Date: Sun, 10 Jul 2016 20:32:02 +0100 (BST) From: z.blake@tutanota.com Subject: Liquid in the Lenses LIQUID IN THE LENSES By Zachyboy, who is once again grateful to Scuba Steve for the ample inspiration M/b, masturbation, facial, cumshot, and believe it or not, glasses This story is a work of fiction. Yeah, I know I always say that, then I go on to talk like maybe it might not be fiction, but it really is, and I apologize for the confusion. Life will mess with you like that. Sorry. Let's just say this one is fiction, or it's not fiction. Whichever makes it hotter for you. You pick. Likewise, if this story is illegal where you live -- (ugh, it must suck being you) -- then please don't read it. I really don't know how else to shoo you oppressed people away from Masturbation HQ other than halfheartedly offering this frightening, menacing, blistering disclaimer. It seems hilarious that (Ha!) ME of all people should be the one to urge you to use restraint and common sense in your reading material, but that's what makes disclaimers so special, I guess. They challenge our sense of irony. Anyhoo, if this story is illegal in your unenlightened backwater locale, consider this your last warning to run for the hills before God forbid, I start talking about shooting semen on boy skin again. On a completely unrelated but delightfully sexy administrative side note, it's now been clinically proven that reading a dirty story and jacking off feels so much better after you've donated to the Nifty Archive Alliance. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html No shit. You cum, like, six times harder. Studies don't lie. On with the show. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # "My glasses! I lost my glasses!" – Velma, "Scooby Doo" # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # I always loved Velma. First of all, her last name was Dinkley. You remember that, right? Velma Dinkley. I shit you not. Her name always seemed apropos in my childhood, since my own little dinkley was hard 24/7. I went to my room and jacked off so many mornings after I watched Scooby Doo, I practically flayed the skin off my 10-year-old baby bone. It's a wonder I could limp down for lunch. To this day, my mom puts a grilled cheese on the griddle and my glans hurts. Not that watching Scooby Doo boned me up specifically. I mean, geez. Who pops a 10-year-old woody watching Scooby? I wasn't that sick. (I hope). Nah, I was just 10. Just lying on a beanbag for 30 minutes, cock down, watching a cartoon and inadvertently dry-humping the floor placed so much pressure on my immature dick and nutlets, I had to run upstairs to relieve the dry-cum build-up. Wait for a long commercial break and shake hands with Mr. Sunshine. If you'd have been there, you could have nibbled my 3-inch Scooby Snack, straight from the source. I would have let you, I'm almost sure of it. I was like a sex-crazed little libido beast when I was a kid. Always ready for the next step. Always ready for the next level. Sucked and fucked boys by 10? I'd already done that. Next level sex with men? I was considering my options. Cherry versus curiosity. Ouch versus ahhhhh. Fear versus hunger. My little dinkley was peach-pure and bare and pretty, hard as a nail and always tingling, just like my stinky-tight little boy hole was always tingling on jack-off, grunt-happy, finger-poked Saturday mornings, dreaming some man might sweep me off my jammie-padded feet and plow their big Mystery Machine right up my creepy little mansion. Not to be crude about it, but jinkies, gang. I wanted to get butt-fucked. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # And I did. Whoof, did I get butt-fucked. I got it up the ass and then-some. That happened when I was 14 and the guy was 45. But luckily for you -- ((please, Zach, show us some fucking compassion)) -- I won't beat a dead horse. I've already talked my devirginization story to death, and we all masturbated over the memory the whole time I was writing it. I'll leave you a link at the bottom and you can revisit and rehash that one on your time. I'm in the midst of a Duff memory here. This one's about me getting down and dirty and giving the Duff a late night facial. Which started because, well, as hard as it is to believe -- His glasses. He lost his glasses. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Duffy was my friend's kid. And I swear to holy Jesus, that was his name. Duffy. "The Duff." I wish I could tell you Duffy was just a nickname for something. Damien. Darren. Dominic. Dylan. But nope. Nope. His fucking name was Duffy. Can you believe that shit? Duffy! HA! How magically weird is that?? So Duffy was my friend's kid, and I'd known him since diapers. "Got your nose!" I'd say to that little ankle-biting tiger. Ever play that game with a kid? They fucking love it. They think you've really got their nose. So fucking gullible. Lord I love a boy at a gullible age. You can talk them into anything. Anyway, Duff was gorgeous in his glasses. He was gorgeous without his glasses. Who fucking cared. I'd been in lust with him since he was still singing "Mary Had a Little Lamb." By the time he was 10, I thought he was the hottest little motherfucker within Boycock City Limits. And when he took off his eyeglasses, he went from Clark Kent Jr. to Superboy. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # I'm not sure why I've always found boys in glasses hot as all fuck. Probably because I wore them myself as a kid, and who doesn't have that Doc Brown DeLorean fantasy of going back in time as an adult and messing with your kid-self. I swear I'm going to write that story one of these days. Bear with me while I block out the time. You guys are always hollering for chapter two, and Jesus, show mercy. A guy's gotta earn a living and eat. But yeah. Kids in glasses? Fucking hotter than all hell to me. Plus, the Duff sort of looked like me. The Duff at 10 looked like lil' Zachy at 10. Spitting fucking image from the back-view and size-wise. Maybe a 75% match facially. So, I guess I got turned on thinking about messing with the Duff because in a way, it seemed like messing with him would be like going back in time and messing with little me. Glasses and all. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # The Duff was not afraid to pee in front of me. He was not afraid to make little innuendo jokes. "Beginner's innuendo" I call them, because boys at 10 don't quite have the hang of it yet. It's like they want to play pool with the big boys, but the cue stick's too big. "Wiener, wiener, chili beaner," he'd giggle when we pissed together, clearly looking at mine, and me clearly looking at his. "Woo woo, shake the piss drops off!" He'd giggle conspiratorially when he said "piss drops," like the sky might open and lightning might strike him. I didn't know what his giggly piss-babbling meant exactly, but I sure didn't put a stop to his dirty talk. If he wanted to practice his little dirty words in my ball-aching presence, fine with me. The Duff was a little firecracker. Candy on the outside and chocolate in the middle. Like a Tootise Roll Pop. So, yeah. We'd taken pisses together. Lots of them. The Duff had seen my cock and I'd sure seen his. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # But back to the facial. We were out on the lake that day -- me, the Duff, and Duffy-Daddy (D-Diddy) -- and when our boating was done (not so much boating, more like sitting out in a boat drinking), we'd come back into shore, and we were just in the middle of grilling up some burgers when the Duff yells out, as cute as can be, "Hey! I can't find my glasses! I put `em right here!" And he's looking all around the picnic table where we'd left our stuff, and I go over to help him while his dad's flipping the burgers and I say, "Are you sure they were here, Duff? You didn't leave them somewhere else?" "No," he frowns. "I left them right here before we got in the boat. I didn't want to get liquid in the lenses." Liquid in the lenses. Shudder. Not water. Liquid. "And not liquid *on* the lenses. Liquid *in* the lenses. The arousingly incorrect syntax of 10. "I didn't want to get liquid in the lenses," he pouts. "Fuck," I think under my breath. "I've got some liquid to leave in your lenses, Duff. Lay down on your back and tilt your chin up." But Duff looked nearly panicked, so being the good sport and compassionate guy I am, when he got down on his hands and knees to look under the picnic table, I got down on mine right behind him to help him search, affording me a mano-a-mano view of the tightest set of skinny-sweet boy buns I've ever had the pleasure to stare at from two inches away. If I were a huffing man, which I was, I would have inhaled deeply, which I did, hoping to catch a faint whiff of Duffbum, which I didn't. Even so, on visual appeal alone, Zachy Junior lurched in my shorts and burbled up a wad of pre-cum in spite of himself, because I swear to Christ, the Duff's ass crack couldn't have been two-and-a-half sniffs from my nose, and motherfucker, event scentless, it was magnificent. As the Duff prowled around on the ground inadvertently shaking that booty back and forth just millimeters from my face, I honestly hoped he'd never find those motherfucking glasses. I hoped they'd vanished from the picnic grounds. Star Trek transporter beamed. Chief O'Brien! Zap those fuckers off into empty space! "Oh! Here there are!" the Duff chirped happily. "YAY!" He acutally said that..."YAY!" which made me want to fuck him ten times harder. Then as I started to stand up, the Duff just flipped around on the ground on his back, right under my crotch, put on his glasses and just laid there on the ground, smiling up at the clouds, happy as a lark and staring straight up my leg holes. "Thanks for helping me look," he chirped. "No problem," I said. The Duff looked up my super loose shorts leg. "Hey," he giggled. "I see your balls. They're dangling!" I stopped in mid squat, figuring if he's going to look at them, let him look. I'd love to play pendulum tick-tock on his nose with them someday. "You got hair on your balls," he giggled. "Don't you?" I asked innocently, far out of earshot of his dad. "Nah," he grinned. "Mine are smooth." "Huh," I nodded, like this was news to me. "Well. Keep working on them." I mean, what else could I say? I was at a picnic table site with his dad grilling burgers just twenty feet away. It's not like I could whip out my sack and teabag him, although the thought of Duff's little mouth straining up to go nom-nom-nom on my danglers was enough to make ZJ burble another wad of pre in my boardies. I looked down at the Duff, cute little 10-year-old in glasses, smiling up in the sunshine, looking up the leg of my shorts to check out my man balls, and swear to God, all I could think was, "I wish I could wipe this pre-cum off my dick tip, Duff. I wish I could smear it right across your glasses. Paint those Clark Kenters with a slimy sheen of man goo. See if you can see through it, Duffy. First the left one, then the right one. You just lay there and stare at my balls, baby. Jesus Christ. I'll give you some liquid in the lenses." # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # I go way back with Duffy's dad. We were in college together. He's a single dad now. His wife left him years ago, probably smart of her, because he truly is a piece of work. A good provider, but kind of lazy and lethargic. Smokes way too much weed. Lucky for the Duff, Grandma lives next door in the duplex they share (read: "the duplex she lets her pothead son and cute litlte grandson live in rent-free"), so the Duff is never short on responsible supervision, but his fly-by-night mom, who was sort of bar-whorish to begin with, is only an occasional feature in the little shaver's life. Not that he gives much of a shit by all appearances. The Duff is a man's man. The Duff is a boy's boy. The Duff and D-Diddy like batching it and just being guys together. And because I've been so aroused by the Duff ever since I've known him, I always go home from my visits to their place imagining all sorts of ribald things that might be going on with the Duff and D-Diddy. The Duff sucking his dad's cock at night, while D-Diddy sits on the couch, half stoned, watching old Battlestar Galacticas on Netflix. The Duff bending over and spreading derriere, so D-Diddy can swipe a long tongue up his tangy boy crack. Maybe he smears a forefinger of grape jelly up there first to make it more palatable. Who knows. The D-Diddy's a fussy eater. He might need flavor enhancers. I know I sure wouldn't, but different strokes for different folks. Anyway, I was never short on jack off fantasies of the Duff and his dad. And somehow, weirdly, whenever I fantasied about D-Diddy mounting the Duff doggie style, sort of yanking his head back a little with a handful of hair while he ride-em-cowboys his 10-year-old mantrap, the Duff always has his glasses on in that fantasy. Like they didn't even bother to take them off. Like they were so hot to get the rutting going, they couldn't be bothered with the formality of removing the eyewear. I probably jacked off, realistically? a good hundred times, thinking of my friend rutting out his sexy, skinny, Clark Kent little son, buns up and kneeling on the living room carpet, Battlestar Galactica playing in the background, glasses flopping on his sweaty little nose bridge to the staccato beat of his dad's cock up his ass. Whump, whump, whump, whump. Look at those glasses flop, Duff. Grit your teeth while Daddy sperms. No liquid on the lenses in that little fantasy, Duffer. Up your colon maybe, but not on your lenses. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # The first time I shot on the Duff's face, he shuddered in his sleep. It must have been the heat of the wad or something, because even in his sleep, the instant man goo hit his sleeping eyelids, he actually shuddered a little and made a little snorting sound. Sleep apnea with a cream finish. God, it was glorious. His face was gooped-up white while I stood there panting, watching it drip, trying my best not to wake him up. God, how fulfilling it is to jizz on a kid's face when he doesn't even know it. That was about three visits later. Three visits after the picnic table incident where Duff had looked up my shorts leg and said, "I see your balls. They're dangling." Those words had sent me into Dufflust overdrive. It's one thing to fantasize about a boy. It's an entirely different level after you hear him say the word "balls" in reference to your own pair for the first time. "You got hair on your balls," the Duff had said. "Mine are smooth." And then he giggled. Lord, he was going to pay for that giggle tonight. If I could do it without waking him up, I was going to juice all over his baby smooth cheekbones for that giggle. So three visits later, I'd come over with a couple of pizzas to hang out and watch some TNG with the Duff and D-Diddy. The Duff was a Worf fan. "He wants to put it in Deanna's pussy," he giggled at one point. "Duff," his dad barked lamely, more for show than anything else. "Language." I looked at the Duff. The Duff looked at me at grinned. I just shrugged and nodded my head. I mean, what could I say? He was right. Worf really did want to slip it up Troi's Betazoid gash that season. He wasn't wrong. Anyway, the Duff was laying on his back with a pillow and blanket on the couch, a half-munched Meat Lovers slice balanced on a paper plate on his tummy. His dad was over in Armchair 1 on the left part of the room. I was in Armchair 2 on the right. "Zachy," the Duff says to me, in his whiny little beggy voice, the one that gets me every time. "Can you clean my glasses for me? I got pepperoni grease on `em." "Sure, Duff," I said patiently, and I went over and took them off his pretty face. He went from Clark Kent to Superboy in a second. Beautiful boy. Planet Krypton. I went to the kitchen, ran his glasses under the sink, studying them as the lenses rolled through my fingers, glistening under the water stream. "I didn't want to get any liquid in the lenses," the Duff had said to me that day he lost them under the picnic table. I quietly moaned in spite of myself. "I'll coat these fuckers with liquid," I growled under my breath. "Whatever cum doesn't wind up in your mouth, let's rub the rest all over your pretty little lenses, Duff. I'll show you some meaty pepperoni grease, you hot little monkey. You'll be seeing blurry for the next six weeks." ZJ was rock hard in my pants. Tonight was the night. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # I think I actually planned it at that point, standing at the sink, washing his glasses, feeling my pants fill up with pre. This was the night I was going to slip down the hall to the Duff's room after his dad passed out, which I knew he'd inevitably do, and quietly, before anybody was the wiser, I was going to watch the Duff sleep, and jack off looking at him. That was the plan, Stan. Just jack off and catch it in a tissue or something. Or cum in my hand. I had no intent at that point to cum on his face. Sometimes things just happen. But sure enough, I came back into the living room, and D-Diddy was already firing up the little bowl he got in Mexico last summer. It looked like a skeleton's head, which the Duff thought was wickedly artistic. "Hit?" D-Diddy said, offering it over. "Nah, I'm cool," I said, reaching for more pizza. "I'll take one," the Duff said casually, holding his hand out. Then to me, with a shrug, "He Bogarts." His dad shook his head. "Little shit," he wince-talked, holding his smoke. "When you're 14. I told you." I'm not sure what combination of ethical factors makes 14 the legal toking age for underaged Duff in the grand scheme of D-Diddy's moral mathematical compass, but poor kid has four years to go, and his dad isn't budging. We drank a little more beer, ate a little more pizza. "Bedtime, Duff," his dad said finally. And with a yawn and a stretch, barefoot, pajama-boy pretty, the Duff hugged his dad, fake sucker-punched me when he walked by my chair and said, "Good night, Ho-Hum," and he wandered down the hall to his bedroom with a skip and a booty shake. I watched his marvelous ass the whole way. Skinny and edible. "Cutey-pie, isn't he?" his dad said, grinning at me. "Bet you'd love to tap that now, wouldn't you, Zachy?" "Oh shut up and watch the Klingons," I told him, rolling my eyes. He chuckled. "I see you looking at his skinny little boy ass. I see you checking him out." "Oh for fuck's sake," I said, faking my way out. "He's 10." "Yeah, but you're a gay guy. You check out his butt night and day and you know it." "Seriously?" I asked him, trying to sound droll and not excited. "Do you check out 10-year-old girl butts?" D-Diddy grinned. "Sometimes. If they're nice ones." "Well, enjoy," I told him. "But your son's ass is safe with me. I'll wait till he's 14 and stoned. And then I'll bang him in the hot spot." His dad snorted and loaded up a salad bowl. Jesus, he was going for broke tonight. I let him keep to himself. He offered. "I'm cool," I said again. "You sure?" he said, offering seconds. "You can crash on the couch." "Nah," I told him. "I gotta get home." "Suit yourself," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes. Jesus, he smoked that whole thing. As far as weed goes, watching D-Diddy smoke up is like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel. He's fucking prolific at it. After he cashed the bowl, he was out like a light in like two or three minutes. I looked down the hall at the Duff's room and back at his sleeping dad. "The better to eat you with, my dear," I said quietly, adjusting my hard dick in my pants. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # I waited a good hour or so, slowly stroking myself every now and then to edge. I wanted to make sure the Duff was fully asleep. I watched Worf and Troi, Riker and Data. I stood up and threw a blanket around Duff-Daddy and let him snore in the chair and drool on himself. I'd been watching him in that pose since our college days, so I was used to it. I silently slipped down the hall to the Duff's room, let myself in and locked the door behind me. There I was in his sweet little Star Wars room and there was the Duff, sleeping like an angel. His glasses were still on his head. He'd fallen asleep without taking them off. I simply pulled my sweat pants down, I was free-balling it, no undies, and I started slowly rubbing my hard, leaky knob staring at his sweet pretty face. I was just going to look at him and jack off into my cupped palm, but ZJ had other ideas. "Cum on his face," ZJ taunted me. "Jack me off on his face. Jack me in his mouth. If he wakes up, he'll be confused. You can tell him you spilled something on him. You can wipe it off quick, before he even knows what it is. He's 10. He's easily fooled. He's sleeping. It'll just be confusion." God damn it, I had no choice. ZJ calls the shots most days. I started at the Duff sleeping. So pretty. So Clark Kent fuck-hot with his glasses still on. "My glasses," Velma whispered in my mind. "I lost my glasses." I slowly stroked my cock, needing to shoot my sperm on this beautiful boy's face more than anything else in the world. The boy I'd been lusting after since he was literally out of diapers. "I love you, Duffy," I whispered ultra-soft. "I have always loved you." Not a movement. Not a stir. I stood closer, licked my hand to make it slippery and jacked off quietly, pointing my cock at his face. "Gonna cum in your mouth, Duff," I whispered quietly. The Duff lying there in his little bed with me standing over him, jacking my dick and aiming for his sleeping, open mouth. Me reaching down gently, running a soft thumb over his sweet forehead, slowly taking his glasses off saying, "Shhhh, baby. We don't need these to get in our way. Let me just put these aside for now." He stirred when I did that. Made a little sighing sound. But I didn't care. I took them off anyway and I stared at his lips. So soft. So full in the moonlight through the window. And then putting his glasses on his bedside table, I did a crazy, daring thing, not sure if he'd wake up, but needing to do it anyway. I leaned down to softly touch my tongue to his mouth, a daring lick of his sweet dry lips. He shivered in his sleep and his breath smelled like pepperoni and a delicously sour bedtime scent. Pepperoni and unbrushed teeth. I tasted his tiny little pizza mouth. When I took his glasses off, he went from Clark Kent to Superboy. I studied his beautiful face and my hand slowly moved up and down my cock, while my other hand moved down into the waistband of his jammie bottoms to softly pinch his little crotch nub. The Duff was also free-balling it, because hey, we were all men here. I just held my fingers there and let his dicklet go from limp to plump, a 3-inch spike to fuel my fire. With no rush, I just enjoyed the magic of his boy bone between my thumb and forefinger, and the pissy little smell of his cocktip when I brought my fingers to my nose to sniff them. And then, magically, eventually, when I got brave enough to put my hands back down his jammies and put a finger toward his treasure gate, he relaxed in his sleep and spread his legs for me a little, and I ran a finger along the crease of his moist, unknowing, delicious little boyslit. And that's all it took. My finger making contact with the sticky little anus I'd wanted since it was created? The hole I've dreamed of and thought I'd never touch? My orgasm was immediate. ZJ lurched, my legs nearly buckled, and my whole body spasmed and I came all over his pink cheeks and eyelids. He shuddered when I did. Made a snorting, surprised sound at the heat of my jizz. He didn't wake up, but he shuddered in his sleep as the heat of my semen fired off onto his soft, cool skin. "NGGGH," I whispered softly as my white gobs nerfed out on him. "I fucking love you Duffy. I always have." It felt so good to spray him with my ball lotion. It felt so good to watch it shoot out, making him mine, marking my territory for later visits. It pooled around his nose bridge and dripped down past his baby nostrils, where it swwirled above his upper lip. I gave the Duff a big boy milk mustache. With my finger, I pushed some of my jizz into his sleeping mouth. Instinctively, he began sucking at the offering. He nursed it up like a baby, still asleep but swallowing what I fed him. I felt his tongue sucking at my cum-coated finger. I pushed it down into his mouth, a fingerful at a time, and I let him eat it all. "Good boy, Duff," I whispered quietly. "That's a good boy. Eat it all up." I quietly pulled up my sweats and tucked ZJ away. I stood there for a good ten more minutes, just watching him sleep in his slumbering beatitude. Enjoying the perfection of him. The Clark Kent Superboy power of his breathing. Jonathan Kent should have done this every single night after Martha went to bed. Stood at his side and cum on his face. I touched my flaccid dick head, fingered a slimy strand of after-cum from the tip, reached over to the Duff's bedside table where his glasses were resting, and slowly wiped my snail tracks across the bottom of his smooth left lens, and then the right, semen thin traces glistening in the moonlight. "Here's a souvenir, baby," I whispered quietly. "A little liquid in your lenses, Duff." And I wiped it across his glasses. DNA he could find in the morning and wonder what it was. "Pepperoni grease," he'd probably shrug, before he ran them under then sink and washed my crusty guilt away. I brought my other finger to my nose and smelled the place where I'd touched his asshole. Fragrant and fading. The softest French dressing. I closed my eyes and sighed in satisfaction, knowing I'd just face-jizzed the Duff and fed him my pudding. Knowing he had my sperm in his belly and my liquid in his lenses. And he didn't even wake up and catch me, God bless him. He didn't even stir. Thank you, Velma. Thank you, Scooby. Thanks for small miracles. Thanks for solving the mystery. My sack was empty and a genesis was upon me. A new era was dawning, and I knew it even then. This wouldn't be the last time I'd stand next to Duffy's little Star Wars bedroom with my cock in my hand, jacking it slowly over his pretty open mouth. But next time he'd have his eyes open. Next time he'd know what was cumming. "Cutey-pie, isn't he?" his dad said, grinning at me. "Bet you'd love to tap that now, wouldn't you, Zachy?" And I nodded my head yes in that dark, quiet bedroom, knowing already I wanted to fuck the Duff. All because he stuck his butt in my face under a picnic table. All because he looked at my balls and said, "Hey, they're hairy." All because Worf wanted to slip his cock in Deanna's pussy, and his dad regularly passes out smoking way too much weed. All things considered, there's lots of things you can do to a boy if you bide your time and play your cards right. All because he's just a boy, and boys are built to love you. All because the Duff's a boy. All because he lost his glasses. # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # THE END # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # The other ABC Boys by Zachyboy include: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/andy-in-the-attic https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/barrett-in-the-bathtub https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/casey-in-the-clubhouse https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/daddy-in-the-doorway https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/facedown-in-the-freight-train https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/kelly-in-the-kayak https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/murphy-in-the-middle https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/raven-in-the-rainstorm https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/treyden-in-the-treehouse 10 down, 16 to go! (I am so completley fucked with "X" and "Q." We already know that, right?) Hey, the Duff is still a virgin, but my own anal deflowerment at the tender age of 14, hinted at in the story above, is covered through rose-colored glasses in the pair of autobio stories below: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/swallowed-and-loved https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/filled That was a special time for me. And by the way, the Duff story really *was* a work of fiction. Got your nose. Love, Zach # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #