Date: Sun, 31 Jul 2011 20:19:00 +0000
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: OSCAR MY LOVE Part 5   Gay Male Youth Adult

DISCLAIMER

Everyone should accept the laws of his country, reserving the right to
strive democratically to change those he disagrees with. Therefore, if the
laws where you live say that you should NOT be reading stories like these,
you are legally obliged to leave now and read no further.  It does not
matter if these stories are fiction, made-up, only written to entertain,
instruct, engage, and inform. If for any reason, the law where you live
says you are NOT allowed to read them, you have to go. So off you go. Live
a healthy and happy life, and come back, if you want to, when your laws say
you can.

And remember: these are only stories. They are made-up. They did not
happen. And the writer does not believe they should happen. The first
responsibility of adults is to protect children and their innocence. It
doesn't mean some adults won't enjoy reading stories like this, but it
doesn't mean they should go out and do things like this. Who knows? maybe
reading stories like this will actually stop them going out and doing these
things.



OSCAR MY LOVE

Part 5

"Your son's a very handsome boy. You must be proud of him."

"I'm not his Dad. I'm his Uncle."

"Yes," piped up Oscar. "This is my Uncle Tom. I'm his nephew Oscar, and
we're very pleased to meet you."  He extended a small hand. The tailor took
the proferred hand and shook it solemnly. I see you're also a very polite
boy. Always a good thing in a young gentleman. Now let's measure your
inside leg."

I must say Oscar looked particularly fetching as any boy should on his
seventh birthday. We'd spent the morning at a Boot Fair where Oscar had
bought a Moroccan cap for 50 pence. Brightly coloured, it fitted round his
head pushing his blond hair behind his small ear and over his collar. The
odd thing is that no matter what Oscar wears, he never looks girlish. Cute,
yes, stunningly cute but rarely did anyone take him for a girl. Now, on his
seventh birthday, he was meldingly in a remarkably attractive boy. This, of
course, was helped by his height. In a group of boys his own age, Oscar
always stood three or four inches over the tallest. And slender, yes, but
skinny, no. His flat chest was taking shape, his hips more noticeable, his
legs running on forever.

Oscar's seventh birthday, and Amy and I had agreed I could buy him a new
outfit. Like any good mum, she'd then left it to the 'boys', and thouugh
Oscar and I had decided on new jeans, shirt and light leather jacket, I'd
decided to have the jeans tailored rather than store-bought. There's not
much point earning a deputy head's salary and not being a little
extravagant now and again. Later we'd meet Amy and off we'd go to the
restaurant of Oscar's choice. He didn't mind which restaurant it was as
long as he could have 'mule's mareenyer', by which he meant moules
marinieres. He'd tried them on our day out in France. Oscar could tell you
they were mussels cooked in white wine with onions, herbs and a tiny splash
of cream, and they were on the list of things he wanted to try and make for
his seventh birthday. Fortunately, we'd compromised he could have them as a
special treat when the three of us dined out to celebrate the great day.

After dining, Amy would go on to her club, and we'd head 'home' to watch a
DVD of Oscar's choice, and... there was something very erotic about knowing
Oscar, on his seventh birthday, would be lying naked over my knees as I
stroked and pressed his tummy - full of 'mule's mareenyer - squeezed the
cheeks of his buttocks, kissed his nipples, and worked his hot hard-on to
orgasm as his whole body shook and trembled beneath me. Oscar would then
climb into his terry-towel bath robe and snuggle into my body, naked within
my bathrobe, as we watched whatever he had chosen for that Saturday night.

I'd done well. You have to give me that. I insisted Oscar shower on his
own. I insisted he sleep in his own bunk bed. I insisted he kept his hands
off my dick, no matter how hard it pressed into his hot little body. Oscar
accepted the rules gracefully, if not cheerfully. He loved me playing with
his body but did not seem overly interested in mine. Perhaps that's a
characteristic of small boys; they are more interested in having their own
bodies pleasured than pleasuring others. This made sense, and it also
helped emormously not to give into the lust I felt for him, and every part
of him.

I hope I was protecting Oscar. I know I was protecting myself. Frankly, I
was sometimes terrified, though far less often than I'd been only a few
months before. I knew how ready children were to 'tell tales' - not with
the intention of getting their 'accomplice' into trouble, but simply
because 'secrets' aren't real secrets unless they are shared. I also know
that Oscar might be under immense internal pressure to express his
sexuality with others. But it seemed that when Oscar classified something
as 'man stuff' that's exactly whatt it was. To be shared with me, but with
absolutely no one else. Still, despite this assurance, I didn't want to
take risks, especially since I didn't know if I coould limit myself if I
gave into the desires that prowled my imagination. I couldn't forget that
image: my kness on either side of the sleeping boy's head - my fingers
prising open his mouth - the cum shooting from my cock into his open
mouth. If I could do that, what else was I capable of.

"That man was feeling my willy," says Oscar, his fringe bouncing on his
forehead in time with his skipping by my side.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask.

"Because it felt nice," he replies. "I've got a hard-on now," he adds.

"Well, don't think about it," say, though I can feel my own cock begin to
twitch.

"Don't be silly," he says. "You can't just NOT think of a hard-on when
you've got one. When you try NOT to think about it, you just think about it
even more, and that makes it worse. Wait a minute." He pauses, sticks his
hand in his pocket, and angles his erection up his tummy. "Can we go for a
Pepsi now, please?"

"Half a glass," I compromise. "We'll share."

"Okay," he agrees, "and we can sort out things for my birthday party
tomorrow."

"Agreed. Come on. And remember ... no thinking about that hard-on. I'll do
tht ehtink about that for both of us."

Ten minutes later we're sitting over a large glass of Pepsi - one glass,
two straws. I'm not going to do well out of this arrangement. We're sorting
out Oscar's official birthday party, the first that will be attended by
other boys. The party will take place in my flat, but I won't be there. Amy
will do the honours. But I'm as thrilled as Oscar. He has invited seven
boys from his class - one for each year - and I've arranged for a
professional party person to organise the games and activities. It seems a
weird sort of career: a PPP (professional party person) to make sure kids
have a great time at their parties, but I guess if you are a BL or GL, it
must be a sort of Nirvana. Not for me though. I'll be elsewhere, among
adults, in my role as pillar of the community, rising star in state
education, eligible bachelor, and all-round good egg. And here I sit,
sharing a Pepsi with a seven-year-old, and wish I could be his tummy with
his hot hard flesh pressed against me.

If I were writing a novel, rather than simply telling a tale, I would give
some account of the birthday dinner, the moules - gobbled everyone - the
slightly tipsy single-parent mother and the deputy headteacher, and the
bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, ivory-skinned, Moroccan cap betopped,
golden-fringed little boy to whom an entire restaurant sang 'Happy
Birthday' and meant it. I would describe Amy kissing the cheeks of her
little boy, before bundling herself into a taxi with the words, "See you
tomorrow, birthday boy," before she and the taxi disappeared into the
night. I would recount Oscar and I catching our own taxi, negotiating the
lift, and Oscar, rather than I, working the key into the door as we more or
less fell into my apartment.

"Right, birthday boy, into the shower with you," I say. "Properly
dried. Sort out the DVD. Then onto the couch. I'll be back in ten
minutes. The boiler's a bit wonky. I'm going down to see the caretaker. And
remember, birthday boy, properly dry, and... no thinking about hard-ons!"

The ten minutes take thirty minutes. The caretaker is a happy idiot, but a
brilliant engineer, and after a bit of clankimg, banging and dinging at
assorted pipes, he convinces me the problem with the boiler is no more. I
take the lift, my excitement rising, my cock hardening as I think of a damp
Oscar, slippy as silk, stretched out naked on the couch, his hard-on stiff
against his tummy. I'm humming as I open our front door.

Oscar is naked. But he is not stretched out on the couch. He is sitting
there, watching a DVD, eyes wide, mouth open, one hand holding the remote,
the fingers of the other working his cock - it still looks outlandish on
his seven-year-old body - he does not look towards me as I cross the
room. Surely he isn't watching 'Toy Story'!

Familiar moaning and groaning tells me this is not 'Toy Story'!

I stand in front of the boy, reach out, take the remote control and flick
off the DVD.

Oscar looks up at me, smiles and says, "I know what to do now." He reaches
out and runs his little fingers down the front of my trousers. I know I
should push his hand away, but a seven-year-old beautiful boy is sitting
before me, his robe open to revealed his nakedness, his fingers moving the
foreskin quickly up and down over the head of his sweet prick. I haven't
the strength to resist. I feel myself growing hard. He leans forward and
places his mouth against the bulge and presses with his lips. With his free
hand he undoes my belt, not easy for such a small hand. He flicks open the
clasp. Slowly pulls down the zip. Begins to edge my trousers down and over
my hips and ass. I throw the remote on the couch and help him push my
trousers and boxers down together. I kick off my shoes, then with a
slightly comic struggle kick off my pants and boxers.

My prick, taut and hard, stretches from my bush up to my belly button. I
feel Oscar's fingers, so light, so feathery, run up and down the shaft. I
feel him weigh my balls in his hands, one ball at a time in such small
hands. Then I'm surprised and a little shocked to feel him kiss my belly,
my pubic area, my thick curly hair, and at last the head of my cock which
looks bigger than his tongue. Now he is running his little pink tongue up
and down the shaft while his fingers explore my bush and the trail of hair
that runs up my belly.

"Am I doing okay?" I hear his voice below me ask.

Somehow I get the words out: "Beautiful, just beautiful."

He is moving the skin of the shaft harder and faster now - Where the fuck
did he learn this? - while he tries to fit the mushroom head of my cock in
his little mouth. I hear him gag. He can't do it. So he licks round the
head, up and down, slow and fast. I feel the pre-cum ooze from he; Oscar
licks it up as fast as it reaches my glans. Behind me I hear the soundtrack
of the damned DVD. Did I really leave it where he could find it? The moans,
the groans, the slapping sounds, the squeals, the muffled unbroken voice of
a prepubescent boy being used and abused by two - or is it three grown men?
I'm not going to last much longer.

Gently I push Oscar away from me. Once more his eyes are fixed on the
screen. I flick a mechanism on the couch, and the back slides down, turning
it into a double bed. I throw off my sweater and shirt. No time to get my
socks off.  I push Oscar onto the couch and go down on him, making sure he
can still watch the screen. I take his four inches between my lips. He
couldn't be harder. Foreskin fully retracted. I lean back at marvel at the
purity of his skin - not a hair, not a blemish, his ball sac almost
completely round with only the hint of the two balls inside. The sac with
the 'seam' that my tongue can follow to paradise. I feel a push on my
head. Oscar is pushing me back down on him. I manage a little control,
running my lips up and down the shaft. It is actually throbbing. He is
pushing his hips up from the couch, sliding into my mouth, withdrawing,
sliding in again. I feel the tension in his body rise. Like me, Oscar isn't
going to last long if I keep sucking like this.

I release him, flip him over onto his tummy - small boys are so flexible -
making sure he still has full view of the screen.  His bum, bottom, arse,
ass... is is open to my gaze. He is unbelievably clean with the merest hint
of an opening shaded in darker pink. I want to lick that opening, kiss it,
suck it, so I do, though it's practically impossible to suck something so
tiny with my adult lips. For a moment, I expect surprise, shock, protest
from the boy, but he simply pushes his ass into my face.  I would like to
work his hole with my tongue, my fingers, my dick, but that will have to
wait. The last thing I want to do is take the boy in a moment of heat and
risk injury to something so fragile, so beautiful, so perfect.

I flip him onto his back. His head is hanging over the edge of the
couch. He is watching the action on the screen upside down.  I wonder if it
makes any difference to Oscar. I glance at the screen - the boy, 10 or 11
years old, is being arse and face fucked simultaneously. I swallow Oscar's
dick and balls and slurp on them for a while. I slip my finger between his
buttocks, find his tiny sphincter and stroke it. I release his balls and
suck his four-incher as fast and as hard as I can. His body tightens,
bucks, shivers, trembles. I hear squeals and yelps and realise they are
coming from Oscar, not from the screen.  His orgasm hits him like a silver
bullet. He clutches me so hard I feel his nails nip into me. Pain and
pleasure. For the moment there is no difference. He writhes below me, his
cock throbbing in my mouth. Then with a whimper he subsides, collapses, and
for a moment I think he has fainted.  Sure that he hasn't, I turn his body
lengthways on the couch.

I kneel over him, one knee on either side of his head.

"Open your mouth. Open wide," I whisper.

Oscar opens wide.

"Close your eyes," I whisper.

Oscar closes his eyes.

I place the head of my cock against his open lips and jerk as fast as I
can.

It's a matter of seconds. Sports and squirts of warm cum fire into Oscar's
mouth, hitting him on the back of the throat.  He tries to swallow. There's
a brave boy. But there's too much. Reflexively he closes his mouth. Cum
escapes from the sides of his mouth, dribbles down his chin. He begins to
cough - cums fires like snot from his nose. His pink tongue snakes out and
tries to lick the cum from his lips. I pick him up. He has already lost the
bath robe. I carry him into the shower.  I hold him in my arms as the hot
water beats down on us. The jacuzzi filled, I climb into it, still holding
him as the water fizzes and bubbles round us.

In time, Oscar opens his big hazel eyes. I am worried how he will
react. Then he speaks.

"Can we watch the rest of that DVD, please, Uncle Tom? I want to see what
else they do to that boy."

I laugh, relieved, and say, "Nope, we're going to watch the DVD you
chose. What is it by the way?"

"It's the one called 'Braveheart'. I saw a bit of it on youtube. The
battles look well wicked."

Oh, Oscar, my sweet Oscar.

Oh, Oscar, my love.

Happy birthday.

(to be continued)