit a
fun like. I mean, `ee ain't gay eever, is `ee, `ee's married an' got kids,
so `ee can't be gay, can `ee. Jus' a bit a fun wots better `n wankin',
in'it. Fuckin' dead though, if anyone finds aht.'

In that he was not totally exaggerating; this was west London, not south of
the river, but the chances of a teenager having a knife shoved in his
stomach by gay hating peers was not a complete zero.

In his bedroom he caught sight of himself in the full length mirror, caught
sight of himself because he posed in front of it, admiring his own
nakedness.

`Dunno why `ee fort I wos gorjus,' he stared into the half hooded,
suspicious, belligerent eyes of a teenager, `Ain't like I'm fuckin' pretty
or nuffin.' He stared some more, `Fuckin' wouldn't mind goin' ter bed wiv
you, though,' he told his image and went to bed with just himself, his
right hand going to work one final time before sleep.



Author's note:

This piece was originally conceived as being complete, ending where it
does, but I am aware that there is an obvious continuation. Whether that
gets written or not might depend on whether anyone wants to read it.

isukwell@hotmail.co.uk