Date: 4 Mar 1999 06:59:44 -0800
From: poondu@members.gayweb.com
Subject: Two Boys and A Man
Two Boys and A Man
thole <poondu@members.gayweb.com>
Two boys and a man decloaked in the car park behind the old bus. The
man in the bus was watching through the smokey rear window as the
littlest one kicked off his sandals and pulled down his jeans. The
other two started at the top; first their jerseys and undershirts,
then their trousers, only removing their sandals when they got in the
way of the trous. By this time the little one had turned away and was
pulling his jersey off over his head. As if it was a mighty task he
bent fully over and let the jersey fall off his arms to the ground. He
reached behind and with dainty hands spread his ass cheeks to let the
cool desert air dry the car-sweat from his crack and then he stood
and turned back. His father admonished him to pick up his clothes
from the ground and by the time he'd done that the man and the older
boy, their sandals on again, had picked up all of their kit but the
green plastic basket ball and commenced walking toward the gate.
Little-one stepped across his sandals, picked up the ball and ran to
catch up. A boy after my own heart thought the man behind the smokey
window as he moved through the bus to keep him in view.
The sounds of youthful voices are not heard often enough in this
place. Bringing one's children to a naturist camp seems foreign to
some parents despite their own enjoyment of the occasion. Is it that
they don't want their kids to know? or they don't want to expose
their kids to the risk of perversion? or they want to enjoy the
moment of freedom by themselves? Or perhaps in this society of
perverted values they as naturist parents are afraid of being accused
of molesting or abusing their own children? Whatever. The father
went to lay out on the lawn and his older son followed his every
move; lawn-potatoes as it were, whilst the little one kicked the ball
about under the badminton net. Occasionally, whether by accident or
design, the ball would land squarely on the buttocks of the older boy
who would snarl his disconcertion and go back to his reading. The man
watching from afar wondered where the ball would land if that boy
were to lay on his back.
Presently the man contrived to take a bag of trash to the barrel on
the far side of the lawn doing which allowed him to pass close
between the father and sons. Father was quite unlike his sons and it
was both amazing and saddening to think that their hairless young
skysuits would all too soon become like his--he looked almost as
though he could pass for a silver-back ape. His penis was little more
than a glans, like a red egg in a nest, he was cut so short. The man
wondered as he passed by why it is that most circumcised penises are
so short, especially the adult ones. Is it cos the latent fat pushes
the groin out around them or cos so much of the foreskin has been
removed that the remaining scarred sheath holds the head in close.
The older son, who, up close looked to be about eight or ten, was cut
in the same horrible manner as his father. The little boy, who by now
we know is named Eric from the way the other two address him, is cut
but sports enough of a fold of foreskin that his beechmast is half
covered to the result that his penis in its present little-boy-
sticking-out-straight condition is actually longer than his older
brother's. A condition that I'm sure engenders no end of envy and
frustration in the older sibling, the man ponders as he returns from
depositing his bag of trash.
Eric is busy throwing his ball over the net to an invisible playmate
and running under it to catch the ball and return it. Mostly he is
late and the ball is already sitting quietly on the grass, waiting.
As the man walks past Eric makes a heroic throw but this time does
not run under the net. This time he stands pat, knowing full well
that this man, unlike his father or his brother, this man is
ensorcelled, bewitched, under his spell. This man will return the
ball, he has no other choice.
They play together for several minutes; the boy throwing with all
he's got to get the ball over the net, the man with his longer legs
able to return almost every serve, and then Eric ducking from under
the ball, falling over it, running to catch, and then throw it back.
He is tiring now and instead of throwing over, this time he kicks it
under. The man returns, Eric kicks, but it hurts his toe. The man
comes close and shows the pretty boy how to kick with the side of his
foot and a new vigour comes upon the lad that lasts for a bit longer
before he kicks the ball to the side and follows it without a word
of thanks. The game is over just the way it started; the boy is in
control and he has this man on a string, hook, line, sinker--by the
ball one might say.
The man retires to his bus and contrives a new way to get closer. He
collects all his laundry--not much laundry when one lives in a nudist
community--a few towels, a sheet from the bed that is big enough for
himself and several boys at the same time, tho he most often sleeps
there alone but for the faeries that play with him in the night, a
dun pareu. He carries all this carefully through the tableau on the
lawn where Eric is wandering between things that capture his
attention for a moment but fail to hold it. The boy wants to play but
there is no one to play with. Wait, here comes that man again. And so
he follows.
The man stumbles on a paver and drops his plastic liter of laundry
powder. Eric is quick and returns it with a smile. Thank you Eric.
How do you know my name? It is written on your face, the man smiles
as the boy, with puzzled expression, wipes a hand across his brow.
The wash is quickly started under the lad's watchful eye and then the
man goes off to make the rounds of his responsibilities. Eric
follows. When they are round the far side of the pool a heavy basso
rumbles his little name. Eric! Where are you? And a boy soprano
yodels back Right Here! They try the teetertotter where the man is
able to launch the little boy and catch him in his arms. Contact!
A three stone sack of sweaty wriggles.
Eventually they are back around where the slugs repose on the grass
and the man tells the boy he will return in a few minutes to move his
wash to the dryer. Eric for a moment looks crest fallen, as if his
playmate has been called home to supper and now he has nothing to do
but then the father speaks up and says Lunch.
---
Now the laundry is finished and the man is removing it, one item at a
time from the dryer. He holds up each towel and snaps it, once,
twice, and then folds double, over, and over again, and holds up one
knee to use as a momentary table to fold again in thirds. Eric is
watching from a vantage next to the dryer. Why are you doing your
laundry? Cos if I don't then everything will be dirty and I like the
smell of clean towels. My Dad never does the laundry, my Mom does. I
don't have a Mom so I have to do it. Where's your Mom? She's dead
now. Oh.
And then Eric is standing next to him as he holds up one particularly
large blue towel. You can tell by his milk teeth the boy is five,
maybe four, not likely six, a meter tall at best, his face is level
with the man's groin. The man looks around over the top of the towel
and then down at the boy. The lad smiles up at him, Wanna play
doctor? Right here? If you hold the towel we can make believe its the
curtain for my examining room.
How come you don't have any hair? You look just like me except you're
bigger. Are you a man or are you really a boy? I'm a boy trapped in a
man's body, the man says as the lad reaches to feel the smoothness of
the shaved chest and pubes.
The boy is holding both hands side by side with the man's cock across
his palms. He is fascinated by its growth as he holds it. When he
first lifted it, from hanging down to pulled straight up, he used his
other hand to fondle the balls he found under it. Now he is testing
its firmness and pulling back on the foreskin. How come its getting
hard? Cos it likes the way you're touching it. Mine gets hard when my
brother touches me and one of my friends has a foreskin he lets me
play with when he sleeps over. But we only did it once.
Eric seems to be addressing the penis he is holding more than the
man, who is still holding the examining room curtain. Up until a week
ago my Dad and me use to almost always wash together--sometimes in
the tub, sometimes in the shower. He would wash me and then I would
get out and wrap in a towel while he washed. But sometimes I would
stay in and watch him wash. Sometimes he would sit and I would wash
his back. Then last week I started to wash his pee-pee like he always
washed mine, and it started to get longer and hard and he pushed my
hands away and said I was old enough to shower alone now. That was
the last time we washed together. I miss him touching me.
He looked up at the man and pressed his cheek against the erection in
his hands. The man groaned. Eric jumped back. Did I hurt it, he
cried, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. He let go and brought his
clenched fists up under his chin; the cock continued to stand
unsupported. He looked up again, Is it alright? Its ok Eric, you
didn't hurt it, your hands feel so good on it, that was a moan of
happiness cos it feels good.
Phew! I'm glad. Well, I'm done examining, its your turn to be the
doctor and examine me.
And who's going to hold up the curtain, the man thought. But he said,
I'll finish folding all this stuff and then we can go to my office.
---
He lifted the boy onto the wash basin counter top in the bathhouse
and immediately their relative perspectives were reversed. He held
the boy's thighs and directed him to turn about slowly while
examining the statuesque nascent Adonis. There was a mirror behind
the boy that doubled his pleasure. When Eric had come full circle
(would that he *could* cum thought the man) he stood with his feet
apart and submitted to the examination. His skin was soft and smooth,
without blemish, slightly tanned but no tan line, and only the
slightest trace of pubescent down. The man brought a finger up
between the lad's sculpted legs and lightly scratched his perineum
and then fondled the tight boyish scrotum. Eric moaned as his penis
began to respond. Now I know what you meant by it feeling good.
The folded remnant of foreskin retracted as his pee-pee lengthened.
My pee-pee looks like a peeee-peeee now he said. He touched himself
and was surprised at his own hardness. The man stroked the base,
drawing a finger around the root and then caressing the glans while
the boy moaned and giggled. He kissed it and the lad's sharp intake
of breath told him that nobody had done that before or at least not
that he could remember.
Then he turned the lad away again and had him bend over and hold his
ankles while he again drew a finger along the perineum towards the
tight clean anus. He kissed each cheek and wondered if he would see
this lad again before he was twice as old.
-30-