Date: Sat, 04 Aug 2012 21:20:07 +0400
From: Doctor Fox
Subject: Mayday with Pavel Part One

Mayday with Pavel Part One
A story by Doctor Fox


I met Pavel in the street on a warm May Day evening. It was early, about
eight, and starting to get dark. Because it was a holiday, there were lots
of people out enjoying the warm night air, listening to the buskers and
sampling food and drink from the stalls that lined the main road through
the city centre, now closed to traffic as it was every weekend, so that
people could stroll its mile length unimpeded and unimperilled.

I had seen a couple of interesting boys near a sandwich stall, one
dark-haired, with a beaky, hooked nose, the other with a holed, grey
cardigan held together with safety pins, no socks, ill-fitting black
shoes. That was Max. He was famed for sucking off men in the park. He was
thirteen, looked about ten and razor-thin. His eyes were always a little
desperate, black ringed, as though he were 'on' something. I knew him
vaguely, though I hadn't at that time taken advantage of his skills. Pavel
was a bit taller, a bit fuller in the shoulders, but still wirily thin,
with hips that would fit through a coat-hanger. He had an open face, very
cute, corn-blond hair cut in a ragged fringe, and his eyes were the
greeny-blue colour of the sea. Height-wise, he reached my shoulder.He was
looking at videotapes, an assortment of Hollywood blockbusters, probably
pirated, and Russian classics crammed together in a box on a table and
selling at 30 roubles per film. He was wearing a jumper in light green,
with yellow zig-zags threaded through the wool, and dark turquoise
tracksuit trousers with a discreet Recbock logo near the left hip. His
once-white trainers were not branded, and splitting along the seams. I lit
a cigarette and joined him at the video-stall.

'James Bond,' I said.

'What?' He half-turned his head.

'James Bond,' I repeated, tapping a box that contained Doctor No. 'I like
James Bond, do you?'

'It's OK,' he said. He half-closed his eyes, appraising me. 'Can I have a
cigarette?' I slid one out of the pack and handed it over. 'Russian,' he
said contemptuously. 'You got any Marlboroughs?'

'No,' I said. 'Do you like those better?'

'Yes.'

'I'll get you some if you want,' I said.

He looked at me again, considering, then shook his head, took it and
allowed me to light it for him. The suck he took was long, deep and clearly
satisfying. I asked him what films he did like.

'Russian ones,' he said. 'Are you American?'

'No, English.'

'Oh.' He drew on the cigarette again. 'What do you do here?'

'I live here,' I said. 'In a flat over there.' I waved my hand vaguely
towards the apartment block which towered over the bookshop a few hundred
metres down the road.

He seemed to consider again. 'You hungry?' he asked.

'A little. Are you?'

'Yes. Do you want to eat somewhere?'

My heart leapt. Was he asking me out on a date? 'Sure,' I said. 'Wherever
you like.'

We left the stall and strolled down the street to the Moscow Hotel. He
raised a hand to some other boys. 'That's Max,' he remarked. 'Do you know
him?'

'I know of him,' I said.

'But you never been with him? He'd suck you off for a few roubles. Cheapest
action in town.'

I acted surprised. 'Really? I didn't know that.' I left a beat. 'What about
you?'

'What about me?'

'Do you suck men off for a few roubles?'

He grunted. 'I'm not gay like Max.'

'Or cheap?' I said, raising an eyebrow.

'You're fresh,' he snorted, drawing on the cigarette.

'You don't have to be gay to enjoy a blow-job,' I stated. 'Everyone likes
getting sucked off.'

He tossed his spent cigarette into the road. 'Is that a fact?'

'Sure. You do, don't you?'

He grunted again. 'You're fresh,' he repeated. 'What's your name?'

'Fox,' I said, 'Doctor Fox. What about you?'

'Pavel,' he said. He led me into a plastic gazebo attached to the front of
the Moscow Hotel. 'Here's good.'

We sat in two purple, plastic chairs at a white plastic table which was
covered in a red-and-white checked tablecloth marked with cigarette burns
and ash-stains. He looked at the menu while I ordered a beer.

'What do you want to drink, Pavel?' I asked.

'Same,' he said.

'Two beers,' I told the waitress. She looked slightly disapproving but
brought them anyway, green bottles of Baltika 3 cold from the fridge and
running in condensation. We ordered a shashlik each, sausage and
side-salads, and then started talking.

Pavel, (he preferred the petname Pasha), lived with his older brother.
Their parents had split up, then Mum had died and Dad had cleared off,
leaving them struggling to pay the rent on a home Pasha said had a great
big hole in one wall. They used it instead of a door, he said. His brother,
an unemployed labourer, was rarely at home. He was knocking about with some
woman on the other side of town. I tutted sympathetically when Pasha told
me he stayed out as long as he could to avoid his brother, especially if he
was drunk or had argued with his girlfriend. Both seemed frequent
occurrences, and then he would take his anger out on his kid brother, often
with his fists. Besides, Pasha added, the flat had rats and roaches and the
bedding was always damp. I asked what he lived on.

'My brother gives me ten roubles a week for food,' he said, shovelling
chunks of cucumber into his mouth.

'That's not much,' I said.

'It's all he can afford,' said Pasha defensively. 'He can't get work. He
has a bad back. That's why he's angry all that time. And he was saddled
with me because our parents were shit.' That sounded like his brother's
words.

'Your mother died,' I said. 'You can't blame her for that.'

'All right, my father was shit.' Pasha tore at the bread with his teeth,
then swallowed a mouthful of beer straight from the bottle. 'He was always
drunk and he has a bad back too.'

I laughed. 'How old is your brother?'

'Twenty-six.' Pasha ripped meat from the wooden skewer.

'And you?'

'Thirteen.'

I wondered if his brother ever made him do stuff, Max-like stuff, but I
didn't ask. He might be touchy about it, and I didn't want to put him off.
Instead I sucked on my beer then on the sausage. I caught his eye, and
wound my tongue suggestively round the sausage tip. Pasha giggled, blushed,
and swallowed more beer. I didn't eat much. I wasn't too hungry. Excitement
and anticipation dulled my appetite. I lit another cigarette, gave one to
the boy. He drew on it greedily.

'I'll get you some Marlboroughs later,' I said. 'There's a kiosk on the
corner near my house.'

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and burped softly. 'I haven't
eaten like that for days,' he said. 'I tend to live on sandwiches, bread,
cheese, you know? And tea. I drink lots of tea.' I ordered two glasses.

He lived in the north of the city, about three miles away, up beyond the
Aurora Cinema. He had walked into the centre for the May Day festivities
with a couple of friends. They had gone on a few rides at the fairground in
First of May Square, then split up, his friends wandering off to meet their
parents, and Pasha had been left to himself.

'What about school? Do you go to school?' I asked.

'Sure,' he said. 'I like school. It's fun. We learn all sorts of stuff.'

'Like English?'

He smiled a little, sipped his tea. 'A few words.'

'Like?'

'Hello,' he said in heavily accented English. 'How do you do?'

I laughed. 'Very good,' I said. 'Anything else?'

He looked up at me coyly from under his blond eyelashes. 'I love you,' he
said, and giggled again. I noticed he had dimples. I have a weakness for
dimples. I felt my heart flutter.

We finished our tea and I paid the check. Twenty roubles, or so. I made
sure Pasha saw a wad of notes bulging in my wallet. I sensed rather than
saw his sea-green eyes widen. Then we stepped out into the warm, enveloping
darkness.

'What do you want to do now?' I asked.

He shrugged. 'Don't mind. More beer?' He looked at me again. 'And you
promised me Marlboroughs.'

We went to the kiosk on the corner of my street and bought two bottles of
beer and twenty Marlborough Red, then went to sit on the wall outside the
House of Books. It was dark by now, about ten o'clock. He didn't seem in
any hurry.

'Are you married?' he asked suddenly.

'No,' I laughed.

'Why?'

I glanced at his face. 'I'm gay,' I said. 'I prefer men.'

'Oh,' he said, and fell silent. He drank more beer. 'Do you live alone?' he
said eventually.

'Yes,' I said. 'Just me, the television, and the porno films.'

He laughed, then frowned. He seemed to be wrestling mentally, whether to go
or to stay. 'I need a piss,' he said suddenly. 'Hold my beer.' He thrust
the bottle into my hand and slid off the wall backwards. I watched as he
pulled his cock out, though I couldn't really see anything in the dark, but
I saw the stream of pale piss arc from his body to splash against the
wall. 'Don't watch me,' he said, 'Watch the street, you know? Keep a
look-out.'

They were closing up at the Hotel Moscow over the road. The disapproving
matron was wiping down tables and tipping spent cigarettes into her
hand. The splashing stopped, Pasha scrambled back on to the wall.

'Where do you live?' he said.

'Up there.' I pointed to my balcony nine stories overhead.

'I bet you get a great view,' he said.

'You wanna see?' I asked carefully.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. 'Yes. I want to get off the street
anyway. I'm getting cold.' He stood up. 'Have you got any vodka?'

'Yeah,' I said.

'Good.' His eyes locked onto mine. 'Let's go.'

We walked round the corner and up the narrow alley to my building, tossing
our empty bottles into the great blue skip which served as our communal
rubbish bins. We crossed the threadbare grass, through the front door and
waited quietly for the elevator. I smiled at him warmly.

The ninth floor was the top floor, and there were just two flats, locked
away behind an iron security door which I unlocked with a Yale key. The
door opened outwards, and I ushered him through. Then I opened the front
door to my apartment and stepped in. Pasha followed. The door clicked shut
behind him. He jumped slightly.

'Welcome to my home,' I said.

I gave him a quick tour, the blue and white-tiled kitchen with its
four-ring gas stove, narrow worktops, deep white sink, steel draining
board, cupboards, fridge, then the bathroom - "You have a bath!" he
exclaimed - and the living room/bedroom. This was a long, fairly narrow
room, with a rug laid out on the floor, a TV on a stand, a desk against the
wall by the the doors to the balcony, and the bed, an opened-out sofa with
a pillow and a duvet, on the other side. A couple of armchairs stood at the
foot of the bed, facing the TV. He wanted to see the view, so I pulled back
the net curtains, unlatched the doors, and let him out. The night air was
cool, the southern part of the city below a sparkling sea of lights. The
large black dome of the Cathedral dominated the skyline, a hulking outline
against the darkness. Down below, First of May Square was emptying as
stalls were dismantled and packed away until the next morning. Pasha leaned
against the rail and released a globule of spit. He watched it fall slowly,
then timidly said 'Can I have a bath?'

'Sure.' I was surprised. It was eleven o'clock. 'But you'll have to have it
now. They switch the water off at midnight.'

Which was true. In an effort to conserve water, the City Council turned off
the mains supplies between the hours of midnight and six a.m. every day. He
didn't seem to mind, and watched as I put in the plug, and added a capful
of Radox bath-foam to the running hot water.

'That's good,' he said. 'I like bubbles.' He sat on the edge of the tub and
prised off his trainers to reveal pink socks. They came off next. His feet
were very pale, quite small. 'Could I have some vodka please?' he asked,
sounding like a little boy.

'What? Now?'

'Yeah. For the bath.'

I shrugged and went to the kitchen and got the ice-cold Stolichnaya from
the freezer. I poured a glass and returned to the bathroom. He had taken
off his sweater and stood in a white vest and his tracksuit trousers.

'Where should I put it?' he asked.

'Give it to me,' I said, picking up his trainers and socks. 'Here.' I
handed him the glass. His eyes widened. 'Too much?' I asked.

'Are you trying to get me drunk?' he said.

'You don't have to drink it all,' I said.

He took a large mouthful and pulled a face as the strong alcohol bit into
his throat. Then he placed it on the corner of the tub. The bath was
half-full now. I ran my fingers through the bubbly water. It was hot, so I
added some cold as Pasha pulled off his vest. His upper body was pale like
his feet, and thin. His pink nipples were almost invisible. There wasn't an
ounce of fat on him. His arms were thin, spindly almost, and his stomach
flat.

'Right,' I said. 'It's ready, I think.'

He smiled. 'I haven't had a bath for weeks,' he said. 'Our shower doesn't
work so well. I have to go to the public bathhouse for a proper wash.'

'Well,' I said, 'Enjoy it.'

I was waiting for him to get in. He was waiting for me to leave. I left. He
shut the door behind me. Then he called me back. He was now in his pants,
pale brown briefs. His legs were short and hairless and his hips almost
non-existent.

'You forgot my trousers,' he said, giving me the turquoise trackies.

I went to the kitchen, poured myself a large vodka, lit a cigarette and sat
at the table. What to do? Here was a boy I fancied, with the kind of hair,
eyes, face, body and figure that I found intensely attractive in my bath,
drinking my vodka and showing no sign of wanting to go home. He knew I
lived alone. He knew I was gay ? I had not concealed this ? and yet he was
here, in the bathtub. What would he do when he had finished? I didn't want
him to get dressed and go, but I wasn't sure what would happen if he
stayed. Should I make a move? Should I proposition him, offer him money?
Should I encourage him to go? Of course I should. He was thirteen. I was
nearly forty. I pressed his clothes, his sweater, his vest, his socks,
against my face and inhaled in the mixed scent of sweat and smoke and
boy. It made me giddy. If he walked away, could I bear it, another failure,
another opportunity let go, another occasion where I had 'done the decent
thing' and passed?

I took his clothes into the living room and folded them into a neat pile on
the bed. I turned the main light off, put the bedside one on. It created a
more intimate atmosphere. Then I went on the balcony to finish my
cigarette. It was half-past eleven. The city was still now, the air quite
cool. Only a few people were making their way home along the main road. I
drank more vodka. I would play it by ear, see where the evening took us. If
he wanted to go, I would let him. If he wanted to stay, I would let him. If
he wanted to do anything, well?..

'Fox!' I heard him calling. 'Fox.'

I opened the bathroom door. The room was steamy, the mirror steamed up. He
was sitting up in the middle of the tub He had the glass of vodka in his
right hand. He had drunk about half of it. The tub was deep and long, but
the water reached the rim. Some had lapped over onto the floor. The bubbles
reached his chin. I regretted the bubbles. I couldn't see anything through
them.

'There's no towel,' he said, 'And you could bring the vodka bottle. Where
are my clothes?' he asked when I returned.

'On the bed,' I replied. 'You want more vodka now?'

'Yes, just a splash.'

'And the towel?'

He sipped the vodka. 'On the floor.'

I did as I was told, and went back to the living room with the vodka
bottle, the ashtray and the packet of Marlboroughs.  I didn't want him to
feel threatened or pressured. I wanted him to feel he was in control. On
the other hand, I didn't want him to think I wasn't interested... I put all
the stuff on the floor, sat in the armchair nearest the bed and turned on
the TV. There was a patriotic concert from Moscow, folk dancers and a
military band and choir. I lowered the volume, and waited. Then I decided
to prepare. I took off my trainers and socks, stripped off my jeans, and
sat in my boxers and a plain grey T-shirt.

Suddenly he appeared in the doorway. He was wearing the pale brown briefs
and carrying the vodka glass. His wet hair was darker now, and stuck up
like stray stalks of straw. 'Good bath,' he said. 'What's the concert?' He
was looking at my legs.

'Something for May Day,' I answered, 'From Moscow.' I was trying not to
devour his pale, slender body was my eyes, which was difficult, especially
when he sat in the armchair next to me, stretched out his bare legs and
crossed his feet at his ankles. He helped himself to a cigarette, flicking
the ash into the saucer on the floor, and drank some more vodka. 'Do you
like this music?' I asked.

'It's OK,' he said. 'You got any videos?'

'Yes. What do you like?'

He grinned. 'Sexy films,' he said. 'You got any sexy films?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I've got one or two. Is that what you really want?' Stupid
question. He's a thirteen year old boy. 'I've got James Bond, and Harry
Potter.'

'Harry Potter later,' he said. 'Sexy films now.'

'It's nearly midnight,' I said. 'Won't your brother be worried about you?'

'He won't notice,' said Pasha dismissively. 'Besides, I generally don't go
to bed till 2 anyway. Why? Do you want me to go?'

'No,' I said hastily, 'No.' I got out of the chair and crossed to the
cabinet under the TV where the video cassettes were kept. I had three
locally made porn films, one straight, two gay, which I had purchased at
the only sex shop in town. 'What do you want? Gay or straight?'

'You choose,' he said. 'It's your house.' I chose the straight one, and
inserted it into the player. 'Fast forward through the boring bits,' he
said, 'You know, when they go to the house and flirt and all that crap. Get
to the action.'

The story, such as it was, involved a plumber calling on a busty, blonde
housewife who answered the door in a very flimsy, very short black dress.
The images flashed past, the snogging, the shirt coming off to reveal a
ripped torsos, the jeans coming off to reveal a massive, thick and very
hard cock, the dress coming off to reveal huge breasts.

'OK,' Pasha said, and I slowed it back to normal. The woman knelt at the
plumber's feet and started licking his cock. He put his hand on her head
and thrust it into her mouth. Her cheek bulged. Pasha drank more vodka,
crushed his cigarette into the saucer, shifted in the chair, flexed his
toes, leaned forward, cradling the glass in his hands. I found myself
getting hard. I wasn't sure I wanted him to see, not yet anyway. The
plumber stuck his fingers into the woman's fanny. Pasha whimpered slightly.
I glanced out of the corner of my eye. He had a huge bulge in his briefs.
He gulped more vodka. The glass was almost empty now. His bulge seemed to
swell a little more. So did mine. The plumber flipped the woman on to her
hands and knees and eased his cock into her vagina. My cock felt like a
rock. Pasha's eyes, I noticed, were glittering and his pants seemed about
to explode with the strain of what was clearly a gigantic erection. He
swallowed the last of the vodka, and sat back in the chair. The tent in his
briefs was even more prominent. He glanced at me and grinned as the couple
on the screen fucked noisily, the woman slapping the plumber's arse as he
thrust. I grinned back, and flipped my cock out through my fly. It stood
upright, stiff, hard, seven inches of uncut meat.

'I gotta wank,' I said. 'Sorry.' I rubbed my cock, drawing the foreskin
down the shaft, then up again, breathing through my nose, going slowly,
watching the screen. I stripped off my T shirt and stroked myself again.

Pasha seemed to shrug, and pulled his pants down to just under his
balls. His penis sprang up. It looked almost painfully hard. It was about
three inches long, quite thin, also uncut. He rubbed himself too, rapidly
at first, then settled into a slow, regular, smooth, up-down rhythm which
seemed to relax him.

The couple on the screen were reaching a noisy climax. The plumber pulled
his cock out of the woman's fanny and slapped it on her tits, then began
masturbating. Pasha was breathing hard, his rhythm getting faster. His legs
seemed to stretch, his toes spread. He was clearly nearing the end.

I reached across and put my hand on his. 'Not yet,' I whispered, but the
tip of his cock was already glistening, the juices were already spilling,
dribbling down his shaft, sperm emerging in a thin, colourless ribbon which
shimmered then fell on the back of my hand. He moaned and rolled his head
on the chair-back. His legs went rigid, and he uttered a cry of relief and
joy as his penis pulsed and jumped in my hand, pumped its semen into the
air to spatter on the top of his thigh, stomach and pants. I gripped my
cock in my left hand and jerked it fiercely. He watched, fascinated. I
released his cock and, grinning, licked his juice off my hand.

'Go on,' he hissed, 'Do it. I wanna see you cum.'

And I did. I sent a jet of thick white spunk eight inches into the air, and
fell back, the orgasm sweeping through me in a spasm of release.

'Wow,' he said.

A minute of silence passed as the film credits rolled. Then I took a
fistful of tissues and wiped my stomach. There were wet patches on my
boxers. Pasha seemed exhausted. I moved to the floor, between his knees,
and licked the juice from his thigh, licked the juice from his cock, which
twitched under my tongue. I swirled my tip round his head and slit. He
moaned, and stroked my hair.

'Not yet,' he said. 'Later.' He pulled his pants up over his shrinking
cock. 'Give me a drink.'

More vodka. This was his third tumbler. I copied him. We smoked. We
drank. We were quiet, tired but glowing, and recovering. I sat on the floor
at his feet, my right forearm resting on his left knee. He didn't move
it. After a while, I looked up into his face, at his blond eyelashes and
sea-green eyes.

'You're very beautiful,' I said.

He laughed. 'No-one's ever said that before. Everyone says I'm too short,
my legs are too short, my chest is too small, my arms are too thin?.'

'I think you're perfect,' I said.

He smiled. 'Thank you, Fox.' He stroked my hair gently, then my cheek.
'You're very kind to me.'

'I like you,' I said truthfully.

'You don't know me,' he said. 'I'm not.... I'm.. I'm a bad guy. I do...bad
things.'

'Like what? Sex things?'

'No.' He shook his head. 'I don't do sex. Not for money. I'm not like Max.
This,' he smiled, 'Is because I like you, because you're good to me, and I
know you want it.' He stroked my face again. 'I talk to people badly, you
know. I feel angry a lot, so I swear at them, say bad words to them, try to
make them hurt inside.'

'I guess you're angry because of your father,' I said.

'You think?' he answered sarcastically. I stroked his thigh. 'Put the gay
film on.'

'You gonna stay the night?' I asked. 'Sleep here?'

'Maybe,' he said. 'Put the film on. The gay one.'

This one started with a young guy lying naked on a sofa and masturbating
whilst looking at a porn mag. I settled again on the floor at his feet and
put my arm back on his knee.

'Why do you prefer men?' Pasha asked suddenly.

'I like cock more than cunts,' I replied. He giggled at the rude words.

The guy on the screen was joined by a mate. They started kissing and
fondling each other. 'Do you like that?' he said.

'Depends on the guy. He's got to be cute.' I turned and kissed his knee.
'Like you.' He smiled, and I kissed the middle of his thigh, then the
inside.

'It tickles,' he remarked. I did it again, and again. I ran my hand up his
leg, kissed him again. I glanced up at him. His eyes were fixed on the
screen, where the two guys were in a 69. 'Do you like that?' he asked.

'Yes,' I said. 'I love that.'

His sea-green eyes glittered, and I noticed his pants were tented again. I
shifted so I was kneeling between his knees and kissed his stomach. And
again. I probed his navel with my tongue. He grunted softly. He tasted of
soap and boy-sweat. I moved up his body and flicked my tongue across his
pale nipples. He reacted as though he had had an electric shock. They
hardened instantly, and I sucked each one. I felt his fingers playing with
my hair. I felt his cock rising against my stomach, so I slid down him
again and kissed it through his pants. It stirred. I kissed it again, then,
watching his face, took the hem of the pale brown pants and eased it slowly
away from his body, down over his genitals, releasing his three inch
erection once again. I slid the pants down his legs, over his ankles and
feet, and off. I resettled myself between his knees. He was now completely
naked. He had a little circle of blond fluff round the base of his cock,
and a couple of thicker hairs on his mound. His eggs were small, and I was
able to take them easily into my mouth, one at a time then both together.
He moaned softly as I used my tongue to play with them, and sucked them
very gently. At the same time, I slipped off my boxers and freed my own
erection. His fingers were still twining in my hair. I licked his shaft,
ran my tongue round the head, then plunged my lips over his cock, enclosing
the whole three inches in the soft warmth of my mouth. He moaned again, and
shifted in the chair. His cock was swelling inside my mouth, and I wondered
what it would be like in my arse.

'Softly,' he whispered. 'Softly.'

I sucked him a little, created a little vacuum, slid my lips up and down
his shaft, feeling it bumping against the inside of my cheek and my gums,
trying not to scrape him with my teeth, enjoying the heat, the taste and
the velvet hardness of the boy's cock. Suddenly, he pulled his hips back,
and it slipped out. 'Let's lie down,' he said. We stood up, locked hands
and moved to the bed. He lay me on my back and sat astride my waist. My
cock-tip rested against the small of his back as he straddled me. I grabbed
his cock and masturbated him slowly. He ground his arse-cheeks against my
groin, pushing down, then reached behind himself and seized my cock,
wanking me. Then he moved backwards so he was sitting on my thighs, and our
cocks were together. He took both in his hand and masturbated us together,
cock against cock. I felt the rhythm, the heat, the excitement transferring
from him to me and me to him.

Then he stopped and slid away to the side. 'I'm gonna cum,' he said, 'And I
don't want to yet.'

On the screen the two lads were fucking. The receiver lay on his back with
his legs in the air while the giver knelt on the sofa and shoved his cock
up the willing arse. Pasha watched, his cock twitching. He stroked himself
gently. I could see he was really close to an orgasm. His pink cock-tip was
glistening with pre-cum, his foreskin was pulled fully back, the rim red
from the friction, and the penis itself was unbelievably rigid. It seemed
to have grown another half-inch or so, and strained upwards like a
flag-pole. My penis was harder than I could remember. It felt like a stick
of wood.

'Stop. Rest,' I advised, and drew him into a cuddle, but he wriggled free,
and slowly, sinuously, inch by inch, licked my cock, then ran his tongue
over the slit, lapping the pre-cum like a little cat. He dabbed round my
foreskin, then round the rim. The tip swelled. I shivered and almost
came. He licked down the other side, slowly, carefully, lick by lick, till
he reached the base and my pubic bush. He licked me again, in long strokes,
up, down, up, down, up, as though he were tackling an ice cream, looked up
at me and grinned mischievously.

'Do you like that?'

'Yes,' I whispered, the words choking in my excitement. My balls were
swelling. He kissed them, then licked my shaft once more, up, down, round
the head, into the foreskin, round the rim. He looked into my eyes again.

'Well,' he said, licking the head, 'You'll like this even more,' and he
took my cock into his mouth, as much as he could, about three-quarters,
sucked in, inch by inch. The soft, warm wetness was amazing, and when he
used his tongue to pleasure me, as I had him, I thought my balls would
explode. I tried not to thrust my hips because I didn't want to choke
him. I glanced down and watched his blond head bobbing up and down. Once,
twice his teeth scraped my meat which made me sigh deeply, but mostly my
bell-end was pushing into his cheek, or against the roof of his mouth. It
was wonderful. He held my shaft in his right hand and gently pumped it. I
took his left in mine and twined our fingers together. He squeezed back. I
rolled my head on the pillow and closed my eyes. This was heaven.

He sucked me steadily till I felt the sap rising and I withdrew.

He grinned up at me. 'Good?' he asked.

'Awesome,' I said.

I took his ankles, and I shifted him round so we were top to tail. I
stroked his thighs, kissed the inside, licked him. He kissed my balls,
little butterfly kisses. I parted his legs and licked his perineum, the
bridge between his balls and his bottom, and ran my hands over his cheeks,
prising them slightly apart so I touch his hole. He shuddered as I stroked,
just one finger. I pushed it in ever so gently, just the tip, and wiggled
it. He shuddered again.  I murmured his name: 'Pasha, you are so
beautiful.'

I took his penis back into my mouth, and, as I did so, felt him stroke my
arse-cheeks, kiss my cock, and swallow it once again.

The 69 was a little uneven, because he was shorter than me, but it worked
quite well, and I lost myself in the joy of the moment, my cock in his
mouth, his in mine. He tickled my nuts with his free hand. The other
gripped my shaft and wanked me while he sucked. I kneaded his little eggs
in my palm. They felt like tiny acorns. His tip pressed against my cheek
and he started thrusting. I took his buttocks again, felt them tighten, put
my fingertip in his hole, pushed. My cock slid through his beautiful lips,
in, out, in, out, and his hand moved up and down in time to the rhythm.

'I'm gonna cum any second,' he whispered huskily.

'Me too,' I said, feeling that familiar tingling in my scrotum.

'Don't cum in my mouth,' he whispered.

'OK,' I said, jerking his penis, then engulfing it again, preparing for the
moment when his boy-juice would spurt into my mouth and trying to hold my
own ejaculation back.

His whole body went rigid and he sighed deeply. I gripped his buttocks and
drew him in further. My nose touched his stomach. The end of his cock
pressed against the back of my throat. He moaned and took my head in his
hands, thrusting his hips, pushing himself in as far as he could, the whole
three inches, the end against my wisdom teeth. His buttocks clenched in my
fingers. He thrust again, and moaned. 'I'm nearly there,' he stuttered. I
tasted pre-cum, sweet, sticky, on my tongue. I felt the semen travelling up
through his shaft and past my lips, then it burst out against the roof of
my mouth, thin, sticky liquid squirting against my gums and down my throat,
over and over and over as his penis pulsed and jumped between my lips and
he gripped my head tightly and sighed again and again. He thrust his hips
again as I swallowed the juice. More spurted from the slit over my tongue.
He cried out, a great tearing cry, and thrust again, more violently. Still
more semen pumped from his sac, filling my mouth, spilling now over my
lips, as he slowed, sighed again, his whole body responding to the
intensity of his orgasm. 'I don't want it to stop,' he cried. 'I don't want
it to stop.' His penis gave another twitch, but he was dry, empty, drained,
and his penis slipped from my lips, leaving a translucent thread over my
chin.

I grabbed his hand and moved it to my cock, making him wank me as I pushed
him on to his back and knelt up over him. His eyes were wild, the pupils
black. His lips were dry and parted and he was panting heavily. He jerked
me hard and quickly, dragging my foreskin down as far as he could, then up
again. He sat up to twirl more pre-cum off my slit, then he licked the rim
again. I groaned, and pushed him back on the bed, feeling my legs
stiffen. I put his hands on my buttocks and wanked vigorously. The juice
was moving. The sap was rising. 'I'm cumming,' I cried, and, with a deep,
loud sigh, I shot my load. My whole body shook as the orgasm swept through
me, my penis jerking again and again as the sperm erupted over his chest,
spattering him with pearly white pools. One rope hit his neck, another
splashed on his face, another onto his stomach. The ejaculation seemed to
last for a lifetime. Finally I stopped and knelt over his sperm-spattered
body, breathing heavily through my nose. My heart slowed down.

Pasha smiled up at me. He snaked his arms round my waist and pulled me into
a hug. The semen glued us together.

'Oh fuck,' he panted, 'I've never cum so much in my life. That was so
fucking awesome, so incredible, unbelievable. My whole body...I can't feel
my legs...I never cum so much.' He was running out of words .. 'Even my
toes..and it was proper spunk..I know it was. I never made proper spunk
before. It's usually dry, or just a bit wet, but that was REAL, real spunk,
REAL cumming, a proper spunky grown-up ejaculation. Oh God, that was sooooo
fantastic.'

I hugged him warmly, thrilled by his breathless excitement, by his sheer
joy in what he had just experienced, and kissed the top of his head. 'Thank
you, Pasha.'

He smiled warmly. 'Thank you, Fox,' and he kissed my cheek. 'Did it taste
good?'

'What?'

'My sperm. Did it taste good? Did you like it?'

'I loved it,' I said, and kissed his nose. 'Proper man's spunk.'

He smiled drowsily. 'I'm glad,' he said. 'I never done that before, any of
it. It's the best feeling I ever had. I wanted it to last forever.'

'Me too,' I said. 'But we can always do it again.'

'Not yet,' he said. 'I want to sleep now.'

'It's after two,' I said. 'You can't go home now. There's no trams, trolley
buses, nothing.'

'No matter,' he murmured, 'I'll sleep with you,' and, laying in my arms, he
drifted off into a peaceful slumber, his face relaxed, his eyes closed, the
blond eyelashes soft and still, a half-smile on his lips. I had a naked,
sexy young boy at peace in my bed, a boy I had just had the most intense
sexual experience with, and I rejoiced. I cradled him gently in my arms and
stared at the ceiling. Trying not to disturb him, I reached for the sheet
that had been crumpled aside, and spread it over us. His clothes had been
scattered on the carpet. I would leave them there till morning. I hugged
him close, and felt him respond. He turned onto his side and moved his head
into the hollow of my shoulder, sighed a bit, and slept. I wondered what
the morning would bring. May 2nd was also a holiday. Maybe we would spend
the whole day together. He cuddled me, and I stroked his hair. I switched
off the bedside light and dozed for a while.

When I woke needing a piss, the dawn was beginning to break through the
curtains. I gazed at my sleeping boy. I didn't want to wake him, but I
needed a piss. I eased away from him and stood up. I was still naked, I
realised, and grabbed my boxers on my way to the bathroom.

It was a disaster area. There were pools of water on the tiles, the towel
was screwed up in a heap, and the bath itself had a tidemark of dirt round
it. I washed the spunk off my stomach and out of my pubes, cleaned my
teeth, hung the sopping towel, tidied a little, put my shorts on. When I
got back, Pasha was sitting on the edge of the bed with his vest and pants
on.

'I'd better go,' he said. 'It's nearly six. Shit. I've been out all fucking
night.'

'You don't have to go,' I said. 'You can stay if you like.'

He pulled on his sweater. 'No. I gotta go home, but I'll come back later, I
promise.' He grinned. 'Don't go watching any films without me. Save all
your spunk for me.'

I knew I wouldn't see him again, and I felt sad. 'Will you be safe, going
home?'

'Sure. It's getting light, the trolley buses are just starting up and
there's no-one really around at this time. I've been out this early
before. I'm not a kid, you know.' He pulled on his socks.

'What will you tell your brother?'

'That I stayed with some friends.' He pulled on his trackies.

'What if he checks?'

'He won't.' He laced his trainers. 'Don't worry. I'll be OK. It's a
holiday. We do things like that.' He patted my cheek. 'I'll be fine. I'll
come back later. Promise.'

I put on my boxers and T-shirt and walked him to the elevator. A feeling of
sadness seeped through me. I didn't want him to go. I put my arm round his
waist and held him tightly. When the doors opened, he turned, kissed me
once on the cheek, said 'See you, Fox,' and stepped in. As the doors slid
shut, he blew me a kiss. Then he was gone.

The room stank of smoke, vodka, sweat and spunk. I felt suddenly very tired
and stretched out on the bed. It was still warm from Pasha's body. I hugged
the pillow, smelling him on it, and fell asleep. I didn't think I'd ever
see him again.

But he was true to his word, and when he came back, he had a surprise.


End of part one