Date: Mon, 02 Apr 2001 17:42:28
From: Ganymede
Subject: Pandora's Box IV

Pandora's Box IV,  by Ganymede and Christopher.


WARNING:

This story contains a graphic description of sexual acts
between a man and a MINOR boy. We do not condone child abuse,  how-
ever boy-love as described in this story is an entirely  different
matter. If the subject of man/boy sex offends you, if this material
is illegal in your place of residence, or if you are under the
legal age for such material, do not read further! You have been
warned! Read at your own risk!

The story is copyrighted under the pseudonym, Ganymede. A copy
has been placed in the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. Feel free
to post it to appropriate newsgroups or send it to your friends. The
story cannot be used to derive monetary gain. It cannot be placed in
archives that require payment for access, or printed and distributed
in any form that requires payment.

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FINAL WARNING:

If you are under the age of 18, if this material is illegal in
your place of residence, or if man-boy relationships aren't your
thing, then exit now and save yourself from a life of sin!


Pandora's Box IV: Saturday Morning.



Usually, I got to sleep in on Saturday morning. Unless my mother
had a prior arrangement at the salon, she would leave early to open
the salon and she would not return home until after lunch. When I
woke up, my mind registered that it was Saturday, but failed to grasp
where I was, and that I was not sleeping in the alcove off the din-
ing room in our Cambridge apartment. An eleven-year-old boy's urge
to play with his penis is instinctive. It is a deep-down, entirely
natural, totally inescapable need. There is absolutely nothing that
he can do to stop, particularly when he is still half asleep. It is
even worse when he wakes up with an erection.

Lying in my bed, with my eyes closed because of the already
intense glare of the desert sunrise, I did not realize that I was
not alone in the room. I felt my erection before my fingers touched
it. It was like touching silk! Skin so soft and warm that at first
there was no sense of anything actually touching in my fingers. That
other part, the grateful recipient of being touched, smoldered with
awakening desire. A week ago, even a day ago, there had been nothing
like the desire I experienced that morning. I needed to, had to,
wanted to. I could feel it quivering beneath my fingers, flexing
again and again, and each time it flexed it became harder.

I breathed deeply, resisting the inevitable. For me it always
began by trying to hold back, waiting until I could no longer stop
myself. I inhaled, sighed, gave in to a boy's natural pleasure.
Slowly at first, with just the tips of my fingers brushing lightly
up and down. I began using the muscles within my abdomen, drawing up
with the air I inhaled, pushing down as I exhaled. Always caressing
that rigid spike between my legs. I used two fingers from each hand
to manipulate it, finding the skin on the outside could move quite
independently of the tubes inside. I used both little fingers to
fondle underneath, teasing the loose folds of even softer skin as I
pushed the tiny egg-shapes from side to side.

On other mornings I would have been satisfied and stopped
there. Not this morning. In the back of my sleep-imbued brain was a
memory of something else. If I rubbed faster it felt better. Anatom-
ical boy-fact number one. All boys know this detail of masturbation
even if they have not studied biology. There are some things that
can be done much better with one hand than two, and pleasuring the
pre-teen penis is one of them. My right hand took over with intui-
tive control of the arousal situation. Within seconds, and still
less than half awake, I rocketed to `five' on the gratification
scale. Instant, toe-wriggling delight at the same time as an image
drifted into my mine for no reason at all other than I wanted it to
be there.

I think I groaned. I may have shuddered. It was probably when
my mother realized that I was doing something besides looking out
the window. However, my befuddled brain still had not put one and
one together and figured out that we were sharing a room, if not the
same bed. My feet stretched out into the diagonal corners of the
bed, into fresh-sheet areas where it was still cool and stiff. My
hand began to move rhythmically up and down, gaining speed and dis-
tance as I became accustomed to the motion and the feelings that
came from it. I was remarkably skilled for someone who was com-
pletely inexperienced at real self-abuse.

By the time I groaned again I was really beginning to get into
it. Going faster meant breathing faster. I started to gasp, making a
soft puppy-whimpering sound as my body approached some invisible
barrier. As my thoughts dwelled on that ever-present image, there
was a pressure building up inside me, although I could not even
begin to describe its nature to a doctor. It was just there, like a
dam holding everything back, a pressure everywhere, all through me.
It was in my toes and in my legs, and my trembling knees lifted up to
tent the sheet from my body. My toes escaped by curling over and
gripping the sheet and mattress underneath me. The tension was in my
hands, especially in my right hand, with two fingers pressing my
maleness back against my thumb. My eyes clenched tightly, like my
teeth, and my entire body lifted up off the bed. Not a levitation,
but my thighs tensed, my back arched, my buttocks clamped. Impossi-
ble as it might seem, my short penis became even harder, attaining
that apogee of erection that all men strive for but only young boys
can achieve. Of course, I did not know that at the time. Neither did
I realize that my scrotum was no longer soft and loose, but had
pulled up into a tiny wrinkled lump of the most sensitive flesh
imaginable.

It ended in a powerful rush that began within my jerking fist
and my mind struggling to focus on the face within the image. I
could feel the dam bursting, breaking loose sensations I that I have
never experienced before. My head flung back into the pillow, and
just as quickly lifted up again. I tried to breath but could not.
All I could do was rub furiously. A spasm ripped through by body
that came awfully close to being an electric shock. Then, without
warning, the burning spike in my fist jerked with a spasm of its
own. Its very first one ever, the one that a boy should never for-
get. And then another, then three pulses in quick succession, then
nothing for a few long seconds except an overwhelming need to keep
on rubbing in the hopes of having yet another shuddering spasm, then
an equally dismal realization that there would never be anything to
follow to compare with what had just happened to me. It was all
because of that image of him.

I groaned and slumped back into the bed, barely aware that I
was still shaking and not at all understanding what I just done. The
face, the hazy image was gone and I could not recall it. I lay very
still, my fingers resting over my throbbing penis. Although it was
still hard, the incredible stiffness had vanished, returning to
wherever it had come from. It tingled, sore but not sore. Even
though I barely touched it, my penis was still agitated with linger-
ing jerks that did not seem to want to end. I was undecided. Part of
me was happy but the rest was very confused.

You don't grow up Catholic and not have inhibitions, even if
your mother has secretly confided that confession is more for the
priest than any good it might do me. I suffered with the guilty
knowledge that I had well and truly sinned, although I was still
uncertain of exactly what I had done to myself. I knew what I had
been thinking about and that was sufficient. If ever there was a
sin, that was it. Exasperated and increasingly disheartened, I
opened my eyes onto a new day.

"It looks like my darling little boy has finally learned how to
masturbate," my mother said quietly.

Despite the softness in her voice and the calm way that she
said it, there was still a hard tone, a critical edge. I wanted to
turn over and die. I did not answer. I was more embarrassed than I
had ever been. I could have walked down Brattle Street wearing only
the thong and been less ashamed. I sniffed and swallowed as I tried
not to cry.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Chrissie. Don't cry about it."

"'can't help it," I sniveled. "I can't!"

"It's nothing to cry about. Just settle down for a while and
then we'll talk about it, Honey."

She did not say anything for a minute. I lay there in the
uncomfortable silence, my heated body gradually cooling down, vainly
trying to understand. I could not stop crying. I could not under-
stand why I thought I was going to explode. It felt so good that it
physically hurt. My mother could never understand. She was horrified
and I was about to get a long lecture on the evils of what I had done
to myself.

`Now, Chrissie, I want you to turn over and face me."

"Don't want to," I whimpered.

"You and I need to have a little talk."

I shook my head and considered holding the pillow over my head
so I would not have to hear what she said.

"Chrissie, you roll over and look at me," she said sternly. I
did, pouting. "That's better, Sweetie."

"What?"

"Don't be so grumpy. The first thing I want you to know is I'm
not angry."

"You're not?" I asked nervously.

"Of course not. Everyone masturbates, Chrissie. Both boys and
girls,... and men do it,... and women too."

"You do?"

"Um,... yes, as a matter of fact. Girls do it a bit differently
to boys, but it's the same basic principle."

"Oh!"

"So you see it's nothing to be ashamed about," she explained
quietly. "It isn't the first time you've done that, is it Sweetie?"

"Done what?" I mumbled.

"Gone all the way, Silly?"

"Gone all the way where?" I asked uncertainly.

"It really was your first time, wasn't it? You really don't
know what happened, do you Chrissie?"

I shook my head. We watched each other for a few seconds, until
she smiled reassuringly.

"I was hoping that Bryce could talk to you about, well about
boy things, but there simply wasn't the time before we left. I guess
we could call him now, only he's at the salon and they're going to
be busy at this time in the morning. It's so difficult remembering
the time difference. Anyway, he couldn't talk from there. Hm,..."

"Talk about what, Mom?"

"Sex, Sweetie."

"I know all about sex and how babies are made already," I said
bravely. "From school, and I got a `B' in Health, remember?"

She smiled warmly. "Well there are different things you need to
learn, Chrissie. Other things you need to know besides how babies
are made."

"Like what?" I asked curiously.

"Well, like what just happened to you. It's kind of hard for me
to explain because I'm a woman. It would be easier if Bryce told
you."

"What did happen?" I asked awkwardly. "It felt,... It was really
weird, Mom."

"You had an orgasm, Sweetie. I wouldn't have thought you were
anywhere near old enough for that to happen, at least not yet, but
I'm sure you did."

"I was just playing with my thing and it happened," I said
guiltily. "I didn't mean for anything bad to happen."

My mother laughed softly. "Oh, Chrissie, nothing bad did hap-
pen. It's a wonderful feeling. It's something very special. It's
part of why people have sex. I was so surprised to see you mastur-
bating like that. It was just like you were suddenly all grown up.
And when you climaxed, I couldn't believe how good it was for you."

"Huh?"

"Let me try to explain, Honey. It's difficult for me because my
body is different to yours. Boys rub their penises to make them-
selves feel good. It did feel good, didn't it Chrissie?"

"Yes," I ventured warily.

"I hope so because it certainly looked like it did to me. When
it gets to feeling very good, your body loses control. It's just for
a few seconds, but that's all it takes, Sweetie. For a boy, that's
when he puts out his part of the baby."

"You mean semen?" I asked expertly.

"Yes. Well, you'll do that too eventually, but not for a few
more years I expect. You have to have hair down there first. But
that's why it feels so nice, and you strain so hard, because your
body is trying hard to put out as much as possible, Honey. It's over
so quickly, but it's the best part of having sex."

"Oh? Isn't that bad, though Mom? They said at Youth-Church that
we were supposed to abstain from having sex until we were married."

"Abstain?" She smirked. "I don't this is quite the same thing.
You're a little boy. And anyway, perhaps I'm wrong but, well, I
don't think you're going to get married, Chrissie, so for you sex
really isn't about making a baby. It should be about making yourself
feel good inside. That's why people masturbate."

"To make themselves feel good," I said thoughtfully. "Do you
really masturbate, Mom?"

She didn't answer for a while. "Yes, I do, but remember what I
said, Chrissie. Masturbating is different for a boy. It's much eas-
ier for one thing, so boys do it much more frequently. I expect
you'll do it a lot now that you know how to. I'm glad that you've
discovered how nice if feels by yourself. I think it's better that
you found out about orgasms by yourself."

I considered that although I did not understand why it could
have happened with someone else if I wasn't married to them. "Easier
how?" I asked curiously.

"For goodness sakes, Chrissie. Haven't you noticed that your
thing's on the outside of your body and mine's not?"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Do you think we should get up soon,
Mom?" I asked.

She gave me a dubious look and then she smiled. "There's
already a lot of sun on our terrace, Sweetie. Why don't you go out
and lie down for a while before it gets too hot? I'll come out and
get you in a while. This is a holiday for me just as much as it is
for you."

I jumped out of bed with new appreciation of what it meant to
be a boy. My penis had subsided and was nothing more than a short
soft appendage dangling between my legs. It looked funny with its
little nozzle end and pinkish, darkened appearance. I wondered
whether it would be suntanned before we left Palm Springs. It would
be nice if it was.

"Mom?" I turned back to look at her. "I didn't tell you what
Mr. Kaufman, I mean Uncle Steven, said to me last night."

"Yes, Honey?"

I giggled. "It was kind of weird, Mom. He whispered right in my
ear. He said I was a very beautiful boy," I finished proudly.

"Well, he's absolutely right, because you are beautiful,
Sweetie."

Mom,.... There's one more thing. When he said it, he called me
Christopher Bryce Faran. I wonder how he knew my full name," I said
inquisitively.

My mother seemed surprised for a few moments. She sat up and
rested her head on the back of the bed. "I really don't know. Is it
that important? I expect he saw in on some papers I sent him."

"What papers?"

"Oh, just your birth certificate and a few other things, that's
all. Don't bother yourself about it, Chrissie."

"Mom, I hate it when you say that!" I complained.

"Oh Chrissie. Don't carry on. You're so silly. Go on outside onto
our terrace and get that beautiful body of yours tanned for this
afternoon."



I was outside for about two hours and beginning to get hungry
and thirsty when the sliding glass door opened and I looked up to
see my mother. She was dressed in her pool robe over her swim suit.
She tossed my thong to me with a playful laugh.

"You'd better get dressed now, Chrissie. They've almost fin-
ished serving breakfast by the pool. You'll have to hurry if you
want something to eat."

I hurriedly put on the thong, brushed my teeth, tidied my hair
as best I could at short notice, and followed my mother back out to
the pool. David and Cynthia were at the far end of the pool. The
Rollman children were just getting slathered in suntan lotion, and
there was no sign of Uncle Steven. I ambled over to where breakfast
had been laid out. An hour later, I would have been confronted by a
feast. There were bowls of fresh fruit, with other fruit that had
been sliced and mixed in with syrups and sauces. There were several
platters of various delicacies, but they had been largely picked
over so all that was left were a few remnants that no one wanted
seconds of.

Mrs. Beaton chuckled in her pleasant way while I surveyed the
damage and tried to decide what I wanted. There was still a lot
left.

"Good morning, Christopher. I'm sorry there's not much left.
I'll make you an omelette if you wish."

"Huh? Oh, no thanks. There's plenty here. What's that?" I asked
pointing to a white concoction in a bowl.

"It's chicken that's been sautéed with white wine. It's deli-
cious. You really should try some." She passed me a clean plate. "I
can also recommend the eggs. I made them myself. And of course, you
must try some of the fruit salads. This one is Mr. Kaufman's favor-
ite."

I nodded and ladled out some onto my plate. I was now very hun-
gry. "Where is he? Uncle Steven I mean."

"He had to go into town for a while. He'll be back by this
afternoon. By the way, he was very impressed when I told him about
how you recognized the paintings. Most children your age have no
idea about things like that."

I grinned and added some more of the favorite fruit salad to my
plate.

"He did ask whether you recognized the painting in the hall
just down from the rooms where the Meiers are staying. I told him
that your hadn't seen it."

"I saw it last night when we went to the screening room. It's
by Magritte," I said absently. "It's weird, but all of his stuff
is. I like it a lot."

Mrs. Beaton chuckled again. "I'll make sure that I tell Mr.
Kaufman you recognized it. He'll be very pleased."

I started to walk over to the same couch that I had occupied
for that latter half of the previous day.

"Christopher?" she called after me. I turned around. She
smiled. "There will be more guests arriving today so it'll probably
be rather crowded around the pool soon. If you want to sun bake in
the nude again, I'd suggest going behind the hedge. It's very pri-
vate and no one will know you're there."

I gulped, realizing that she had probably seen me naked while I
was asleep. And then I smiled shyly. If she had seen me, it did not
appear to bother her. In fact, she was encouraging me to do it
again. I found myself liking her more and more as I walked to the
lounge that I had adopted as mine. My mother and Aunt Sue looked up
when I approached.

"Good morning. My, you're already turning brown. I'm so jeal-
ous. You were so pale yesterday and already you look like a little
native, don't you Christopher," Aunt Sue teased.

I gave her a sour look and received an immediate, yet silent
reprimand from my mother. I turned around right in front of Aunt
Sue, letting her see my barely covered body. I even paused as I pre-
tended to straighten the lounge.

"Hello, Auntie Sue," I said saucily over my shoulder. "Isn't it
a nice view?"

Was that me? Had I said that? Had I actually done what I
thought I did? I heard her laugh as I eased down into the seat. I was
being very careful not to spill anything.

"You'll never guess what Chrissie did this morning when he woke
up?" my mother said in an annoying voice.

"Mom!" I said heatedly, disbelieving my ears. It was impossible
that she would talk about THAT!

"What?"

"He masturbated. All the way, too."

Aunt Sue snickered. `It wasn't his first time, was it? It was!"
she exclaimed as my mother nodded. " Oh that is so cute," she said
with exaggerated enthusiasm. "And he went all the way? Nothing came
out I hope?"

"No!"

"Oh, I am so excited for him. He's finally starting to grow up.
David does it all the time, now that he produces. It's such a messy
habit, but they do seem to like to do it. I'm constantly finding his
tissues scattered around the house. I'm surprised boys don't pull
them off."

"And David's mature already?" my mother inquired.

"Oh yes, but only for a month or so. It's still watery and
there isn't very much at a time. I expect it won't be long before
I'm finding tissues that are all stiff and starchy," Aunt Sue said
offhandedly. "Once they start, it's all downhill. Most boys start at
about twelve. We can only hope that Christopher can last until he's
a teenager."

They started talking about Hillary Clinton and I tuned out.
After breakfast, I returned my plate and glass to the table, picked
up a fresh towel and the bottle of oil and walked down to the far end
of the pool. At first it was difficult to see how to get past the
precisely clipped hedge. However, there was a narrow gap at the end,
only two feet wide and nearly undetectable until I was right next to
it. I pushed past some branches that had been allowed to grow
longer.

On the other side of the hedge, invisible from the pool side,
was a square-shaped area of grass that was bigger than most people's
front yards in Cambridge. It was enclosed on an adjacent side by one
of the long white planes that extended out from the main house and
into the desert. The other two sides were formed by landscaping of
large rounded boulders, cacti and other desert plants. There was a
small fountain made of pieces of tile and a small bronze statue cov-
ered with a patina of green and yellow streaks. The little boy, his
hands holding his penis, provided a constant stream and a tinkling
sound that filled the area. I placed my towel on the ground. No
longer reticent, I boldly tugged the thong down, not even bothering
to untie the cords. I stood there, offering myself to the morning
sun, feeling secure and unconstrained. It was surprising what a dif-
ferent that just one day could make in a person's life. For a few
minutes I walked around naked, exploring the little paradise that
only I knew about. I sat down on the side of the fountain and
trailed my fingers in the water, then brushed them against the hot
metal of the statue and watched the water evaporate in seconds.

Some dull wrinkled plastic caught my I and I bent forward to
pick it up. It was a creamy colored tube, of a material not unlike a
disposable latex glove, but strange looking in that it was open at
one end with a little rubbery band and closed at the other. It was
stretchy, I realized as I pulled it between my fingers, and kind of
slick too, although it was not oily. There even appeared to some-
thing inside it, water perhaps. On my way back to my towel, I tossed
it into the landscaping since it clearly did not belong there. With
my body covered from head to toe with a glistening sheen of oil, I
lay down on the towel and closed my eyes, breathing deeply as the
rays scorched my skin. The possibility of getting skin cancer was
the farthest thing from my mind as I fell asleep.

I have a built-in alarm clock when I am sunbaking. It exists at no
other time and it functions only when I am starting to burn. It took
about an hour before I woke up. The sun was awfully hot on the
front of my body, searing heat that penetrated into my skin. I
came to groggily, smearing my still greasy hands in my eyes before
I thought about it, and then blinking rapidly as the oil irritated
them. I lay perfectly still, still dozing, absorbing energy for a
time when I might need it. I slowly realized how quiet and peaceful
it was in my private paradise. I breathed out, turning over and
settling back down again on the towel, this time lying on my
belly with my back exposed to the sun's rays. Once again, I closed
my eyes, letting my thoughts wander aimlessly, imagining our
apartment in Cambridge, the ever-present noise of traffic and
people. Like the noise, the hub of my life was there, centered
in Harvard Square only a few blocks away from where we lived.

And then there was this paradise. This perfect desert paradise
that had taken hold of me, seemed to be tugging at me, pulling me
into its hot, dry embrace. Silent, yet there were sounds, the sounds
of nature that a person heard only in absolute solitude. The sounds
of birds, an animal scratching, the rustle of something moving
cautiously through the grass. Every so often I was aware of people,
their indistinct voices coming from the pool, the sound of splashes
and children's raucous laughter, even Joel Stein's mouse-squeak
when he was tormented by my cousins.

I rubbed my hand over my back, itching at some undefined region
that always seemed to move from wherever I was scratching. First
on one side, then on another, then higher, then lower. Was it an
insect? I slapped at the itch. Relief at last. No, it was back.
Lower now. Gone again. I wriggled against the towel, cradled my
head on my arm, sighed, completely obvious to the world around me.
I imagined what it would be like to be so hot that my body melted,
that I drained away into the grass so that there was no so much as
a puddle, or even a droplet left of Christopher Faran. Disappearing
forever. I would never be seen again. What would my mother do without
me around? What would I do without her?

I rubbed my hand over my lower back, massaging the last few
vertabrae before my spine ended. I had been sore there for a
week now, ever since I had fallen on the hardwood floor in the
hallway outside our apartment. Sometimes, that time, I went out
there to practice my TaeKwondo form. For some reason I was wearing
socks, and on the varnished floor I slipped when I performed my
reverse back kick. I came down hard. Not hard enough to warrant a
trip to the doctor, but hard enough that it hurt for a few days,
and was still sore. Rubbing my oily fingers over the skin made the
bruised area feel better. My hand stayed there, stroking my skin,
barely aware of any sensation except that it was nice. I could feel
the start of my butt right where my spine ended. The line of
vertabrae, so pronounced higher up my back, became smaller and
smaller until the line became a ridge, and the ridge became a valley.
My finger cautiously probed into the entrance to the valley. It was
a chasm really. A crevasse. A crevice. A crack. I grinned, musing as
my finger slipped between the firmness of my cheeks, keeping a safe
distance from where it should not go, but silently accepting that I
would investigate there as well.

Without knowing why, I moved my legs apart, all the way to the far
corners of the towel, but still keeping them on the towel just in
case there were ants creeping through the grass underneath me. My
crack was slippery and my finger progressed into it without any thought
of intruding on my most private region. Private region? I had a vague
memory that my mother had touched me there the day before, and even
more distressing, she had done it in front of Aunt Sue no less. Why
had I remembered that? Had it really happened? It was something I had
imagined, it had to be, didn't it? Still, my finger kept rubbing in
the slippery groove between my cheeks. It tickled, but it didn't
tickle. No one would ever know what I did. It was definitely enjoyable,
but it was more than that. A shiver ran through me, an over-powering
urge to touch the most private place of all. I stroked my fingernail
against the puckered skin that surrounded it. That felt even nicer.
It was so nice that my finger was lured closer, like a bee to nectar.
I circled my finger, not daring to actually touch that place where I
pooped from.

Yet, my juvenile inhibitions to the contrary, part of me wanted to
touch that tiny opening so much that my hand actually trembled as I
fought against the impulse. My finger eased closer, discovering a
little lip, the very rim before the hole began, Did I dare? It was
dirty there, where I never touched except with a wad of toilet paper
or the end of a bar of soap. Just circling the rim was wonderful,
exciting, relieving. My hand was shaking. Then, holding my breath,
I did it. I touched the dimple right in the center, dead center. My
anus closed like the anenome in Paul's acquarium. He kept it as a
host for his clown fish, a purple-tip sebea anenome.

However, my lingering aversion aside, I could not deny how good it
felt. I left my finger there, ever so slightly embedded, my anus
nibbling at the tip as it tried to eject it, or pull it deeper inside.

I heard a man's deep voice. It was a voice I did not recognize, then
a woman's voice. I heard them coming closer as they walked beside the
pool. They stopped adjacent to me, but unseen on the other side of
the thick hedge.

"Well, I must say that he's quite something." That was the man speaking.

"Isn't he though," the woman answered. "You're surprised?"

"No. Not really. From the photographs she sent me, I rather expected it."

"And?" she prompted.

"It's much too soon to tell. I'm certainly hopeful. He's looks very
interesting," the man ventured.

"Yes, he does. I noticed it myself as soon as I saw him last summer.
The way he acts is a sure sign I would imagine."

"It is." The man paused. "With his looks, I'm surprised someone has
gotten their hands on him already."

The woman laughed. "I asked her about that, just to make sure. He's
such a wimpy little thing, but I expect anything is possible. She was
quite certain that he hasn't shown any interest yet. And if anyone
knows, she should. She's very close to him."

"Any close friends?"

"No, not like that, but you can never be sure can you. Surely it
doesn't matter. It's not like there's a hymen or anything."

"He's definitely a pretty little thing. One can only hope that he's
appropriately inclined."

She laughed again, a laugh that was becoming depressing in its familiarity.

"I'm sure he is. He can be quite charming when he wants to be. I hoped
you'd like him," she said. "My, but it is hot, isn't it?"

The man chuckled. "You're turning into quite the Jewish mother, aren't
you Sue?"

Had he said Sue? My Aunt Sue?  Yes, it was her voice, her laughter. I
did not like her very much. I wondered who she was talking with, who
they were talking about.

"How so?"

"You're almost always all the same. Manipulative. Cunning. Quick to
take advantage of a situation. Always pushing their children into
the forefront," he answered abruptly.

The woman laughed. "Now, I resent that. I'm not pushing my David at
all, am I?"

"No, but you would if you thought it was even remotely possible you
would."

"Well, you know Richard as well as I do. He's adamant! He can be
such a boor at times. It makes such good sense.... In my opinion
David would be much better."

"I'll grant you that he certainly is good looking, Sue, but against
him? I think not. Besides, you've already told me where his interest
lies. I don't plan on competing with a girl for affection."

They started walking, continuing on their circuit around the pool.
Their voices faded and I returned to my silent exploration, as confused
by what I had heard as by the curious glow that flowed over me when
my finger probed deeper into my anus. Just leaving it there while
they had been talking had produced a strange looseness in that part
of my body. It was a peculiar feeling, one that took away my sense
that I was engaged in some aberrant activity. It felt natural to
push deeper, wriggling my finger to ease the joint inside. The heat
alone was astonishing. It was like there was a little oven inside me.
I trembled with the intimate thrill of what I was doing, silently
daring myself to see just how far I could insert my finger into that
taut passage that opened into my body. It seemed to go in very easily,
sliding on the glistening film of palm oil. Deeper and deeper, beyond
the second joint, finding the void behind the tightness.

At that point, instinct took over. My finger moved without any purpose
other than to do what it needed to do. I twisted and curled my finger,
touching softness, probing around until I squirmed. The sensation was
nothing short of incredible. My entire body appeared to be pushing
back, no longer trying to dislodge my finger, but trying to accommodate
it, to increase the pressure against something inside me. I gave a deep
sigh, realizing that what I had done earlier in the morning when I was
playing with my penis paled in comparison to the awesome sensations
that my finger could produce. It was frightening in its intensity, so
strong that I shuddered and jerked my finger out from the hot tube in
which it had been for at least ten minutes. Ten guilty minutes later,
I was asleep again.