Date: Sat, 20 Feb 2016 10:32:45 +0000
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Mountain Biking

Tim was probably the most eager young lad I ever taught to ride. Other boys
came and went, depending on the weather, and on how motivated they felt
that particular week, but Tim was a constant presence on our Sunday morning
rides. I took them out into the woods and taught them everything I knew
about mountain biking, and the only payment I ever required was their
enthusiasm. I lived for those days, at first because I was so eager to pass
on everything I knew, and then because - much to my surprise - I fell head
over heels for Tim.

He'd been with me for over a year before I realised how I felt about
him. He joined me when he had just turned 10, brought along with his shiny
new bike by his older brother, Pete. He started quietly enough at first,
struggling a bit with a bike which was a little too large for him, and legs
which weren't quite strong or long enough. But he had guts and enthusiasm,
and that counts for a lot more than most other traits. I honestly thought
that he would last about three or four weeks of trailing behind at the back
before he gave up entirely, but instead he kept coming, kept plugging away
at it. After a couple of months he was no longer the last in line, then a
couple of months later he wasn't even towards the back of the
group. Sometimes, on the longer climbs, I would glance back to see him
standing on his pedals, teeth gritted, the sinews on his coltish legs
straining almost to the point of snapping, chasing me down, hunting me,
determined to show me - and all the other boys - that he could do it, that
he was strong enough.

I remember the first time he passed me going uphill as if it happened five
minutes ago. The image is burned into my mind. I wasn't going full pelt - I
was hanging back a little, letting some of the older boys conquer the hill,
and checking that some of the less able weren't struggling too badly. Tim
had been toward the back for most the ride, which was unusual for him. Now,
though, as we hit the hardest part of the hill he suddenly put on a spurt
and was past me, his young legs pumping hard, his breathing coming in short
gasps, steel in his eyes. He didn't even acknowledge me at first. He just
went past, either concentrating too hard to take the time to look at me, or
deliberately ignoring me because he was trying to make this seem everyday,
not a unique triumph. I watched him go, checking out the growth in the
muscles in his calves and his thighs, then allowing my eyes to drift
upwards. Without really planning it, I was suddenly looking at his tight
little arse, and beneath it, snuggled into the satiny cloth of his lycra
shorts, a little pouch of penis and scrotum.

I was utterly taken with the image. My heart leapt into my throat, and
suddenly riding became effortless. I pedalled without paying the least
attention to the burning which had been growing in my legs. All that
mattered in that moment was staying there a couple of metres back from the
lad, my eyes glued to the glorious sight of his round little bum. Like I'd
taught him, he was naked beneath the shorts.

After that, I found all sorts of lame excuses to ride behind Tim,
especially on steep uphill sections where he would stand on his pedals for
extra power. I think it was about the fourth or fifth week after that first
sighting that he twigged what I was doing. I was sitting pedalling
leisurely along while he grunted and huffed and puffed ahead of me, and I
was totally absorbed in the view. His shorts were right up in his crack,
and it was as if his little arse was naked. I was so consumed by my study
that I didn't see him looking around. It was only when he gave a delightful
giggle and wiggled his bum at me that I realised I'd been caught. I looked
up into his eyes, speechless with guilt, but he simply grinned at me and
stuck his bum out even further, making the hanging bulge of his dick and
balls even more prominent, before pedalling off at speed. Laughter floated
back over his shoulder on the breeze.

I started to notice a change in the way he regarded me after that, as if he
was constantly on the lookout for me perving over him. But I found that he
wasn't wary. He didn't shy away from me, and he made no effort to prevent
me looking. Quite the opposite, in fact - he seemed quite intrigued by the
idea that I might be interested in him in that way. That didn't stop my
shame intervening on my behalf, though - having been rumbled, I made a
deliberate effort to avoid looking at Tim at all, to the point where one
week he told me he was going to stop coming to our Sunday morning sessions.

I nearly left it at that. I nearly let him leave the group, believing -
stupidly - that it was the best thing for him to do, as if running away
from a problem is better than facing it head on. I was ignoring my own
advice there. I told him I was sorry that he wasn't going to come any more,
but if that's what he wanted it was fine, he wasn't under any compulsion to
come along. He rather huffily left, and I congratulated myself for being a
little harsh, but acting in his best interests.

Only later that week did I realise what a monumental fucking idiot I had
been. I was effectively allowing Tim to punish himself for something I had
done wrong. I was letting him down by allowing my emotional attachment to,
and visceral lust for him cloud my judgement and dictate our
interactions. It was far easier for me to let him drift away than to
confront the reality that I was acting inappropriately, and to be the
grown-up in this situation. I may only have been in my mid-twenties, but he
was an eleven year old kid, and was at that time acting far more maturely
than I was managing.

The answer of course was to ask him to come back to the group, and not to
take `no' for an answer. The only problem was getting the message to him. I
knew where he lived, but it would seem a bit strange to turn up out of the
blue and just knock on his door. I tried coming up with a decent excuse to
pop round - perhaps to take him some bit of kit or other - but every option
I came up with seemed more absurd than the last. In the end it was
serendipity which solved the problem for me.

On the Wednesday of that week I had an early finish at work and popped into
my local bike shop, ostensibly to pick up some bits, but basically to meet
up with the guys who worked there and have a bit of a natter, and see what
lovely new stuff had come in that week. I knew all the guys very well, and
were it not for the fact that I loved my work as a freelance technical
author nearly as much as I loved my riding, I might well have ended up in
that shop, too. I was just ogling some gorgeous new lightweight forged
aluminium cranks when the shop door opened, and in walked Tim.

Just for the merest fraction of a second he froze. I could see in his eyes
that he was thinking about turning on his heel and walking away, but then
he steeled himself and came into the shop. He passed me with a slight wave
of his hand and a downcast look on his face, and disappeared towards the
service area. I heard him talking to Dave, and subtly edged closer until I
could hear what was being said.

"It's the bottom bracket," Dave was saying. "The bearings are knackered,
that's why you're getting the creaking sound. Not a very good design,
really. It's a shame, because that's a pretty decent frame, and then
they've just bolted on some crap bits."

"How much will it cost to repair?" Tim asked, a note of panic in his
voice. I knew his family struggled a bit for cash, and the bike had been a
bit of a stretch for them, even though it had come to them second-hand.

"That's the thing, I can't repair it. It's a really obscure make, not
standard stuff like Shimano. Bit of an odd size, too, although I think I
can get one in for you. It'd be something like fifty or sixty quid once you
throw in parts and labour. I'd do it for you for forty, though, `cause
you're one of Zack's lads."

I felt slightly warm inside knowing that they were `my lads', but that
didn't help Tim.

"I'm not one of Zack's lads any more," he said, and the hurt was plain in
his voice.

"Nonsense," I chimed, coming around the corner. "Just because your bike's a
bit knackered. Tell you what, Dave, get the part ordered and fitted, and
I'll pay for it. There must be fifty quid's worth of bits and bobs in my
garage I can trade in to pay for it."

"Alright, mate," Dave said with a grin, "I'll get straight onto it."

Tim looked at me as Dave wandered off, his conflicting emotions writ large
on his face.

"Why did you do that? I told you I'm not coming any more. You stopped
talking to me."

"Yeah, well, I was feeling stupid, OK? It wasn't your fault."

"What, because I caught you looking at my bum?"

I could feel myself getting a little embarrassed. My face must have been
bright red given how hot I felt.

"Yes, because of that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel
uncomfortable."

"You didn't," he shrugged. "I mean I'm not gay or anything but if you are
that's OK. I don't mind you looking. It's like saying thanks for how nice
you are with us and all. For taking us out riding."

I was really glad we were in a deserted part of the shop and no-one could
overhear us. This was getting into very dodgy territory.

"Look, Tim, you don't need to show me that to say thanks. You can just use
words."

"Yeah, but I want to. And I don't mind, honest."

"Look, let's not go back and forth over this. I have a really great route
planned for Sunday. Why don't you come along?"

"Will it be like it used to be, before you got all weird? I mean, before
you stopped talking to me, not before you started being a perv."

He giggled, and looked down at the floor. He knew he was being a bit rude,
but also understood that I wouldn't be angry with him.

"It'll be just like it was before, I promise. Can't promise I won't look at
your bum though. I mean, have you seen it? It's bloody amazing!"

He blushed scarlet, right to the tips of his ears, and I worried for a
moment that I had blown it. But he looked up at me and smiled sweetly. His
response died on his lips, as Dave came back in from calling the parts
supplier.

"Should be OK to get a new unit delivered tomorrow, so I can get it done by
Saturday morning, if that's OK. Bit of an upgrade parts-wise, too" he said.

Tim and I both said, "Yeah, that's fine," at the same moment, and then
burst out laughing.

When I left the shop an hour later, I still felt as though I was walking on
clouds.

--

Sunday couldn't come soon enough, but when I poked my head through a gap in
the curtains I was treated to a truly depressing sight. Rain fell in thick
sheets, driven by a wind which I just knew would be bitingly cold. It was
definitely one of those days when you either have to decide to fight
against the weather, or stay inside in the dry and warm and pretend that
you really did need to strip down and service your rear hub.

I considered ringing around the boys and telling them the ride was off due
to the weather, but then I thought how disappointed Tim would be, and I
changed my mind. I wasn't sure he would be coming, but if he was I didn't
dare risk letting him down. So I put on the best of my wet weather gear,
hauled the bike out of the garage and with gritted teeth made my way to the
corner of the park where we met each week.

It was just before 9 when I got there, which for some of the lads was
considered absurdly early, but for me was actually a bit later than I would
have liked. There was no-one in sight, so I took myself and the bike off to
a nearby bus shelter and stood there shivering, already feeling water
trickling down my legs and into my shoes.

I waited for as long as I could manage, growing colder by the minute, but
no-one came. I was just about to give up and pedal back when Tim whizzed
past the shelter and skidded to a stop.

"Sorry I'm late!" he panted. "I had a big fight with my mum about going out
'cause of the weather, but she let me in the end."

"It's OK, mate, I understand. You sure you want to go out today? It's only
you and me."

I had expected him to be less enthusiastic when he heard that, but he was
nothing of the sort. His eyes lit up, and a big grin split his face.

"That's OK, it'll be more fun just the two of us. No-one else to get in the
way."

It seemed as if his response was somewhat loaded, but it's only with the
benefit of hindsight that I understand the significance. Perhaps it was
knowing what happened later which makes me see it that way, but one thing
is absolutely undeniable - as we rode that day there was a tension between
us which was to do with far more than simply getting past our falling out.

Even though we cut short the route and only spent a couple of hours out, by
the time we were back in the village we were both frozen to the core. We
were soaked and mud-splattered, and though there was a sense of
accomplishment in having taken on the elements, there was also a much more
insistent sense that we really needed to get warm.

I rode with Tim to the end of his road and bade him farewell, then made my
way back to mine. I always forced myself to do things properly, so even
though I was beginning to lose the feeling in my hands, and the rain was
still falling, I made the effort to clean down my bike and spray some lube
on the chain to make sure it didn't rust. I had just lifted the bike up
onto its hooks on the garage ceiling, and was heading through into the
house, when there came a knock at the garage door. I opened it to find a
freezing cold, slightly scared-looking Tim standing there, dripping wet.

"I lost my key and my parents are out!" he said through chattering
teeth. "Can I come in for a bit? Please, I won't be a bother."

"Of course, come in! Don't just stand there!"

He'd brought his bike back, so I quickly nipped outside and hosed off the
worst of the mud, then brought it into the garage, where Tim was standing
watching me with his arms wrapped around himself. He looked like he was
turning blue.

"Come on," I said to him, "let's get you inside and get warm."

He followed me like a lost lamb into the kitchen, where I started to shed
my riding gear straight into the washing machine. Tim looked at me
uncertainly.

"Take them off, mate, they'll only keep you cold."

He obeyed, stripping himself down until he only had his lycra shorts on. He
looked for a moment as though he might take those off as well, and I knew
there would be nothing underneath, but then he chickened out. I followed
his lead, and left mine on.

"Come on, let's get you upstairs and get you in the shower. You need to get
warm soon. Then I think there's some of my step-brother's lad's stuff here
you could wear. He's a bit younger than you, but it'll do until you get
home."

"Thanks," he managed to get out through chattering teeth. He followed me up
to the bathroom, and I turned on the shower for him, adjusting it until it
was warm, and then showed him how to make it hotter as he got used to the
temperature.

"Just wait there for a moment until I can get you a towel."

"Zack, hang on," he said, a slightly desperate look in his eyes. "I don't
think it's fair that I go in first, it's your shower."

"But you're colder than me, Tim. I'm OK, really."

"Are you sure? You look really cold. Anyway, I think... I think it's big
enough that we... I mean we could... no, forget it. Sorry."

"Go in at the same time, you mean?" I asked, my heart pounding in my chest,
fervently hoping that's what he'd meant.

"Yeah, I mean it's just... it makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, of course it does. No point us both staying cold, is there?"

He shook his head and giggled nervously. We both knew the direction this
was going now, it was just a matter of how far it went, and how fast.

Trying to stay casual, I reached down and peeled the lycra down my legs and
off my feet. Tim watched me do so, perhaps not realising how obviously he
was staring. I was happy to let him watch, though, because it meant that
when I was done, I could watch him.

The reveal was slow and tortuous, because the material of his shorts clung
to his skin. The cold had shrunk him, but he still looked wonderful to my
eyes. It was the first time since I was a boy myself that I'd seen a young
dick like that, and I suddenly realised what it was that I had been
missing. I adored his little willy, unblemished by hair, sitting on a
perfect little pouch. It can't have been more than an inch and a half long.

He looked up at me, petrified, but when I warmly smiled my approval, relief
flooded his face. He smiled shyly back at me, and then stepped past me into
the shower cubicle. It was no mistake that his forearm brushed across the
very end of my dick as he did so.

The shower turned out to be a more businesslike affair than I was
expecting, but the truth was that we were both more interested in getting
warm than in getting it on. We stood there beneath the cascade of hot water
for what must have been twenty minutes, until we were both thoroughly
wrinkled, and, I noticed, a little less shrunken down below. Tim's dick
turned out to be quite respectable when it had warmed up a little, and
dangled limply over a much less taut little sack. For my part I had grown
somewhat aroused, which made me appear somewhat larger than I might have
been, a fact which didn't go unnoticed by Tim. He stared unashamedly now.

Tim stepped out and I gave him my towel, which he wrapped around himself
and then smelled, inhaling and sighing appreciatively, with the hint of a
smile on his face. It took me a moment to realise that he was picking up
the scent of me from it, and whether he intended it or not, it was one of
the most arousing things I have ever seen.

I grabbed a bathrobe from behind the door and wrapped myself in that to get
dry, rather than dripping my way down the hallway looking for a towel. Tim
followed me to my room so that I could get some clothes, but on the way I
noticed he was limping.

"You OK there, mate?"

"Just a bit stiff in the back of my leg."

"Well, we can fix that if you like."

"How?"

"Well, if you didn't mind me doing it, I could give you a massage."

He looked at me strangely for a moment, as if not quite believing me, but
then realisation dawned, and a wicked smile lit up his face.

"Yeah, let's do that," he replied, his voice coarse with excitement.

--

He was trembling slightly as he lay face down on my bed, with the towel
still wrapped around his lower half. I looked at him lying there, head on
his folded arms, and saw perfection. From the way his hair met the nape of
his neck, down across the bumps of his spine, past the angular, jutting
shoulder blades and the faint ridges where the skin was stretched tight
across his ribs, and lower, to the strong muscles of his lower back and the
gentle swell of his bum, which was hidden all too quickly by the towel.

"It'll be easier to get to your legs if I just take this off," I said,
tugging lightly at the towel. "Is that OK?"

He nodded eagerly, his eyes already shut, and the trembling became a sharp
shiver of anticipation. The cheeks of his arse clenched at the same time,
and I got the distinct impression he ground himself into the towel a
little.

I wasted no time revealing my prize, glorying in the knowledge that I would
finally get my hands on the boy. My heart hammered in my chest, and I grew
lightheaded with the sheer intensity of my anticipation.

I knew he had a perfect bum. I'd known it for weeks, from the first time I
realised that I felt something more than paternal affection for Tim. He was
the first boy to trigger these sorts of feelings in me, but as I pulled the
towel away and knelt above him, I knew I'd found a new obsession - young
boys' bums.

Tim's was surely the finest specimen in the whole county. It was slender
but rounded, pert without sticking out obscenely. It made me want to dive
straight in with my tongue, which until that point in my life I'd never
even considered to be a thing. I salivated with the idea of getting my
tongue into his crevice.

But that wasn't what we were there for, and Tim would doubtless have
freaked out if I'd gone straight there, so instead I cracked open the
bottle of massage oil I'd once bought at a trade show and never used, and
warmed a little in the palms of my hands.

Oh God, his skin was smooth. Oh so smooth. I wasn't expecting it, but it
was a wonderful sensation beneath my fingers, which in contrast felt like
they were made of sandpaper. He purred and arched his back, raising his
little bum toward me as I ran my fingers up his leg.

I was all business at first, because he genuinely had tight muscles in his
legs which needed working loose. But having done that, I allowed myself to
play a little. Tim was quite happy to be played with, too, spreading his
legs and showing me his lovely, loose-skinned sack from behind, the skin
draped across the eggs within. There was no sign of his willy, but I
expected that to be pointing up toward his chin, and therefore hidden
beneath him.

I worked higher and higher on his thighs, until it was quite clear that my
intentions weren't innocent. I let my thumbs rub against the insides of his
legs, right down into the hollow where they met his groin, and then up
across the hard root of his dick. He let out a gasp and huffed indignantly,
rubbing his face against the sheets, but made no move to stop me. In fact,
he spread his legs a little wider and pushed his bum up at me. What had
been a pair of little eggs in a silken sack was now a single lump in a
tight pouch; he was very, very excited.

I went back to his legs for a moment, intending to draw it out and work him
up even more, but then I couldn't help myself and went straight back to his
backside, finally having the chance to knead its rounded perfection. He
made a little whimpering sound when I did so, then moaned and shuddered as
I passed the pad of my thumb across his wrinkled pucker. I did it again,
just to see what kind of reaction it got, and I was shocked and delighted
to feel him push back against the digit. I moved my thumb back to his
entrance and left it there, and Tim lifted his hips off the bed and pushed
hard backwards, until my thumb slipped right inside him, past the first
knuckle, its passage eased by the massage oil and his relaxed state.

We both froze, unsure quite what to do. I'd have said this wasn't the first
time he'd had something up his bum, but he was so young that it seemed
unlikely. When I flexed my thumb and hit his prostate, he let his breath
out in a huge sigh, which turned into a groan. He pushed back at me and
then pulled away, fucking himself on my thumb. Experienced or not, he knew
how to enjoy himself.

We stayed that way for a little longer, me holding my thumb in place and
sometimes flexing it, he humping back and forth. His hands snaked down
beneath his body, and I knew he was wanking himself while I thumbed his
bum. His breath grew ragged, and there was the occasional twitch in his
sphincter, and I knew he was getting close to the edge. He probably
would've been able to cum and carry on, but I wanted his first with me to
be different. I pulled out my thumb with a pop, and tapped him on the bum.

"Time to turn over," I said, and he complied immediately, though his hands
covered his groin. He grinned up at me, giving me teasing little glances of
the only thing I hadn't yet seen - his erection.

"Show it to me," I ordered, and with one last cheeky smile he flung his
hands up over his head.

It was, and remains, the most perfect little dick I have ever seen. I'd say
it was somewhere between three and four inches long, the foreskin just
covering the tip, the flare of the head visible through its hood as a
gentle rise. It stood proudly and and jerked with his heartbeat, and little
blue veins branched this way and that beneath the translucent, alabaster
skin. It was dead straight and as hard as a nail.

"Nice one," I commented, the awe evident in my voice. He giggled and
covered his face with his hands, and groaned and shook his head as if to
say `what have I done?'.

I didn't give him a chance to have second thoughts, though. I was far too
worked up for that, and I knew now something that I had never realised
before - I really, really wanted his willy in my mouth. I had to have it. I
salivated at the thought of sucking him. Wasting no time, I leaned down
over him, and sucked him wholly into my mouth. The lot of it, right down to
the root.

Any boylover who's actually had a little dick in their mouth will know how
wonderful the feeling is. You can sense every little ridge and bump against
your sensitive lips. You can taste the boy - skin, sweat, and something
meaty and indefinable, other than as `dick' - and you can feel the heat
radiating off the thing as masses of blood pumps through it and is
trapped. His foreskin tickled the roof of my mouth right at the back, and
the slender length of it lay along my tongue as if it was made to be there,
and there alone. I almost came just from the sensation of having it slide
between my lips.

Tim was pretty impressed, too, gasping, groaning, whimpering, desperately
bucking his hips up to meet my mouth. He was in heaven, just as I was. I
had no way of knowing if this was the first time he'd been sucked, so I had
no choice but to make it special for him. I hoovered the little spike,
sucking as hard as I could as I raised my lips, then pulling his foreskin
down with my lips and letting the sensitive head rub across my rough
tongue. He shut his eyes and grasped the sheets until his knuckles went
white, and thrashed his head from side to side as I gave the blowjob
performance of my life.

I knew what would send him flying over the edge, too. Reaching between his
legs I found his hole, still soft and yielding, and plugged it with my
thumb. I was right, too. He went apeshit, thrashing about in a way I've
never seen with any lover, man or woman. He was so worked up that it was
only a matter of thirty seconds more and he was jerking, his stomach
muscles coming into sharp relief as his dick tried to empty a load which
wasn't there into my mouth. His orgasm was spectacular, and came in two
waves; I thought it was over, and was just nursing him back down from the
high, when he started bucking again, crying out loudly this time as the
feelings came even more intensely.

I let him relax at last, and pulled my thumb out of him. He rolled onto his
side, bringing up a knee and hugging it, and I lay down behind him,
grabbing him in a hug, spooning into him. I was a good foot taller than
him, but with his head under my chin, my manhood was at the height of his
bum. I hoped he wouldn't mind as I laid it along his crack.

He lay still for a while, breathing heavily, occasionally shuddering as if
racked by the aftershocks of his orgasm. I held him tightly to me, and his
arms wrapped around one of mine, holding me back, snuggling into my
embrace.

I was still hard, though, and found myself gently humping him. He lay inert
for a few moments, but then started to gently grind back at me. The tip of
my dick naturally fell into the valley of his backside, and I wondered if
there was any chance I could get inside. We didn't speak, we communicated
through the movement of our bodies. His acceptance came not through words,
but through the gentle backwards pressure he exerted on the tip of my
dick. He held it there, not penetrating, but not simply nuzzling against
the entrance either. Time stretched as we lay in our embrace, the soft, hot
ring of his muscle slowly relaxing, stretching, accommodating. I almost
didn't realise I'd finally slipped within until his ring gave a twitch,
clamped behind the bulge of my head. He gasped and whimpered, and shook
from head to toe. His eyes were clamped tightly shut, and his fingernails
dug into my arm. I held him tightly to me, and kissed the top of his
head. Glancing down the length of his body I could see his penis lying
shrivelled across his hip. It made me pause and try to pull back, but his
hand reached back and alighted on my hip.

"It's OK. If you want to do it, you can," he whispered. There was pain in
his voice, but something else, too. Lust? Love?

I made love to him in the gentlest way I could, rolling my hips, taking my
time. He felt like nothing else in the world as I gently thrust in and
out. The heat and the silken softness, combined with the pressure of his
tight young hole brought me to a rousing climax long before I wanted to
finish. I made one last, deep thrust and let go a titanic flood inside him.

When I had become still once more, he sighed deeply, and hugged my arm to
his chest.

--

At some point we both fell asleep. I woke first, after lunchtime, with
sunshine streaming in through the window. The morning's storms had been
blown away, and it was a beautiful afternoon. Tim stirred sleepily and
stretched, then turned toward me and nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd
clearly forgotten where he was. I smiled down at him, and he gave me a
weak, nervous smile in return, which strengthened when I ran my hand down
his flank and over his hip to cup his soft willy and balls.

"You don't hate me then?" he asked, a tremor in his voice.

"Of course not! Why would I hate you? Tim, I feel totally the opposite."

"It's just..."

He paused, his brow creasing. He looked like he was trying to unpick
something he'd seen or heard before. Then he shook his head.

"Nevermind," he said, and turned to nuzzle his nose against my shoulder,
and then lie his head upon it.

"Tim, you didn't lose your key, did you?"

He was silent for a long moment before answering.

"No, it's in my saddle bag."

I could feel the hard little spike of his erection against my thigh. In the
warm afternoon sun, we lazily made love.



THE END



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