Date: Tue, 02 Aug 2011 18:01:06 +0000
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: OSCAR MY LOVE Part 6   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 6

Corruption? Degredation? I'm not sure. Beauty? Oh, yes, beauty. I'm looking
at a photograph of Oscar. He must be seven or eight years old. Getting
ready for bed.  He isn't wearing a top. He never does. The elastic on his
white briefs is folded back on itself, low down below his hardly-existent
hips, exposing the ivory of his pubic area.  He has a slight tan, all over,
since Oscar has no qualms about stretching out naked on the beach when he
can get away with it. He is slim but not thin, slender but not skinny.  His
skin is flawless, immaculate. He is in mid-step, and even in a still
photograph, one senses the fluid grace with which he moves.

Oscar has flicked his fringe back from his eyes. It's difficult to describe
his hair; not blond, not gold, not chestnut, but a mixture of all three;
straight but with soft waves that curl onto his shoulders. His eyes, hazel
flecked with gold, are startling. His chest is perfectly formed, his
nipples are pert brown cherries that set off the porcelain of his skin.
His chest narrows towards a V as it reaches his hips - waist so small that
I can wrap one hand round it. Tummy button an innie I've explored with my
tongue so many times, and each time afresh.

Yes, Oscar is beautiful, and yet there is nothing sissy about him. Oscar is
a man's boy.

We continue to reach compromises. We can share a jacuzzi but not a
shower. We can lie in my bed while I'm reading a story to him, or him to
me, but he can't sleep overnight in my bed. I am to suck him off two times
before a DVD but not three times - "My dick starts to get sore," - the boy
explains. He sucks me off but I've got to tell him when I'm going to cum -
"I hate when it comes down my nose," he explains. He can go around the flat
naked when the central heating is running riot - the caretaker is not quite
the genius I took him for. I've got to come and watch him in 'Robin Hood' -
Oscar plays Robin - and any other school plays or pantomimes he is in (as
if he could keep me away!) And I've got to come to Parents' Evenings
because "Mum doesn't understand shit about education." - for which remark
Oscar forfeited a a DVD session.

And, finally. Oscar has the right to watch any of my DVDs; his demand not
mine, and I resist nobly for a couple of weeks but then weakly give in.

"I'm not a baby," says Oscar - all of seven years old - "I know that boys
and men have sex." - he can mame what is happening now - "and it's
educational." My Oscar is a born politician.  He also has his own key, hung
on a string round his neck, because Amy doesn't finish until six, and I've
got at least two meetings after school a week. What I do not know - until
it is too late - that Oscar, in time, will invite boys round to watch DVDs
with him, and charge them for the privilege.  Not only a politician, but an
entrepreneur - Dragons' Den has a lot to answer for.

We see less of Amy. She has a steady boyfriend, Nigel (!), and Nigel does
not like children, in particular, he does not like Oscar because Oscar is
as bright as Nigel is thick, and that takes some doing. But Nigel, to give
him his due, (Nigel can have anything he wants except Oscar.) is genuinely
fond of Amy. He is bourgeois middle-class, assistant bank manager, own
flat, nice car, and his intentions towards Amy seem honourable. But like
men young men he doesn't have much time for kids, and certainly not for a
precocious, gob-smacking little beauty like Oscar. So we see less of Amy,
and very little of Amy and Nigel, and that suits me. It suits Oscar less,
but as he has been spending most of his weekends with me, he shrugs his
shoulders and comes to terms with the set-up.

One night, as he is stretched out naked across my lap (second suck), I hear
him ask, "Wonder if Mum is doing this to Nigel." Minutes later, as his
tremors subside, I turn him over and playfully smack his backside, though I
make sure it hurts a bit. "Don't you be rude about your mother," I say.
"I'm not being rude," I hear from protest from beneath me. "I was just
wondering. And - Ouch! - do boys suck girls? - Ouch! - They can't, can
they? - Ouch! - I mean girls don't have anything to get sucked. - Ouch!" I
realise I will have to extend the range of DVDs Ocsar is watching.

Rarely does Oscar give me cause for anger, but I recall one occasion when
he thoroughly deserved a good spanking - if I'd been able to bring myself
to administer one.

It's Saturday evening. We're going out to the cinema, but first I've got to
get a few domestic chores out of the way. These include dumping Oscar's
school shirt, socks and trousers into the wash. I'm emptying his trouser
pockets when I find a crumpled £5 note. At first I assume Amy gave it to
him after school on Friday. Then I remember I picked him up, and Amy hasn't
seen him since Friday morning.

I walk into the salon where Oscar is completing a jigsaw. I hold out the £5
note and ask: "And where did this come from?"

As soon as I see Oscar's reaction, I know that something is up. The boy's
lip trembles. There are tears in his eyes. His cheeks are on fire. Oscar
has a problem. He is congenitally unable to lie, at least to his mother and
me. He has the tiniest of speed impediments that only emerge when he is
under stress.

"A m-m-an gave it to me."

"A man?" I echo.

I sit on the couch and pat a space next to me. Oscar pulls himself up off
the floor and sits next to me.  I turn his body to face me. I raise his
chin so he is looking into my eyes. God, they are beautiful even when full
of storms.

"Who? Where? When? What? Why?"

This is the formula I have taught Oscar to use when he is writing stories
at school. He understands by asking and answering these questions, he'll
never be stuck on what to write about next."

"Take five deep breaths, and then tell me."

The boy follows instructions and...

"After school on Friday. I didn't come straight home." He puases, expecting
a lecture. I say nothing.

"I was coming straight home. But I stopped in the toilets, you known the
ones in Albert Street. I really need a piss - a wee," he corrects
himself. "I was having a wee. A man stood next to me. He pulled out his
cock, his penis." He pauses aagain. "I took a peek. I should've put mine
away, I know, but his was so big. I kept on looking. It started getting
bigger. And he wasn't really peeing. Just sort of playing with it. I
started playing with mine, not much, just squeezing and pulling a bit."
Oscar frowns and looks at me. "I was feeling, you know, horny." This is not
a word I've taught Oscar. Damn those DVDs.

"He was a very nice man. Not dirty or smelly or anything. And there was
only us two in the toilet. His penis was standing straight up. I could see
the hair sticking out of his flies. Then he said, 'Like what you see, young
man?'  I nodded my head, I think."

I interrupt with, "And you went into a cubicle."

"No, no," says Oscar, "we went in his car."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Oscar..."

The boy can't resist a giggle. "Watch your language," he mimics me so
accurately, sees my scowl, gulps, and goes on with his confession.

"We went down to the harbour. Remember it was sunny on Friday? He parked so
we could see the ships. He chatted really nice. He asked me lots of
questions about school and stuff. He was really interested. Then..."

"Then?"

"Well, you know. He started playing with me - through my school pants. He
was really scared. He kept looking out of the window. He kept asking me if
I was okay. And okay with what he was doing. He said I was pretty. I didn't
like that, but I didn't tell him. I got really hard, and he went down on
me."

"Down on you?"  (I'm going to confiscate those DVDs.)

"Yeh, for ages. I started getting bored. So I wiggled my bum, and jumped up
and down a bit, and went 'oooh', 'aaah', and stuff like that. Then I pushed
his head away and said it was getting sore. He looked happy, but I stopped
him when he started pulling my shirt out of my trousers and stuff like
that. Then he had his cock out. It was huge, Uncle Tom.  I mean humungous,
like those cocks on some of your porno vids. I wasn't putting my mouth on
that!

"So I put my fingers from both hands round it and started jerking the skin
up and down. Wow! He only lasted ten seconds - that's just a guess - but it
was about that. Then he came all over his trousers and shirt and right up
on to his tie.  I just held on 'cos I didn't want it to turn and squirt on
me. I knew you'd be mad if I came home in a mess."

"So you didn't let any of it in your mouth?" I ask.

"Oh, no!" he protests. "I wouldn't do that. I might catch ADHD or
something. I remember what you told me."

I resist the urge to laugh, but I'm sure Oscar catches my smile.

"And then he dropped you back at Albert Street."

"Well, no actually," Oscar begins. "He took me for a Big Mac. You know the
place in Harbour Street." Which explains why Oscar had such a poor appetite
on Friday evening.

"And then he dropped you at Albert Street?" I ask hopefully.

"Yep," the boy says confidently. "But he gave me that £5 note... and asked
me what school I go to."  (pause) "But ha, ha, I told him a different
school." Oscar says this as if it answers everything. It doesn't.

We are quiet for a few moments, then...

"Oscar, do you know WHY you went to the toilets? Why you let that man...? I
know you were feeling 'horny', but..." and this is hard to say... "couldn't
you wait till you got home?"

We are quiet for a few moments more, then...

"'Cos you won't let me try stuff?"

"'Stuff?' What kind of stuff?"

It's Oscar's turn to find the right words.

"You know... man-stuff, sex-stuff."

"Oscar... I didn't know... I thought that... You can always ask me. You
know that. What is it you want to..."

Fifteen minutes later - and I find this incredible even as I write it - I
am lying naked, stretched out, face down, on the double bed. Oscar is
sitting, naked, half way down my body, pulling my legs ever wider apart.
His fingers wiggle through the hair until he finds my anus. "It's like a
little door," I hear him say. "You've got lots of hair. Where is it now?" I
imagine I feel his breath on my arse hole. Surely not. Then I feel his
middle finger stroking the length of the opening. "It's like a little
mouth," he tells me. "Can I get my finger...?" I feel the pressure against
sphincter, Tension keeps it tightly closed. But Oscar is relentless. He
presses and probes, until 'pop' his middle finger is in to the first
knuckle. Then unceremoniously out it pops.

"I know what's wrong," he announces. I hear him clambering from the bed,
pattering across the bedroom, clinks from my dressing table, and he's back
on the bed. "Here, this should help," he tells me, and there's the sudden
shock of cold cream on my arse hole. I think I should say something, but
for the life of me I can't think what. I can imagine the look of solemn
concentration on Oscar's face as his fingers, first one, then two, twist
and turn against my hole until the muscles give way, and his fingers are in
as deep as they can go. I can feel the boy's fingers - digit and middle -
pushed into the knuckles twisting, turning, circling, stretching as I
loosen up for him. That must be a third finger because for the first time
there is some discomfort, but most of that is cancelled out by the sheer
erotic intensity of the experience.  A seven-year-old boy is finger-fucking
me with ruthless intensity. My prick is so hard I think it might break. I
realise if Oscar tries to jam his little fist right up my arse, I'll do
nothing to stop him.

Damn it! His fingers are gone. I suddenly feel so empty.

"Up, up, please, Uncle Tom," I hear him whisper as he pulls my hips
upwards. In response I get half on my knees, my face still burrowed in a
pillow, lavender-scented. Once again I feel him probing at my entrance. I
try and relax and will myself to open for him. It's a shock when I realise
it's not Oscar's fingers - it's his hard little cock - not so little at
just over four inches, but he's fucking seven years old, for fuck's sake! A
seven-year-old boy is trying to fuck me, and I want to help him. I reach
behind me, grab my cheeks and wrench them as wide apart as I can. I can
hear Oscar grunt, but I'm not sure what the grunt signifies me.

And suddenly he's inside me! Really inside me!

And he's not finger-fucking me, he's fucking me for real - and I can hear
and feel his little belly bouncing off my buttocks.

I try to help by pushing back but realise he's not going to bottom out on
four inches. I only wish I could see his face, see his fringe flopping onto
his face, see his slim arms as they hang onto my shoulders, watch his belly
bounce against my bum, and, above all, watch his four-inch shaft sliding in
and out of my hairy hole.

Although I can't reach my own straining cock, I realise an orgasm is
building. It's hard to believe I'm going to cum without anyone touching my
erection; it's just as hard to believe I'm not going to cum if Oscar keeps
this up. And he does. Holding on tight, he pushes in and pulls out faster
and faster until I feel like a bitch in heat being fucked by a randy,
unforgiving mutt.

At last, with a yelp, Oscar gives one final push, holds himself inside me,
then collapses onto my back. I collapse beaneath him, feeling cum spit from
me onto my freshly-laundered duver cover.

We both lie there, man and boy, still joined - satisfied, satiated, dead to
the world... until...

"Uncle Tom, Uncle Tom," I feel him, or think I do, pulling out of me. "Are
you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" I grunt non-commitally.  "Remember
we're going to the cinema. We'd better hurry up. Don't want to miss the
start of the show."

Half an hour later we're sitting in the cinema. Oscar turns to me. "Please
may I have a choc ice?" I reach in my pocket and pull out a £5 note. "Make
that two choc ices," I say.

"Hey, that's my £5," he says.

"No, young man. That's MY £5. Unless, of course, you'd rather have that
good spanking, you deserve?"

There's no answer. But as he squeezes past me, Oscar leans over, kisses me
on the cheek, and whispers, "It was worth it."

(to be continued)