Date: Thu, 04 Aug 2011 15:57:45 +0000
From: Jon Kent <jonkent@post.com>
Subject: OSCAR MY LOVE Part 7   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 7


If you are thinking that Oscar and I were leading a life of unbridled lust
and sexual activity, you are rather wide of the mark. In fact, most of the
time Oscar led the life of a fairly typical seven, then eight-year-old boy,
though it might strike some as odd that Oscar spent as much time with me as
he did with his mother. Amy went happily along with the fiction that I was
Oscar's uncle and hence her older brother. She took some pride in
introducing me as "my elder brother, Tom, Oscar's uncle, the deputy
headteacher."

Do I think she knew about our 'extra curricular' activities? The answer is
a categorical 'no'.  Amy loved her son, but accepted he was getting a
better deal with me than he ever could if he'd continued to be raised by
her alone. We did have several heart-to-hearts; she did worry whether or
not she was spending enough time with Oscar, but he was 'as happy as I've
ever seen him' and so the arrangement suited everyone, including Nigel, her
beau, the assistant bank manager.

And Oscar? He struck me as a very happy boy, especially as I'd widened the
parameters of our relationship.  Not only did Oscar have his own key, but
he was permitted to bring friends home with him as long as (a) his friend's
parents knew where their son/s was/were, (b) I was home, and (c) the boy/s
was/were collected by at least one parent. Surely some parents were
suspicious? About what? They usually knew Oscar's mother, they knew I was a
senior teacher of some sort, and Oscar was on his most solemn word never,
but never, to mention or allude to anything sexual. Which raises a very
interesting question?

To what extent did Oscar regard what we did as 'sexual'? Did he have a
genuine understanding of what 'sex' is?  I'm inclined to think not. I'm
inclined to believe that sex was something that gave him pleasure, gave me
pleasure, and brought tangible rewards - usually more than a £5 note! But
I'm pretty sure he put it on the level of his Playstation. In fact, I'm
inclined to believe he got more lasting, and certainly longer pleasure from
an hour on his Playstation, particularly when playing with school friends,
than he did playing with me. Oscar, it is true, loved having an orgasm, but
after a couple of them his dick got sore and he got bored, which to my mind
is exactly as it should have been. I'm sure I got almost all the pleasure
when Oscar was playing with me, though his natural curiosity made him more
adventurous than most. As when...

"Does it hurt now, Uncle Tom?"

I grit my teeth and whisper, "No, not yet. Push harder... but go slow."

Of course it fucking hurt. I defy you to take a boy's hand and wrist up
your arse and not feel any pain. Of course it fucking hurt. At the same
time it was so erotic that pain and pleasure became inseparable,
indistinguishable, the one fading into the other until they became part of
the same sensation coursing through my body.

"Flex your fingers," I grunt.

"What's 'flex' mean?" comes the unbroken voice.

"It means open your fingers up, but slowly. Fuck it, Oscar. I said
'slowly'. Yes, that's it. Right there. Further.  Push up further, far as
you can go."

I'd fitted a mirror. I could see Oscar was in me up to his elbow. Thank
God, for Vaseline.

"Now fuck me... but not too hard... not at first... then, when I tell you,
really hard."

You might legitimately ask what a Deputy Headteacher was doing, on the bed,
on all fours, his arse jutting out, as he watched the slender arm of an
eight-year-old boy pumping in and out of his bowels. Fucked if you'll get
an answer from me.  I saw it on a clip from a movie called 'Mysterious
Skin', and I couldn't relax until I'd tried it. I had an arsehole, I had an
eight-year-boy, he had a small fist, long fingers, a slender wrist and
arm. That was the mountain. It was there.  I had to climb it. That's a very
imperfect analogy. In truth, I was an alcoholic, but it wasn't alcohol that
hooked me; it was sex - sex with small boys, or perhaps sex with one small
boy, with Oscar. Don't think I wasn't ashamed - I was.  But I was like the
alcoholic who swears off liquor but stashes one last bottle, just in case.

I loved watching Oscar play with his school friends, especially with
Charlie and Evan, both blonds, both long-haired, both cute, and both with
happy, well-balanced personalities. Both were wary of me at first; after
all I was a deputy head, I could silence a school assembly with a look, but
as they realised I was just something in the background, just Oscar's
uncle, they let their hair down, so to speak, sprawled across the carpet,
and squabbled like blackbirds over a worm.  Me, I was just someone who
supplied the cold pizza slices and plastic cups of cold juice, with ice!
And I never asked about school, never asked about their hobbies, the movies
they liked, or any of that stuff which may be of great interest to kids,
but should be of no interest to adults. I became so accepted that
occasionally, just occasionally, I was invited to make up a two-versus-two
teams as we battled alongside Captain America, swept through Ultra Mini
Golf in 3D, or blasted an unbelievable assortment of aliens into
oblivion. Make no mistake. Oscar was not spoiled. He had three Playstation
3 games, but his friends had a seemingly inexhaustible supply and were at
their happiest when Oscar allowed them on his set up.  Oscar was a natural
leader, but he didn't need to assert himself, and often seemed happier when
he was letting others take the lead.

Me? I was content to sit on the couch, doing marking (not much), completing
forms (endless), scanning the evening paper...  and rejoicing in the pairs
of bottoms presented before my uninterrupted gaze. God bless the Age of the
Saggers, when boys of all ages are only content when their jeans or
trousers are hanging halfway down their arses. And God bless mothers who do
not cover up the beauty of their boys' bums with those tedious boxers that
so frustratingly conceal so many charms.  Of course, in an ideal world, I'd
be able to sit on the carpet between the legs of each boy in turn, slip
down his trousers and underpants, part his buttocks and slide my tongue up
and down the tiny, unblemished slit. No doubt each boy would wriggle a bit,
but it's amazing how much concentration a boy has when engaged on a
Playstation. I'd masturbate happily, and as I felt myself coming, I'd prise
open the tiny mouth to make sure I could squirt at least a spurt or two
into his pink hole. There would be the problem of ejaculating three times
within the time available, but I'm sure I could improvise if I had to.

Dream on!

Dreams came partly true when the central heating went wonky and the
temperature soared. Charlie, the more aggressive of the boys, decided these
were ideal conditions for a wrestling contest. My apartment leans towards
minimalism in style. The salon, in particular, hasn't much more than the
couch, one armchair, bookcase, computer area, TV screen, and a huge
biscuit-coloured carpet. Off came the school shirts, socks, and before I
could stop them, school flannels, all flung haphazardly onto the couch.  I,
naturally, was designated referee, and as such was able to lay down pretty
strict rules. I hardly wanted a parent to arrive and find a sweaty,
semi-naked boy with a broken limb. It still amazes me how unself-conscious
younger boys are about their bodies; it's only when the teen years strike
that embarrassment about shape, size and colour come into play. So there I
sat observing three semi-naked eight-year-old boys, striking poses across
the carpet.

It was difficult to decide who I wanted to fuck most at that moment. No
doubt Evan was slightly over-weight but his bum was so large, so round, so
perfectly curved, the thin white fabric so tightly stretched across the
cheeks, the crack so blatant, that it was all I could do not to grab him
then and there, pull down his underpants, pull his buttocks apart and jam
my already- throbbing seven inches into his guts. Down, boy, down! Then
there was Charlie who gave the appearance of being frail but who turned out
to be wiry, cunning and indefatigable in the clinch. The bulge in Charlie's
briefs also promised that his 'frailty' was more than balanced by a cock
he'd already moved up his tummy. Or was this an incipient hard-on? The
prospect of battle will do that to a boy. Then there was Oscar, my Oscar,
so elegant, so serene, so untroubled you might have suspected the contest
was fixed in his favour before it began.

The contest was not fixed. Before I'd counted out the mandatory 1 - 2 - 3,
Charlie was on Oscar like a ferret on a rabbit, both then flattened beneath
Evan who straddled Charlie's back pressing down his arse onto the boy's
spine.

Oscar wriggles free and throws himself sideways at Evan, dislodging him
onto the carpet. Down Oscar goes, determined to pin Evan in a quick fall,
only to find Charlie is riding him, sitting across his back, careless that
his underpants have ridden down his skinny hips to his knees. Charlie makes
a desultory attempt to pull his underpants up, but almost immediately
abandons the attempt in favour of flattening Oscar who...

This could not go on long. Within ten minutes, all three boys were sprawled
on their backs, sweaty, slippy, panting, trying to laugh but
breathless. And yet everyone demanded Round 2, which I denied them. Quit
while you're ahead, I decided, and declared the contest an honourable draw,
and silencing protests by mention of frozen lollipops in the freezer. A
scamper of bare feet.  Banging of the freezer drawers. Squabble over
flavours. And joyful screams as each boy tried to push his lolly down the
front of each other's underpants. But soon I had them on their fronts
again, arms on huge pillows, lapping up the great battle scenes in 'Lord Of
The Rings', and licking their ice lollies with a lasciviousness that would
put a Parisian whore to shame. I confess I had to retreat to the bathroom
for a while where my imagination played riotously on what I'd like to do
with these boys and their lollies.

As I wiped the semen from the bathroom tiles, I reflected on how wonderful
life was. O, dear reader, never tempt Fate. It is true that all was well in
our world... until I discovered by chance that Oscar was breaking not one
but several of our 'man-stuff' rules.

God bless the boy.

It is Friday around 5 o'clock when I get home from school. The meeting went
more quickly than I'd anticipated, probably because it was a Friday and
everyone wanted home and into the weekend rather than spend time on duties,
schedules, time-tables, and the ever-present threat of an OFSTED
inspection. I wound up the meeting early and hurried home, not because I'd
any worries about Oscar. He was nine now and perfectly capable of
entertaining himself till I got home at the expected hour of six o'clock.

I turn the key in the lock and step inside. It's the silence I notice
first. It doesn't surprise me. Oscar sometimes takes a nap after
school. Quietly I slip off my jacket, tie, shoes, slip into slippers, and
pad across the salon. Quietly I peek into Oscar's
room. Nothing. Nobody. Quietly I open my bedroom door and peek in.

There are two boys on my double bed. Both are naked. Though I see him only
from behind, I recognise Oscar immediately. How often have I kissed these
shoulder blades, nuzzled the nape of his neck beneath the thick tumble of
chestnut hair? The other boy I don't recognise until Oscar half turns to
me, puts a finger to his lips, and goes 'Shhhh...'

The other boy is Evan.

Evan is lying on his back, his hands folded on the pillow beneath his
head. His eyes are closed. Oscar sits facing Evan. Oscar has placed his
legs under Evan's bottom and pulled himself forward so that his legs, one
on each side, are stretched alongside his friend's naked body so that his
feet rest on the pillow, one white-socked foot on either side of his
friend's head. I step forward and with a shock see that Oscar's penis is
half-buried up Evan's anus.

Oscar beckons me, and, as if in a trance, I move forwards to sit on the
edge of the bed.

Oscar's hard-on, at least two inches of it, is embedded inside Evan. Evan's
skin from the bottom of his ball sac is a creamy ivory, divided by the thin
red seam that runs round to his anus. His out-stretched legs are the same
creamy ivory, not a flaw, not a blemish, faultless. His ball sac, ever so
slightly wrinkled, looks as if it's planted as an after-thought, and above
it, his little cock, still sheathed in its foreskin leans away at an
angle. I look up Evan's body, see his strong little chest, his slender
arms, his armpits like freshly-polished chalices, his tiny lips red rather
than pink, his cheeks blushed, and his thick eyelashes highlighting the
curve of the lids. A small gold earring winks at me from his right earlobe.

Oscar jerks his hips forward a little to drive a little more of his cock
into Evan.

"Ooof," I hear; then, "Not so hard. That bit always hurts."

I can't help myself. I reach out and stroke Evan's tummy. It flutters under
my fingers.

Oscar jerks his hips again, and I see another inch disappear into Evan,
stretching the gap on either side of his hole. The boy's eyes fly
open. "Fuck... that really hurts." He sees me. I expect him to panic or at
least show signs of distress, but Evan smiles weakly and says, "It really
does hurt when he does that." I make soothing noises and continue to stroke
his tummy, his chest, his nipples, his lips. The boy open his mouth. I slip
in a finger and he sucks on it. Oscar begins to fuck his friend, jerking
his hips gently back and forward, penetrating just a little more each time
until bottom meets bottom, and he can get no deeper unless he changes
positions. I lower my face and begin to such Evan's three-inch prick to
full erection, pushing back his foreskin with my tightened lips.

My nephew and I are a team. As Oscar speeds his fucking up, I speed up my
sucking, matching my rhythms to his. Evan's body begins to turn, twist and
wriggle in time with Oscar's thrusts and trembling body. The boys cum
together; it is a dry cum but it shakes them just as hard as spurting semen
would. As Oscar collapses over Evan's body, Evan thrashes from side to
side, and I gently release his hot, hard, swollen penis. It collapses
almost immediately. I look up to see Evan is shielding his eyes as if he is
ashamed of the amount of pleasure he has given and taken. Oscar slides up
alongside Evan and whispers in his ear. There's an almost imperceptible nod
and Evan rolls forward onto his front. No words are required.

I slide onto the bed, part Evan's gorgeous cheeks and inspect his
freshly-fucked hole. There's a distinct redness around it, but no real
signs of bruising, and no signs of damage, though the rosebud of his hole
is larger and browner than Oscar's. I lower my face and lick the brownish
skin tenderly. The skin is a deeper shade of brown immediately around this
entrance to the boy's body.  I raise his legs onto my shoulders - ah, the
flexibility! - part them as wide as is comfortable for the boy, and fasten
my lips against his hole. The tip of my tongue pushes and probes, and I'm
almost immediately awarded by its opening to admit a fairly large part of
the tip. I can, for the first time, really tongue-fuck a prepubescent
boy. The smells are intoxicating. Shit, yes, but it's so mild it seems to
be swallowed by the other smells. I could almost swear I can taste
Oscar. He isn't old enough to cum, but has he begun to produce pre-cum, or
some such bodily fluid. I don't really care what makes up these tastes. I
want them whatever they are.

Satisfied, but unsatisfied, I eventually stand up and consider ejaculating
into Evan's bowels. He is so open I'm sure he could take a considerable
amount, but a glance at the bedroom clock brings me to reality. How can
half an hour passed so quickly? Abruptly, I change from crazed boy lover to
sensible teacher.

"Right, boys," I say, "into the jacuzzi with you. You've got fifteen
minutes in there. First out gets double ice-cream."

Squeals of delight from the boys.

There are times when boys don't need men, and this is one of them.

(to be continued)