Date: Thu, 7 Oct 2010 20:08:54 +0100
From: Cynthia Parsons <cynthiaparsons@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Mack and the boy

Hi, it's me, Cynthia. This is my second story on Nifty, which is a tiny bit
longer than the first one (Mack and John). I had some lovely emails from
some guys after my first story, so thanks for those. I'd still love to hear
from more people, though, so please email me if you like this. And if there
are any other girls out there, get in touch and let me know I'm not the
only one!

Hugs,

Cynth (cynthiaparsons@hotmail.com)


Mack spotted the boy among dozens of others, standing out like a beacon
shining in the darkness. He filled his lungs, imagining that he could catch
the scent of him across the distance between them. He was a lion,
hunting. Straining muscles held in check by infinite patience, a coiled
spring ready to unwind. The boy was his prey, a lithe, agile gazelle, all
thinness and grace. He ran with the ease of youth, the balance and poise of
the naturally gifted.

Bodies drifted past him, clouds slinking past the summit of a monumental
peak. He towered above them, immovable and resolute. Still the boy
remained, alone now, still running. Mack watched, unmoved, taking in the
sight. If this was all were was to be, let him wallow in the sight of him,
a moment's perfection, a spark in the gloom of an empty life, devoid of
love, of passion.

Still the boy played on, running, kicking, retrieving. Mack's nostrils
flared. Now the scent was real, the hunt was joined, the game was on. He
walked forward, feeling not earth beneath his feet, but the soft carpet of
thin air. His head span with the unreality of it all.

The ball came to him, its surface marred with mud and grass, an anchor to
the real world, a reminder that they were not angels playing at the gates
of heaven. Everything else seemed so ethereal, so devoid of the dull,
monotonous feel of the everyday. He could never be ordinary, this shard of
light stolen from the heart of the sun. The boy's warmth suffused Mack,
heating his blood to boiling point, and he was yet distant.

The other game was joined. The real game, the game where a man and a boy
pass a ball back and forth, for the enjoyment of both. Oh yes, it was
enjoyable for Mack. He somehow knew it would be, but was surprised to find
himself drawn into the boy's world with such ease. So simple a pleasure, so
much more innocent than the games he planned to play when the sun had set
and darkness enveloped them in its comforting bosom.

A drink. That seemed the right thing to offer. The boy looked thirsty. In
more ways than one, or was Mack just imagining it? The thought of the boy's
parched mouth suddenly seemed overwhelming to Mack. He had to offer the boy
a drink. Had to offer. For no other reason than the boy was thirsty, of
course.

It was accepted. The eagerness in the boy's face was clear - Mack was
famous, at least to local young boys. A player in the small-league-winning
local side. It was a dangerous game he played, but his heart swelled at the
thought of the boy, and heart won out over head. His presence at the field
was safe enough. The boy's presence in his flat would not be. Oh, but for
him no price would be too great, no penalty worth more than the winning of
the game.

A milkshake, of course. Questioning eyes of the girl behind the counter
rebuffed with nonchalance, a table in the corner sought out, Mack's
anonymity ensured by his lack of real, honest fame. The boy had probably
barely recognised him. They talked, of this and that. At least, Mack
thought of this and that. It could have been one or the other, or both, or
anything at all. Milk dribbled from the corner of the boy's smiling
mouth. His tongue glistened pinkly with the cream-coloured liquid which had
bought Mack another half hour of his time.

Then, of course, the drink was gone, the very last of it sucked with
gleeful abandon from the heart of the straw, a pink tongue-tip gathering
the last errant droplets from plump, red lips. An open mouth, showing the
proof that every last, milky drop was gone. Mack shuddered, his mind unable
to resist transposing one image onto another.

Mack shook himself. It was an innocent act, nothing more. The boy was an
innocent, too young to realise the implications of his actions, what they
might mean to an adult. Yet deep down Mack hoped that he understood, that
he intended the comparison, for if the boy did not, how was Mack ever to
communicate his desire? His plans relied on the corruption of the boy's
soul to have already come to pass.

Nervous fingers fumbled with currency, spilling coins onto the table. The
boy grinned, retrieved those which rolled onto his side of the table,
dropped them into Mack's outstretched hand. Did the fingers brush against
his palm deliberately? Was that touch sought after, deliberate? The boy's
smile gave the only answer worth listening to. Suddenly the truth
crystallised in Mack's mind. Uncertainty was banished, giving way to the
excitement he had so strongly suppressed.

There was a film on at the cinema. There was always a film on at the
cinema. Why had he said something so obvious? But the boy understood, knew
the film of which Mack spoke with such a lack of eloquence. And yes, he
really wanted to see it. Mack would take him, of course he would. The boy,
still in his football uniform, muddy kneed, a scruffy little angel,
disappeared and reappeared moments later, shorts swapped for jeans, shirt
swapped for something a little cleaner, but certainly not fresh and all the
better for it. And his hair, when had that become styled? Mack regarded the
boy with a certain sense of wonder. Such little embellishments, such minor
changes, so great an impact.

His heart beat ever faster as they walked toward their date. He had not
asked if the boy had to be home, he did not want to know the answer. He
shook as he bought the tickets. Was the girl behind the counter wondering
about them? Was she going to call her manager over as soon as they entered
the cinema? Would he be trapped like the rat that he was?

No. Nothing of the sort. No emotion registered on her face, nothing given
away. No shock, nothing. Just the bored, resigned countenance of someone
who is being poorly paid for a terrible job. The passed the young lad on
the door, equally bored, and then they were into the corridor. But first,
suddenly, the boy wanted to pee. Did he dare follow? Could it possibly be
acceptable? No time to wonder, because his feet were following without the
instruction from him brain. Good old reliable feet.

They stood together, father and son to the rest of the world, lovers yet to
know each other should the truth be known. The boy's most intimate part on
display, in an innocent way. Yet to Mack there was no such thing as
innocence. He stared unabashed at the tiny morsel of flesh, the thing by
which he hoped to bring the boy the ultimate pleasure, the tiny, skinny
little thing he would give anything to make his own, if just for the
night. The boy smiled. He had made an assessment of his own.

The film. What could be said of a film from which Mack could not recite a
single line? Not terrible, but unmemorable in the light of the boy, who
outshone actors, plot, direction to no little extent. And then suddenly it
was gone, and they were among the crush to leave, the boy's hand having
somehow snaked into his own, warm, soft, trusting, just like the boy's
smile. Trusting.

No comment was passed. They simply drove, the boy snuggling down into the
warm leather of the fast car's passenger seat, eyes scanning the
streetlights as they passed. Up the newly painted hallway with it's strong
smell of fresh paint, to the newly installed door smelling like nothing so
much as a sawmill, into the newly built flat which still held the scent of
just-installed carpet, fluff-balls covering its surface accusingly.

To the sofa, where the television was pressed into service, to provide a
background, a backdrop, a diversion, something with which to keep the mind
shielded from reality. The boy watched, even as Mack's hand alighted on his
thigh, even as his fingers grasped the muscle. Even as the man moved closer
and had oh so lightly kissed his ear, his neck, the top of his collar
bone. Only when Mack's hand turned his head away from the screen to kiss
him full upon the lips did he finally respond. Hesitant at first, and then
suddenly, as if a dam had burst inside, passionate, hungy, needful.

Hands wrapped around Mack's neck, holding him close into the kiss, forcing
him to remain until the boy was done with him. In response Mack's strong
hands gripped the boy, first his flanks, then his hips, then his rounded
behind as he pulled the boy on top if him. The kissing paused to allow the
passage of the boy's shirt, and then Mack's own, discarded carelessly on
the floor. A moment's further kissing, and then a break again, as hands
frantically worked at catches, the boy's golden laughter filling the room
as hands touched his skin, suddenly agonisingly ticklish as excitement got
the better of him. Mack, too, was suddenly denuded, the boy as eager as the
man had been to unwrap his prize, to see again what it was that he had only
glimpsed before.

Mack's blood coursed strongly at the thought of being allowed to pleasure
the boy. Like the needle of a compass the boy's cute little spike pointed
directly to him, quivering in anticipation, a metronome measuring the
rhythm of his heartbeat. He was small, so small, and suddenly frail
seeming, submissive, expectant, fearful. A smile curled the corners of his
lips, but his eyes betrayed uncertainty. Mack's heart went out to the boy -
so eager, so driven by flooding hormones, so ready for this and yet so
unready. He remembered his own first forays, so frightening, yet so full of
gut-wrenching excitement. Mack's hand alighting on the boy's skin made him
jump. It was but a prelude to the main act, one which Mack began with
relish.

Muscles strained to breaking point, the boy's body arched upwards from the
cushions beneath. He gasped, his face a rictus of pleasure so strong that
it verged on pain, experiencing sensations unlike any other he had felt
before. Fingers grasped at hair, toes curled until fiery cramp was felt,
thighs crushed against ears. The boy's pleasure was complete, and
consuming. It took him, flung him this way and that, forced beads of sweat
out onto his brow, wetting his blonde hair until it lay dark against his
skin. He thrust, impotent but not powerless, immature but aware. As the
feelings within him ebbed away and he returned from the peak of his
excitement he smiled once more, this time wantonly, lasciviously,
contentedly.

The boy's love for Mack was a devotion. The softness of his hands on Mack's
body, the feel of the boy's perfect skin against his own, the touch of his
tongue upon Mack's raging manhood. Blackness crowded out vision, then was
superseded by flashing lights. Mack sunk deeper and deeper into the pit,
walls surrounding him, crowding him, focussing his sensation on a single
point which must have been part of his body, and yet where was his body?
There was only that point, singular, alone, the source of all that was
wonderful in the universe, the seed of heaven itself.

When release from his torment came he was lifted clear of the pit, rushing
upward, soaring skyward, screaming starward. Flashing lights became
blackness, and then vision once more, and then the boy's smiling face, his
countenance marred with something unspeakable, his innocence gone, ruined,
replaced with something animalistic, something so much more utterly
desirable. The gazelle had shed his skin, become a lion cub, full of a
power all his own.

He swallowed once, twice, his pink tongue glistening wetly again, his empty
mouth shown off in such a perfect mirror of his earlier action that Mack
lurched as butterlfies flooded his stomach. The cub growled, snarled,
leapt, pinned Mack to the ground, possessed him, gnawed at his retracted
flesh, grinned insouciantly. His tail may have been between his legs, but
for the moment the cub was king, and Mack submitted with divine pleasure as
he once again felt the beast rise within. This time he would possess the
whole of the boy.