Date: Thu, 1 Sep 2011 07:04:44 -0700 (PDT)
From: Joe Hunter <hunterjoe45@yahoo.com>
Subject: Little Quarterback

All the usual disclaimers apply:

+This story is a work of fiction.  If you think it is real, you have a very
active imagination.

+Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do
so.

+Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are
represented.  Do not read further if this offends you.

+Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot
accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story.

If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at:

			hunterjoe45@yahoo.com

I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Support Nifty!   Joe

____________________________

LITTLE QUARTERBACK
(copyright 2011, Joe Hunter)


Wwwwwaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrr...

The snarl of a two-stroke engine winding at high revs catches my attention
and when it gets louder I step out of the garage for a look.  From up the
street, rocketing toward my house comes a blue and gold dirt bike, its
small rider hunched forward over the handlebars, sunlight flashing off
full-face helmet and tight nylon racing suit.  He skids into my driveway,
laying the bike almost flat to make the turn.  Then all in one motion he
slides to a stop in front of me, dismounts and flips up his face shield to
reveal red gold curls and eyes glowing with excitement.

"Hide me Coach!  Tell them I went around the corner!"

He goes running into the garage as a siren wails from up the street and I
hurriedly wheel the little trail bike out of sight behind my truck.
Moments later two deputies in a county car are stopped at the foot of the
driveway.  One of them yells out, "You see a kid on a motorcycle?"

I nod, pointing at the corner.  "Yeah.  That way.  But he's way ahead of
you."

The cop at the wheel says something into the radio and then the first one
waves to me.  "Thanks.  Damn kids.  I don't know what the hell their
parents are thinkin'...  If I get one, we'll make an example!"

"Know what you mean," I say, pretending agreement.  "I'll call if I see
anything..."

There is some squawking from the radio, the deputy waves again and the
patrol car speeds away, turning at the corner.

Behind me in the garage the only sound is a tick of cooling metal from the
dirt bike.  I squat to examine the front tire, frowning at a cut in the
worn tread.  Then, after checking the oil reservoir and the chain, I wipe
my hands and go through the connecting door into the kitchen.

The boy is there, perched on the edge of a counter, helmet off, jacket
unzipped and his legs dangling as he drinks from a can of soda.  Beside him
scattered crumbs on a plate are all that remains of the sandwich I had made
for lunch.  He slides down when I come in, wipes his chin with the back of
his hand and gives me a guilty look.

"It was right there, Coach.  I would'a waited 'n asked but..."

The words trail off in the face of my stare and I lift one eyebrow.

"But you were hungry, is that it?"

"I'm always hungry," he tells me, grinning.

I do not smile back.  But he knows perfectly well he is forgiven and stands
close to me, watching, as I take more sliced chicken from the refrigerator
and then pull bread out for another sandwich.

"Whose motorcycle is that?"

"Mine."  The boy grins up at me.  "I'm not supposed to ride in the street,
but that's the only place where I can go fast.  They're always chasing me."

Withholding comment I cut the sandwich into four parts, give him one and
watch as he promptly wolfs it down.  The boy's tangled mop of red gold
curls comes up well past my waist, a good height for an eight-year-old.
("Eight going on nine!" is how he put it when I asked at our first
practice.)  His dark gray eyes meet mine in a fearless, direct gaze.
Although slender, and graceful as a girl, he has a sturdy build as well as
features both haughty and delicate, with a smile of such devastating charm
he can use it like a weapon.  It is the face of a proud, confident boy -
one who says without words 'Perhaps' when you look at him.  His open jacket
reveals a smooth bare upper body.

I find him altogether too beautiful for safety.

"Who bought the bike for you?  Your mom?"

"No."  He dismisses that idea with a shake of his head.  "Larry did.  He
lived with us for a while."  After a pause and another glance at me he
adds, "He liked my mother."

I open the refrigerator again to take out a sports drink.  "Must have liked
you, too, if he bought you all that stuff."

"Naaah."  The boy reaches for the drink and after I let him take a swallow
he grins and goes on, "He was always telling my mother I was a brat.  He
was a creep.  He knew I thought so, too.  He got me the motorcycle to,
like, buy me off."

"Did it work?"

"Kind of..."

The boy tosses his head and then looks up at me with a solemn expression.
"I still didn't like him.  But I didn't try to mess him up anymore with my
mother either.  That wouldn't have been right after I took his stuff."

"No, I suppose not."

I have known him long enough to be certain he is not making any of this up.
For two weeks we have been seeing each other nearly every day at midget
football practice where I am one of the assistant coaches, working with the
receivers and defensive backs.

Right from the start I have known he was exceptional.  "What's your name?"
I had asked on that first day after watching the way he handled himself,
and the blistering spiral throws he was making to the others.  The boy had
stared up at me with an appraising look, as if I were the one being
evaluated and not him.

"Jason."

"Stand right here, Jason."  I had pointed to a spot beside me.  "I'm gonna'
have these guys run patterns.  You pass 'em the ball."

Finding a player to throw the passing drills for me was an old trick of
mine.  Those who can't do, teach.  Age and height aside, Jason threw with
far more accuracy than I had ever possessed, and by the second day he had
that all figured out.  While we stood together during another pass drill he
declared, "When you played, you weren't a quarterback, were you."

"Nope."  I gave him a wry smile.  "Couldn't pass well enough.  Mostly I was
a running back, or a linebacker."

He considered for a moment and then said gravely, "You still know a lot,
though."

"Yeah.  Well..." I made a little gesture.  "There might have been a few
things here and there I've picked up."

He kept looking at me and then smiled, and we continued the passing drill;
but after that he seemed to have made up his mind about me.  He became my
shadow at practice, always within reach, watching and listening.  I was the
first person he greeted when he arrived at the field, and the last he said
goodbye to when he left.  He asked a lot of questions, but only when we
were standing apart from the others and could not be overheard.

I soon found there was no softness in him; only that which was skillful,
quick and bright.  His questions were never foolish, but went straight to
the core, and I had to keep reminding myself that he was only eight - or
eight going on nine, as he was always insisting.

While the other youngsters talked of the same childish things day after
day, this boy was focused by pride and resolution to a single purpose - to
be the best at everything he did.  He stood out from the others like a
young racehorse among mules.

I let the head coach know we had an unusual talent on our hands, but he
shook his head when I proposed Jason for one of the two quarterback slots.

"Kid's too small.  Better let him grow first or he'll get hurt for sure.
He can QB next year.  Meanwhile you work with him."

The old man owned a lot more experience than I had, so I accepted without
argument; but I worried about Jason's reaction.  He was a boy who would
never be content with less than all, and we both knew he was better than
either of the 10-year-old veterans selected to quarterback the team.  At
first, after I told him, I thought he had taken it well.  Then I noticed
that he was bringing even more intensity to practice, finding every
opportunity to show up the quarterbacks; playing with reckless abandon as
if determined to run any risk to prove his superiority.

It might have caused trouble.  He was a natural leader, the younger players
all followed him instinctively, and he would have wrested control from the
ten year olds if I had not headed him off.  After another talk with the
head coach I took Jason aside for a one-on-one, sitting down on the grass
to let him know what I had worked out.

"You're a co-captain.  That means you go out for the coin toss.  And, when
we're on defense, you set the coverage."

He chewed his lip, regarding me.  In our midget league, defensive formation
was set by rule.  There was no stunting or blitzing, so the only thing he
would be calling was man-to-man or zone coverage against passes that would
be rarely attempted.  Defensive captain was strictly an honorary position.

"What about offense?"

"You'll be a receiver."

The look on his face did not change, but I knew his thoughts.  Like every
other midget team, our offense was built around simple running plays.
There was no glory in the receiver position.

"Listen," I said, leaning closer to him.  "I think you're quick enough to
play running back.  I'll talk to Mike about it, and we can probably
convince Coach."

Mike, the assistant who worked with the offensive backs, was also the
father of one of the 10-year-olds.  For a moment or two Jason considered,
his eyes never leaving mine; then with a toss of his head he said, "No.  I
wanna stay with you."

Something went through me when he said that.  Until then, I had not
realized how attached I was getting to him and his answer touched me.  I
grinned to cover my embarrassment.  "Tell you what.  I'll try talking Coach
into charting some reverse plays.  That way we get you into the running
game.  How 'bout that?"

Jason rewarded me with one of his charming smiles.  "Okay."

Sitting there in his practice shorts, hands clasped around bare knees,
fiery gold hair aflame in the light of the setting sun, the small boy
seemed to glow with vital energy.  I had to make an effort to control my
voice and keep it from trembling.  "This is what I want you to learn," I
told him.  "The important thing is the team.  Make yourself fit into it.
Always play so you make everyone else around you better.  That's how to be
a winner."

Jason listened, staring at me intently.  "I will," he promised.  Then,
after a pause, he added, "Thanks, Coach."

True to his word he threw his support behind the quarterbacks, removing the
threat to team unity.  But afterwards I noted a peculiar thing.  Whenever
Jason had occasion to talk with the other assistants or to the head coach,
he addressed them as 'Mister.'  From the day of our talk onward 'Coach' was
a title he used only with me.

Despite our tight relationship, Jason had never told me anything about
himself and our conversations were always about football or the team.  What
scanty facts I learned came from other sources.  He lived with his mother,
a real estate agent, who was polite but distant on the one occasion she
talked to me.  Jason's father was unknown and I was told he and Jason's
mother either divorced while Jason was still a baby or else had never been
married at all.

Jason himself was extraordinarily self-possessed for an eight-year-old.  He
stayed close to me during practice, but never encouraged any intimacy, and
I refrained from even an occasional pat on the shoulder fearing he might
resent it.  When practice ended in the late afternoon, he usually stayed to
help me gather the balls and other equipment; then after a polite goodbye
he would go off to ride home in a carpool with some of the other boys.

Not once had Jason even hinted that he wanted to visit me, so his sudden
appearance on a motorcycle in my driveway is a total surprise.  Now,
standing close to him there in the kitchen, watching him eat the sandwich
we are sharing, I am struck again by his poise.  The boy carries himself
with all the independent pride of a young warrior - delicate yet strong,
like some wild creature.

"So, how did you find out where I lived?"

This gets me a disdainful look.  "Everyone knows where you live, Coach."

"Oh?"

I am about to say, that since I have a cell phone and am not listed in any
directories, everyone does not know where I live, but Jason has already
turned away to explore.  He prowls around, lithe and quick as a leopard,
looking at various things on the counter tops and then staring through the
entryway into the living room.

"You got a PlayStation?"

"Take your shoes off if you go in there," I tell him hastily.  "I'm tryin'
to keep that rug from getting messed up."

The boy glances at me and then sits down on the linoleum to unfasten his
Nike sneakers.  There is a flash of bare skin beneath the open edges of his
jacket and when he leans forward, pulling up a knee, the fabric of his
racing pants stretch tight over the seams of his underwear briefs.  He is
not wearing socks and with the shoes off, his bare feet look small and
dainty.

By the time I have my work boots unlaced, Jason is in the living room
kneeling by the big TV, examining the set up.  I turn everything on and
then sit next to him while he stretches out on his stomach, experimenting
with the game controls.

"You play a lot of video games?"  I ask.

The boy shakes his head.  "Just sometimes.  I don't have one, but some of
my friends do."

"Yeah, I don't play much either.  Just sports games once in a while.  This
one here is Madden Football."

Jason turns to smile at me.  "Bet I can beat you."

"Bet you can't.  What's the bet?"

He tilts his head, considering.  "I don't have any money."

"That wouldn't be fair anyway," I tell him.  "We'll play for push-ups.
Every time you score, the other guy has to do as many push-ups as you got
points."

"Okay."

We start, and right away I know he is better than he has pretended because
he has a favorite team and knows how to use it.  He scores first and I have
to do six and then seven push-ups before I can get the ball back and turn
it around on him.  After my touchdown I watch, impressed, while he pumps
out his push-ups, doing them with little effort.

"You're pretty strong for a kid your age."

Jason shrugs.  "It's 'cause I do gymnastics."  Then he grins at me.  "I can
walk on my hands.  Bet you can't."

"No bet," I tell him.  "I know I can't - but, I wanna see you do it."

He starts to remove his tight jacket and I reach over to help him, admiring
the symmetry of his bare upper body.  The boy's shoulders and chest have
little swells of muscle and there is a hint of definition in the tapered
sweep of his stomach.  Light slanting through the window onto his smooth
hairless skin makes it shine like polished marble.

With another grin, and an ease that astonishes me, Jason kicks into a
handstand, walks across the room on his hands, turns and comes back, and
then drops into a somersault to end up sitting cross-legged, smiling at me.

"Geez!"  I exclaim.  "Where the heck did you learn to do that?"

He shrugs again.  "I've always been able to do it.  Ever since I was
little."

"That is really good," I pull off the loose workout shirt I am wearing and
spread it on the floor.  "That rug is kind of itchy.  Why don't you lie on
this..."

With a grateful look at me Jason scrambles onto it.  When he stretches out
on his stomach, the little mounds of his butt jut hard and firm beneath his
tight pants.  We grin at each other and then pick up our controllers to
resume the game.

The contest is close, so it is fun, but I have just enough of an edge to
keep Jason's offense contained.  By the time I have scored the fourth
touchdown he is up to nearly thirty push-ups a pop and I can tell his arms
are getting tired.

"Admit it," I tell him.  "I've got you on this."

The boy lies sprawled on his back looking up at me, his smooth chest and
stomach glistening in the window light.  "You're pretty good, Coach."

"Yeah.  At a video game, maybe."  I smile and point at him.  "You, mister,
are good at the real thing.  Don't you forget that.  You're strong, too.
You did those push-ups way better than I thought you could."

I can tell this pleases him and with a happy sound he rolls to get close to
me and then sits up, brushing the swell of my arm muscle with his
fingertips.

"You're like really strong, Coach."

He is so close I can sense the warmth of his bare skin.  "Yeah.  Maybe a
little."

Trembling, I place a hand on the round point of his shoulder.  The young
boy's glossy skin feels delicate as gossamer.  He holds still, neither
shying nor pulling away, while I stroke as gently as he is touching me;
then he turns, and pulling my arm so it wraps around his chest, he sits
propped against me, trustful and warm.

"Coach?  When you played, did you wanna be quarterback?"

"Yeah..."  Holding the boy is so sweet I have to take a breath before I can
continue.  "I guess - I don't know - I guess maybe everybody does.  But..."
I move my hand a little, stroking fingertips on his silky skin.  "But, I
knew I wasn't good enough.  Not like you..."

Jason nods.  "I wanna be quarterback more than anything..."

"Yeah, I know.  Next year..."

The boy stirs impatiently, glossy skin shifting against mine.  I give him a
quick hug and he pulls his head back to smile up at me.  "Next year is like
a million, zillion forevers..."

"But you'll learn to wait," I tell him.  "And meanwhile..."

"And meanwhile," the boy says, imitating me.  "Meanwhile, I'll throw passes
for you, and learn all the tricky stuff that receivers and defenders
use..."

"Yup," I nod.  "And...?"

"Aannnd..."  Jason's tone becomes solemn.  He pulls his head back further.
"I'll play to make everybody else around me better."

"Yes," I tell him, bending forward to give the boy another quick hug.  The
fiery gold mop of his hair smells of some shampoo - strawberries in the hot
sun...

Jason settles back against me, rubbing his hand along the forearm I hold
around his chest.  "Coach?"

"What?"

"Next year...  Will you still be here?"

"Sure."

"For real?"

My fingertips stroke him again.  "Is that what you want?"

He nodded.  "Yes."

"Then I will be."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."  I say the words slowly and gravely.

The boy is quiet for a while, sliding his hand on my arm, and then says,
"Some people promise stuff, but you can like tell they're lying."

"Yes," I nod.  "I know what you mean."

"Larry told lies all the time - I always knew, though."

"What ever happened to him?"

Jason shrugs.  "My mom ditched him."  Squirming, he turns around and then
points to my workout bar that is lying on the floor.  "Coach, what's that?"

"It's a thing you use to build up your chest."

Pushing my arm away, Jason scrambles over to examine the thing, squatting
next to it with his tight pants stretched over butt and thighs.  "How does
it work?"

I crawl to join him and demonstrate how the stiff coil spring in the middle
allows the bar to be bent into a 'U'.  The boy grabs it from me,
straightening up on his knees as I had, and then holds the ends of the bar,
straining every little muscle in his upper body in a struggle to make it
bend.

"Whoa!  Hold up," I say, taking the bar away from him.

Jason glares in frustration.  "I can't even get it a little bit!"

"Just hang on," I tell him, releasing the locks that allow the ends of the
bar to be extended.  "Okay, now try it."

The extra handle length gives Jason enough leverage to start the bend.
Teeth gritted, arms shaking and every muscle standing out, he nearly
manages a complete 'U'.

"Yeah!  All right!"  I cheer, covering his hands with mine to keep the bar
from snapping back on him.  "For a kid your size, that is really, really
good!"

But Jason is not content.  He gives me a scowl and says, "You could do it
the other way."

"Yeah, and I'm a lot bigger and taller than you, too."  I lay the bar on
the floor.  "That's the only difference."

The boy shuffles over on his knees to get close and puts a hand on my
chest, feeling the muscle.  His touch sends a shiver through me and,
trembling, I brush my palm on the silky warmth of his shoulder.

"You're gonna' be plenty big when you grow up," I assure him.  "Look how
strong you are right now.  Don't forget - you can walk on your hands.  How
many kids can do that?"

He nods.  "I can do back flips and round offs, too."

Holding my breath, I slide my hand down the bare skin of his side onto the
glossy nylon pants that stretch tight over his hips.

"See?"  I say.  "You're strong everywhere.  Down here, too."  My palm cups
the firm mounds of his butt.

The boy turns his head, arching himself and tightening the muscle for me as
he looks back over his shoulder.  "Everyone says my butt sticks out a lot.
My mom says it runs in our family."

"You've got plenty of muscle there."  I assure him, squeezing gently.
"Lots of people don't."  My hand moves down to feel the back of his thigh.
"Here, too.  Strong legs."

Jason puts a hand on my waist and then slides it behind me to rub my blue
jeans where they fit tight.

"Yours sticks out, too, Coach."

"Yeah."  The word nearly sticks in my throat and my heart is thudding.
"Yeah, we're kinda' alike."

My hand is still trembling.  I stroke his hip and the back of his thigh,
and then suddenly the boy looks down and begins to fumble with the snap of
his waistband.  "I can run faster than any of the kids at school," he tells
me, unzipping.  He gets to his feet and peels down the tight, slick nylon
pants, pulling his underwear briefs half off in the process.  Then, while
keeping a hand on my shoulder to steady himself, he allows me to help get
the pants below his knees where I hold them so he can pull his legs free.

Light is pouring through the window behind him and for a moment, amid
dazzling sun motes, I see the boy hazed with brightness, poised like a
young Apollo; then he is kneeling in front of me again, his small hands
sliding over the muscles of my chest and shoulders.

I caress the back of Jason's bare thighs, pulling him a little closer so I
can breathe in the clean fresh scent of his young body.  His lightly tanned
skin feels warm and silky smooth as I explore, my hands gliding up his back
to feel the long twin muscles running along his spine from tiny waist to
the width of his shoulders.

Jason leans forward, pressing against my bare stomach.  His butt is already
half uncovered and I push the tight underwear briefs down the rest of the
way, cupping his firm little mounds, squeezing gently.  The boy tightens
them, squirming to rub against me, and then reaches to push his briefs all
the way to his knees.  When I move to help him, my fingers discover his
stiff boner, jutting out like a hard little branch, the shaft so rigid I
can feel it throb with his heartbeat.  I lift the boy and together we pull
the briefs free of his legs; then he leans, naked, against me, hugging as
my palms stroke his silky warmth.

When I draw a fingertip down the crease of his butt, Jason hugs tighter,
squirming to get his knees apart so I can push between his thighs.  My
fingers brush over his little nut sac, sliding up to the tip of his jutting
boy stick, and then, with Jason arching against me, I draw a fingertip back
through his crease, rubbing across the dimple of his tiny opening.

Sliding my fingers back and forth I keep moving them in his crotch until
suddenly the boy quivers.  With a soft cry he bucks his hips - a series of
hard quick little jerks.  The intensity of it surprises me so much I start
to take my hand away, but Jason straightens and begins tugging at the waist
of my jeans, unfastening the snap.

"Do it more, Coach," he demands.

"Listen," I tell him.  "Maybe..."

The boy looks at me scornfully.  "I know how to do it.  They teach about it
in school, you know.  Besides - " He shrugs and tosses his head.  "I watch
my mom and my baby sitter.  They don't think so, but I do."

"Look..." I say again, but Jason already has my pants unzipped.  His hand
slides in to explore and I pull him close, knowing he wants me to,
wondering if he feels the same strange excitement, the same wild surge in
the blood.

The boy's small lean warmth presses against my body as his fingers discover
my stiff rod and curl around it.  Then I am caressing him, stroking a palm
on the tangled blaze of red-gold hair that is like living flame in the
light streaming through the window.

Wiggling his knees further apart, the boy straddles in front of me and my
hand slides down over his back and butt, pushing once more into his crotch.
He arches as I brush back and forth on his hard little boner, and then with
my fingertip in his crease, I rub over his clenched hole while Jason hugs
against me.  When my fingertip squeezes into his tiny ring the muscle
constricts around it and Jason hugs tighter, breaths catching in his
throat.  I press until my finger slips through into the heat of his body
and, quivering, the boy makes a soft sound, his fist squeezing my hard rod;
then I am pushing up into his hot cavity, sliding my fingertip over the nub
at the base of his rigid branch.  With a tiny soft squeak Jason begins to
writhe, squirming and moving his fist on my stiff rod in clumsy strokes.

I feel it when the first throb pulses in him.  Jason's small body jerks and
he clings to me, thrusting his hips, his breaths coming in little gasps as
I keep wiggling my finger.  More caresses and pressure on his nub bring him
to a second and third shuddering spasm.  Then, when I begin to ease my
finger out, Jason shakes his head and takes his hand from around my waist,
reaching back to try and hold me in.  "Do it more," he begs, but his rectum
has already expelled me.

My finger slides in his crease a few times and then I whisper, "Like
this..."  Holding the boy, I reach to get my shirt, spread it out, and lay
Jason down on it.  He watches, arms flung over his head, one knee half
pulled up, while I take off the rest of my clothes.  Then I kneel beside
him.

The boy's dark gray eyes stare up at me.  Light from the window etches his
small sturdy body with lines of definition, the lightly tanned silky skin
flawed only by the grazes and scratches of a boy's adventures.  When he
reaches for me, I lean over him and he presses his soft lips on mine in an
affectionate kiss that sends melting warmth running all through me.  I
brush my mouth over the delicate hollows of his neck, kiss his velvety
shoulders and then lick across his chest, sliding my tongue over the tiny
hard nipples.

Jason stirs and makes a soft little sound as I continue to lick down the
firm sheath of his lean stomach, swirling my tongue into his belly button
and then gliding down over the silky vee of lower belly until I am into his
groin creases and licking around the smooth hairless base of his jutting
little rod.

The skin of the boy's rigid little shaft is stretched so thin and tight it
glistens wetly as I slide it into my mouth.  With a tiny moan Jason lifts
his hips, pulling his thighs apart.  I slide my tongue back and forth over
his tip and then shift position, straddling the boy's head with my knees so
I can tug at his legs and roll his hips up further.

Taking his tight nut sac into my mouth, I tongue it and then stretch open
the boy's crease, licking onto the dimple of his anus.  When I thrust into
the tight little opening, penetrating him with my tongue, Jason squirms,
arching himself, arms flung back over his head.  His lower legs jerk as I
wiggle my tongue in him, and when I strain to push in further he moans,
writhing and quivering beneath me.

I feel his hands on my hips, and then moist warmth surrounds the head of my
jutting rod while he experiments with putting it in his mouth, sending
shocks of sweet sensation racing through me.  We twist together, my tongue
swirling in Jason's opening, thrusting deep, and the boy pulls me into his
mouth, legs kicking as more throbs shake him.

For as long as I can, I tongue the boy while he squirms and shudders; then,
tiring at last, I roll to the side onto my back and immediately Jason sits
up.  I take hold of his wrist.  "Rub it," I gasp, placing his fingers on my
jutting shaft and then moving them.  "Like this..."

"I know how to do it," the boy tells me.  He pushes my hand away and then
takes hold with his little fist, the cool touch of his fingers sending
tangling pleasure through my groin.  As he begins to pump I stretch out,
pulling one knee half up, and even though his stroking is awkward, I feel a
quick surge.

"Faster," I urge, squeezing to hold back.  "Faster..."

Pumping with his fist, Jason leans over my stomach while I caress his silky
flank and hip.  The boy's sturdy, compact body is a living sculpture,
glistening in the light as he concentrates on his task.  The first throb
comes and I buck, droplets rolling from my tip.  Then sudden hard
contractions jerk my hips and I spurt again and again and again...

Even after I lie sprawled, spent and panting, Jason keeps pumping with his
fist until I reach down to stop him.  Shiny streaks of semen have landed on
my stomach and chest, and when I pull the boy down to my side I see more on
his face and chest.  He lets me lick the droplets from his face and then I
spread the ones on his chest until they dry.

"That's sperm," I tell him.  "It's what guys make when they have sex.
You're not old enough yet to..."

Jason wiggles impatiently.  "I know what it is."  He sits up, straddling
me, knees to either side of my waist, and pulls my hand onto his rigid
little boner.  "Do it more."

As best I can I rub him for a few moments, and then draw my fingers aside
and stroke the swell of muscle in his thigh.  "Give me a few minutes.  I
gotta' rest..."

"Why?"  The boy demands.

"Cause guys have to after doing that.  You'll understand better when you
can do it..."

Jason stares down at me.  "When will that be?"

"I don't know."  My palm slides along his thigh to caress his knee.  "Maybe
when you're eleven or twelve - maybe fourteen or fifteen.  It depends on
how fast you grow."

Frowning Jason thinks for a moment and then says, "My gymnastics teacher
says if I grow too fast I won't be as good."

"Yeah.  Most gymnasts are sort of short."  I rub my hand over his thigh
again.  "I don't think you're gonna' be short.  How long you been doin'
gymnastics?"

He shrugs.  "Since I was little.  It's kinda' fun, but I like football
more."

Jason watches my hand slide up to the top of his thigh and then pulls it
again onto his jutting boy stick.  "Coach?  When football's over, will you
do gymnastics with me?"

"I don't know anything about gymnastics."

"You can like show me stuff - like exercises and stuff to make me get
strong."  He leans forward and begins smearing out the globs of semen on my
chest, the way I had spread them on his.

"Okay.  I can do that."

"An' you can take me to practice, an' meets an' stuff..."

I smile.  "Yeah.  Okay."

Lithe as a cat the boy wiggles and slides down, stretching out on top of me
to clasp both arms around my neck.  "An' I wanna be on your baseball team,
too..."

His face is only inches away, so close I can smell the sweetness of his
breath.  "How do you know I coach baseball?"

Jason shrugs again, pressing his smooth warmth on mine.  "Everybody knows
that..."

I caress him, stroking my palm down the slender taper of his back, onto his
silken buttocks.  The moment I touch there, Jason spreads his legs and I
slide my fingers into the crease, pushing around further to brush their
tips on his nut sac.  The boy's arms tighten around me and he squirms,
rubbing his hard little boner on my stomach.

With a nudge I have him roll over onto his back, nestling his rounded butt
in the hollow of my belly, his legs parted to either side of my hips and
arms flung back around my head.  Placing my fingers on his jutting little
branch, I begin to rub in a steady rhythm, using the forefinger of my other
hand to push into his belly button.

Jason's sturdy legs strain apart, and then he arches, writhing, and I hear
him make a tiny sound, a catch of his breath, "Ah...  Ahhhh..."

Pushing my fingertip harder into his belly, I rub his stiff boner, trying
for the right combination, until suddenly his little body tenses and a tiny
contraction throbs beneath my stroking fingers.  His hips jerk and then he
bucks in quick, hard thrusts as more pulses throb at the base of his shaft.

The spasm only lasts a few seconds, enough to make him strain his legs
apart and pull his head back, his breaths coming in soft pants, "Uh...
Uh...  Uh..."

I slow my pumping rhythm while he writhes, twisting, and then gradually
speed up again and with my finger wiggling in his belly bring him to
another throbbing set of spasms that jerk his hips.  Rubbing and stroking,
I take the boy again and again into his immature releases until he lies
sprawled on me, head thrown back and eyes staring in a trance of passion.
Then I pull him close, breathing in the smell of his hair and the sweet boy
scent of his heated body, brushing fingers on the sheeny satin inside his
thighs until he squirms, impatient for me to begin again.

A final spasm of jerking thrusts leaves the boy gasping and then I have to
stop because my forearm aches with cramp.  He twists in the slanting
sunlight, every muscle in his small lean body visible.  "More," he begs.
"Do it more."

"Not now," I tell him.

The boy turns over, hugging around my neck and squirming his hips; then
taking my hand, he pulls it onto his butt.  "Put it in there."

I stroke the firm silky mounds.  "Maybe next time.  Now we got other stuff
to do."

"What?"  He demands, lifting his head.

"Stuff."

I put my lips near his and he kisses me, doing it the way small boys do,
more for me than for himself.  Then he squirms again, play wrestling like a
young lion cub.

"I wanna come over tomorrow - every day."

"Yes," I tell him, gravely.  "I would like that very much."

Holding on to the boy, I roll over with him, pinning him against the rug.
"How do you plan on getting over here?"

"On my motorcycle."

Jason holds my arms, wriggling, and after finding he cannot get free, wraps
his legs around my waist.  "I can ride over here on my motorcycle."

"Yeah?  Well, if you're gonna' do that, we need to do something about your
front tire - and put some oil in the reservoir."

He rubs his hand on my shoulder, feeling the muscle.  "Why?"

"I'll show you.  How 'bout we do a deal?"

Instantly he is wary, suspicion stirring in his gray eyes.  "What?"

"You and me take care of your motorcycle together.  I'll teach you
everything.  Plus, I'll take you to the woods or the dirt track all the
time - as much as you want.  You can ride as fast as you want.  But - "

Jason stares at me.  I can feel his hard little boner pressing against my
stomach.

"But," I continue.  "We go, right now, to the bike store, and I get you a
BMX.  Trick bike or mountain - your choice - and that's what you ride when
you come over here."

I bend to kiss him once more, a quick press of my lips to his.  "I don't
want you riding on the street anymore.  There's too much chance you'll get
hurt.  Besides, the cops 'll get lucky one of these times and grab you, and
I don't want that either."

The boy's eyes search mine, his will resisting.  I sense the struggle in
him and reach back to stroke his smooth hip.  "Riding a BMX will build your
legs up."

He squirms, pushing himself against me.  "A motorcycle does, too."

"Yeah, but only in the dirt - or on the trail.  On the street, a bike does
it better."

We stare at each other; the contest of wills almost a visible thing between
us.  Then Jason tosses his head - the buck of a wild colt at the first
touch of the halter.  "Okay."

All his fierce pride, all his spirit, is in the look he gives me, along
with something else as well - an acknowledgment of the bond between us.  He
submits trusting in that bond, and I know that in return I must cherish
him, never allowing his spirit to be broken.  There can never be any
demanding with this boy.  What he gives me he will give of his own choice,
out of love.

He keeps his legs tight around my waist and strokes my shoulders while I
caress him for a while; then I get up, pulling him to his feet.  "There's a
shop downtown that does a lot of competition bikes.  We'll take a look and
see what they've got."

"I want a new mongoose," Jason announces, picking up his briefs.  "A red
one."

Balancing like a dancer in the window's light, he steps into his underwear,
pulls them on, and then stands regarding me, waiting for my reaction.  This
is a boy who will always press for more, and challenge whatever limits I
set.

"You'll get a used one first," I tell him, firmly.  "The shop guys 'll put
together a nice one for you.  Then we'll see.  When you prove to me that
you can take it over the jumps I'll get you a new one - if that's still
what you want."

He tosses his head again, but says, "OK", and then beams a smile at me
because the bond is cemented between us now.  He gets his pants on and
watches me finish dressing.  I gesture for him to follow and together we
walk through the house, the boy prowling alongside me like a wild animal in
that controlled swiftness of movement that he has.

In my bedroom I lead him to the chest over against the wall.  "I want you
to have something."

Jason leans close, crowding against my arm as I open a drawer.  When I
bring out a necklace of carved and polished wooden beads I hear his quick
intake of breath.  Stretching the elastic cord, I slip it over the boy's
head, setting the beads in place around his neck and he reaches up to brush
fingertips on their shiny surfaces.

"When the cops asked," I tell him, softly, "I said you weren't here."  My
hand goes to his bare shoulder and caresses it.  "I kept your secret.  That
stuff we do...  That should be a secret, too..."

Jason lifts his head to meet my eyes.  "I won't tell anyone."

That is all.  No special promises, no childish oaths; he has given his word
and I know he will keep it.

"Take a look," I say and guide him to a mirror where we stand side by side,
my arm around him.

Studying his reflection, Jason touches the beads again.  Their rich dark
colors gleam against his lightly tanned skin, making a contrast with the
fiery gold of his hair.

"I look awesome," he says, turning to smile up at me.

My arm tightens around him.  "You better believe it."  My voice is husky
with emotion.

'Awesome' is what he has said, and it is awe that fills me - the awe any
mortal should feel in the presence of a young god.

"Let's go," I whisper and Jason keeps his arm around my waist as, together,
we walk into the time stretching out before us - the time that is ours now,
to do with as we please...

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

Thanks for taking the time to read my story and if you'd like to comment,
my e-mail address is:

			hunterjoe45@yahoo.com

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You can find links to my two ongoing series (Baseball Diamond Tails and The
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hope you will read and enjoy!

All the Best.  Joe