Date: Wed, 25 Jun 2014 01:54:46 +0200
From: Sam Johnson <samjohnson77@mail.com>
Subject: Putting the Acid on a Sweet Boy

Putting the Acid on a Sweet Boy
by Sam Johnson
(comments welcome: samjohnson77@mail.com)

Last Sunday, early afternoon, I dropped in at the construction site to pick
up some papers. Only about two weeks to go and the warehouse project would
be finished. Things had gone smoothly; I hoped to collect a healthy bonus
for finishing ahead of schedule.

As I unlocked the door to my portable office, I noticed a couple of kids
riding bikes along the northern perimeter of the block. Technically they
were trespassing, but it was a popular track the local kids used, so I
wasn't too fussed about it. Until we landscaped and fenced off the area
there didn't seem any point trying to warn them off.

In the office, I got sidestracked, and didn't leave for a good forty
minutes. When I came out, the two kids were now at the back of Loading Bay
3, off their bikes, and looked to be fiddling around with something.

Jesus Christ, I thought, just what I needed on my day off. As I started
over, I saw they were at the generator. Damn it to hell! The generator
should have been locked away – Eddie Cooper was going to cop a blast
tomorrow.

As I got closer I saw they weren't the little kiddies I'd first assumed
them to be. About 14 years old I guessed, and I was a pretty good
judge. One in particular, in very short shorts and a sleeveless tee, looked
a bit of a tough little fella – or at least as tough as a sweet
smooth-cheeked boy can look.

"Oi! Get the fuck outta there!" I yelled when I was no more than ten paces
away. Scared the absolute crap out of them. They leapt up from the
generator, dropping some containers they had. Seemed they were just trying
to siphon the petrol out of it. No big deal, really.

The first one ran like a scalded cat, was gone in seconds. The second, my
little toughie in the cut-off tee, made a quick grab to rescue one the
containers already full of petrol. He got it, but fumbled it, and managed
to spill half the contents down his front.

"Ah shit!" he cried, dropping the container and turning to take off after
his friend.

In that split second it all flashed before me. I yelled: "Hey son – if
you don't want to lose half your skin, you better get back here."

For a moment I didn't think he'd heard me, but then he faltered in his
stride, looked over his shoulder and as he plucked at his wet tee shirt,
yelled, "It's just petrol..."

"It's not just petrol, buddy. It's got a special acidic additive we use for
heavy duty cutting. Highly corrosive – your skin'll start peeling off in
about five or ten minutes.

The boy had completely stopped; he turned to face me, pulling up his tee
shirt a bit to look at the smooth skin of his tummy. "It stings a bit," he
said in a voice rich with the tell-tale timbre of early adolescence.

"Better get in here and wash it off," I said, jerking a thumb behind me to
my office.

He looked suspiciously at me. "Are you gunna call the cops?" he asked,
trying to sound tough but not really coming close.

"If you don't get your ass over here now, son, I'll be calling ambulance."

"It does sting a bit," he mumbled again, plucking worriedly at his shorts
now as he started over.

Even by the lofty standards of his age, he was quite a beautiful lad, in
the first sweet bloom of his sexual development. A subtle muscular form
just starting to light on his shoulders and biceps, which he obviously
enjoyed showing off. And those short little shorts – they showed a
scandalous amount of smooth boy-leg – good sporty legs that seemed
equally suited to leaping a fence or slipping into a bubble bath. The
little pair of white and red-trimmed shorts he wore looked like old
favourites that he'd pretty much outgrown but wasn't yet willing to part
with. His boy package was a little squashed and obvious in them, and the
spreading petrol stain threatened to make them see through. But it was his
grey sleeveless workout tee that gave the lad a quite provocative sexiness
– making such a cocky display of his budding young shoulders.

"Shoes off," I said at the door.

"Eh?"

"Don't want that acid eating through the floor."

The kid kicked his old sneakers off from his bare feet – then quickly
bent to pick up a shoe, to see if he could see any evidence of the dread
acid.

"Come on," I said, leading the way into the office. At the back there was a
small toilet with a wash room in front of it. I showed him in and as he was
closing the door I blocked it with my shoulder.

"No way, buddy."

He looked up, surprised, then defensive. "I'm alright – I can do it." He
tried again to close it, fairly intent on locking me out.

I was having none of it. "Listen, son. The way the law is – if anything
happens to you, I could be sued for millions for leaving that generator in
the open. So I'm going to make sure you wash that acid off properly."

"But..." He didn't like this at all. If he persisted, my little adventure
would be over before it started. With darling boys like this, you luck out
as often as you luck in.

"Your choice," I said. "Either do it my way or we get the cops out here now
– it's the only way I can cover myself."

The boy scowled a bit, looked as though he wanted to argue, but finally
shrugged and muttered, "Yeah, whatever," let the door go and started to
take off his tee shirt. As he got it over his head I noticed he wasn't yet
growing any hair under his arms; his slim torso was a sweetly developing
work in progress, young chest and shoulders showing a delicate,
soon-to-be-manly form. I took the tee shirt from him and gently ran the
back of my hand down across his tummy – it was perfectly dry and smooth,
the petrol having already evaporated. He shivered involuntarily at my touch
but otherwise remained where he was. A boy's skin during puberty, I've
noticed, gains a heightened sensitivity and smoothness that's as
breath-taking as it is short-lived.

I threw the tee shirt onto a bench then turned back to the boy and said,
"Come on, it's starting to dry, which means the acid will be getting deeper
into your skin – get those off," I said, indicating his shorts.

A little reluctantly, he tugged his shorts down, bending over to get them
all the way down so he could step out of them.

I took them from him and tossed them on top of his tee shirt.

Well! The gorgeous boy was wearing the most gorgeous pair of undies! A
couple of sizes too small, and a bit threadbare, and struggling to contain
him – they were bright aqua blue with orange band, and on the front of
them was a monkey's head – not a printed picture but a sewn-on plastic
transfer, which his boy package was deforming a little, being a little big
for what was obviously meant for a much smaller boy.

"Nice undies." I couldn't help laughing.

"Oh – uh – yeah, um..." the kid totally turning red, covering himself
a bit, adjusting the crotch a little to keep himself decent. "They're um –
I didn't – cos on the weekend Mum washes all my good ones, so..."

"But I wasn't being sarcastic – they're so awful they're brilliant."

The boy looked down at himself with a nervous laugh. "Ha, well, they were
my favourites for ages when I was a little kid."

But being stripped down to his undies was too embarrassing and the kid
quickly lunged for the basin, preparing to give himself a quick wash so he
could get dressed again.

I put a restraining hand on his arm – turned the tap off that he'd
already started. "As nice as they are, kiddo – you have to take 'em
off."

"Huh?"

"Take your underpants off."

"Ah, actually, I don't think they got wet," he said, and pressed his
fingers onto the monkey face to confirm. "And it doesn't sting there, so it
should be alright."

"Look – what's you're name, by the way?"

"Brodie," the boy said, the colour rising noticeably in his cheeks now.

"Brodie," I said, "do you really think it's worth risking your manhood just
because you're a bit shy about taking your undies off?"

That stung him a bit. "It's not that," he said hotly. "I just thought if
they weren't wet... but I don't care," his voice straining a bit. Then he
put his hands to his slender hips and pushed his undies down.

His boy sex was certainly worth the fuss and bother, his uncircumcised
penis showing a nice bit of teen length and the silken foreskin forming the
sweetest little bud at the end. His tight fat ball sack was even more
impressive, a good size, still completely smooth and pinkish-white, but
being so fat and tight-drawn it caused his penis to jut a little lewdly out
from him despite being flaccid. And to top it off - the little feather in
his cap – a beginner's fringe of pubic hair just starting to grow round
the base of his penis – which only served to highlight the extraordinary
white smoothness of his entire pubic area, the inner thighs, hips and lower
abdomen, the sweetest virginal boy-skin where a thousand kisses would
barely begin to leave a mark.

But Brodie only pushed his undies down a small way, before he again made
for the basin to get this washing thing over and done with.

As if.

"Get them off, Brodie," I said to him, a little forcefully this time, as I
took command of the basin, putting the plug in and starting the water
running.

He grumbled something, but did as I told him, and pushed his little undies
all the way down and stepped out of them. After I finished filling the
basin, he was still holding them in front of him, like a little cotton fig
leaf, and he looked very much like at any moment he'd leap back into
them. I took them from him, without argument, and tossed them with his
other clothes.

And this blushing fourteen year old darling now stood in his full nude
perfection before me. I was impressed by the lad's determination not to
cover his genitals with his hands – the jibe about his shyness obviously
still rankling. The combination of slender boyish frame with the first
virile surge of his sexual development was exquisite – a tormentingly
brief peak of sublime physical beauty.

I scooped a big double-handful of warm water up and directly onto his
tummy, taking him a bit by surprise. He jumped back a bit with a a cry of
"Ah!" - as though expecting the water to be freezing.

"Come on," I laughed. "It can't be too cold."

He stepped back in. "I thought it was gunna be." He looked down at himself,
at the water running in rivulets down his legs, dripping like colourless
pee off the end of his penis, and I thought I could see in his look just a
shy hint of bravado, a little budding thrill at this display of his
awakening sexuality.

"You know," I said casually, "you're in pretty good shape for a boy your
age." And I hurled another scoopful of water at him before embarrassment
could do him any harm. He again flinched away, but not near as
much. "Geez," he said, shivering and looking around, "you're getting water
everywhere."

"Don't worry about that," I said, and slapped a yellow cake of soap flat on
his tummy.

That really startled him. "Ooh!" he cried, jumping back, almost tripping
over. The soap slipped from my grip and went skittering across the floor.

"Steady soldier," I said.

"I didn't know you were going to do that," he said, eyes wide and a little
lit up.

"What were you expecting? A foot massage?"

As I went to get the soap off the floor where it had finished up, the boy
suddenly decided he was going to retrieve it. And in one lithe swoop – a
quick symphony of boy movement worthy of Mozart – he had the cake of
soap in his right hand.

I held out my hand.

"Why can't I do it?" he said, meeting my gaze challengingly.

It was difficult to read him. Was he flirting? No, not quite. He really was
too innocent for that. Was he upset and wanting me to leave him alone? I
certainly wasn't getting that vibe. But I was hardly impartial. So I had to
be careful.

"I told you why," I said with an easy smile. "I'm responsible for what
happens here. The law says so."

"But I know how to wash myself," he said.

"But you don't know about how the acid in that petrol works. I do, and I'm
responsible."

He frowned over that. So I took my chance. I closed the distance between us
and grabbed at the soap in his hand. But he was quick. With a laughing
yelp, he skipped to the side, whipping the soap away from my grasp, but in
that little wash-room he had nowhere to go and was straight away backed up
against the wall. And I trapped him there, pressed right up against him and
held him there as he tried to wriggle out and away. Damn, he was harder to
hold than an eel, and grabbing his hand that held the soap was impossible,
my own hands being too soapy to grip him properly.

So I changed tactic. Instead of reaching for the soap, I put my hands flat
on the boy's bare torso, moved them quickly to his tender ribcage just
below his armpits, and dug my fingers in ruthlessly.

He absolutely exploded. "Nooooo!" he shrieked while thrashing violently
down and out of my grip, straight to the floor – the quickest way
out. It was a startlingly extreme reaction and he immediately surrendered
unconditionally.

"I'll give it back!" he cried. "Here! Here!" And he did – he put the
soap directly back in my hands.

I must say, he made it difficult to leave off the tickling thing, but I
did. Tickling, as enjoyable as it is, only drains and squanders a boy's
manic, mutable sex energy. I thought it best to stick to business.

"Over here," I said, going back to the basin with the soap.

"I hate being tickled more than anything," Brodie said, still breathing
heavy, perhaps a little abashed, coming over to the side of the basin.

"I did sort of get that impression," I said, and he gave a nervous laugh.

Despite the horror of the tickling, I was pleased to see he was showing
some signs of arousal, the colour in his cheeks and his eyes lit up, his
penis showing a bit thicker and protruding out from him a little more,
although with a fourteen year old boy that indicates no more than that he's
alive.

With another big scooping rush of water, I began soaping his tummy
again. Despite much dipping and flinching, he stayed put and let me,
although constantly worrying about the possibility of being tickled. I
glided my hands gently across his slim torso, feeling the impossible smooth
beauty of him, the subtle boy-musculature, the hairless armpits ("don't
tickle!"), the pin-prick nipples, the little tummy-button ("that
tickles!"). And as the soap suds ran freely down his body, his boy-cock got
big on him real quick, bucked up rudely amongst the sudsy froth, made big
coltish leaps, curving out from him with the foreskin pulling tight on his
swelling knob.

Seeing his boy-lust triggered, I slid my hand down quickly down to fondle
him and was just in time to feel him thud to full erection.

From the moment I began to handle his hard boy-cock, he started dipping his
hips right back and bending forward, as if trying to withdraw his
mortifying arousal back into himself.

"What are you doing, Brodie?" I asked, and gave him a light smack on the
butt. "Stand up."

"Yeah, but I'm getting...you're making me..."

"Come on," I couldn't help laughing. "Stand up straight before you do
yourself an injury, boy!"

He did, but, flushed with embarrassment, kept one hand hovering over his
stiff cock, trying to shield it a bit, lessen how unbearably rude it was to
have it sticking out like that.

I said matter of factly: "You've got a fine cock, Brodie."

"Geez," he muttered, giving a small shudder and glancing down at
himself. For a still moment we both stood and watched his hard cock. He
certainly had some good teen heft on him – it was a tool that would fuck
– although there was still a lingering hint of boy-slenderness, giving
his cock a zippy playful quality. His foreskin had pulled back just enough
to show the tip of his glans, and it glistened like the revealed source of
all his red-cheeked embarrassment.

Again I doused him with a big scoop of water from the basin, got the soap
and started rubbing it across his lower abdomen and thighs, where the skin,
in the outlined shape of his undies and shorts, was purest white. Soap suds
ran down, swamping the few curls of his pubic hair, flowing around the hard
base of his cock, to gather and drip from his ball sack, and run sliding
down his smooth legs. The boy had sucked his tummy right in and rose up on
tip-toes a couple of times, as though trying to rise above the rude feel of
it all. I ran the cake of soap down between his legs, causing him – ooh!
– to squeeze his knees tight together. But with him being so wet and
soapy, I easily pushed my hand between his inner thighs, nuzzling the
corner of the soap into his ball sack, jostling his swollen boy balls
around, causing his hard cock to twang about a bit. "Geez..." he breathed,
moving a hand near, worrying, shifting on his feet.

I removed my hand, put the soap down, and taking him in a full-fisted grip
began to masturbate him. I kept my hold loose enough to slide soapily up
and down his hard length, but tight enough to get his foreskin to slide
back and forth over his swollen knob, flashing pink amongst the white
frothy suds. The boy's sexual excitement rose sharply, heading straight for
an intense little climax. His entire slender frame shivered and tensed and
he squeezed his knees tight together and dipped down like a little boy
busting to go the toilet. It was cute but I thought his burgeoning
sexuality deserved better than that.

I let go of him a few strokes short of orgasm. He looked a little dazed,
glanced down at himself, gulped once or twice.

"Okay," I said, taking him gently by the shoulders and manoeuvring him in
beside the basin. "We're almost done, Brodie. Just lift your leg up –
put your foot on here," indicating the side of the basin.

"Huh?" the boy asked, looking dumbly at the basin, unconsciously putting a
hand to his painfully thudding penis, pinching the foreskin, getting it
back over his knob.

"Leave that," I said, moving his hand from himself. "Your hands might still
have acid on them."

"Oh," the boy mumbled, glancing at the tips of his fingers. It was
fascinating the way the lovely flush of colour in his cheeks could change
from embarrassment to arousal and back to embarrassment in the blink of an
eye.

"Now, put your foot up here," I repeated, tapping the side of the basin.

The boy screwed his face up. "Why?"

"What do you think we're doing here, Brodie?"

He shrugged, really in a bit of sex-addled stupor at the moment.

"Making sure there's no acid eating into your skin, remember? Now come on –
won't take a moment."

"Geez..."

There was a hand rail on the wall beside him, and he grabbed hold of it as
he lifted his leg up and got his foot on the edge of the basin – not
really too difficult for a fit flexible young lad like Brodie – it was
more a matter of overcoming the shy unwillingness to assume such a
position, his erection now pointing north-north-west.

"Good boy," I said, soaping up and then moving to massage his exposed inner
thigh. I then ran my hand along the clean, slippery skin to his ball sack,
the tight pouch fully exposed now. I fingered his drawn up balls, although
they weren't very free to move, and it caused him a few flinches and
suckings of breath. But he stayed manfully in position as I played with
him, balancing with one foot on the ground, one on the basin, one hand
tightly gripping the rail. I toyed briefly with the thick base of his cock,
plucked and rubbed at the delicate growth of his new pubic hair, and –
looking at the boy's closed eyes, the slight press forward of his slender
hips – it seemed he was willing me to masturbate him, to finish what
needed to be finished. But I left his cock straining painfully into mid air
and ran my hand back behind his balls, along his seam and into his spread
boy crack and ran one soapy finger across his little anus.

His reaction was rather extreme. He pushed off from the basin, leaping to
the side with a startled cry of "Fuck!"

"Brodie!" I said with a bemused frown. "Come on. We were almost finished."

"But you...that's..." He couldn't quite formulate the charge.

"I've never known anyone so ticklish," I said. "Now get back here and let's
finish up."

He now used both hands to cover his erection. He stayed put and said, "You
touched my ass."

"You never wash your ass?" I asked.

He screwed up his face, shook his head, angrily tried to stop a silly grin
breaking out. "But geez..."

"Come on," I said.

And he did. He came back to the basin. "Are you gunna do that again?" he
asked, with a nervous little laugh.

"So quick you won't even notice," I said.

"Oh geez..."

But he did what was expected of him, lifted his foot back up to the side of
the basin, hung on grimly to the hand rail.

I re-soaped my hands and, putting one hand on his slender hip to reassure
him, moved the other between his legs – but this time wetting and
soaping the tight little mounds of his buttocks. He stayed reasonably
still, but made his butt cheeks a delight to fondle as he continually
clenched and re-clenched them. I think he was trying to manoeuvre himself
so he could squeeze his buttocks tight together, but it impossible in his
current position; eventually I repeated my former move, slid a finger from
just behind his balls and along his crack – he tensed massively for it –
but like a skilled aviator, I pulled out of the gape-inducing dive at the
last second and passed over his little rosebud with touching it.

As I returned to fondling his soapy buttocks, I used my other hand to take
hold of his fierce erection and began masturbating him with a full firm
stroke. It got the randy boy almost instantly into a grunting state – a
rising series of little uh-uh noises deep in his throat – and he
flinched forward at the midriff as his fuck-pleasure stabbed sharply toward
a climax.

A few savage beats short of release, I found his little anus again and
pushed the soapy tip of my finger into him and – oh fuck! – he bucked
forward and clenched his sphincter tight shut, stopping my finger, so I
just fingered at his soft crinkly entrance – him trying to buck away
from it – (his sensitivity to ass-play was extraordinary, as is often
the case with pubescent boys) – me still wanking him hard, close to
blowing his hot boy load, his tight tummy sucked right in, his slender
frame straining and his rosy cheeks angry – then his foot slipped down
into the basin, spreading his legs further apart – he let out a sharp
cry – momentarily stopped clenching, and I pushed my finger into his
tight hole, felt him open, felt a nice slide up into him – and he
grunted "fuck, fuck" at not being able to stop anything and he was suddenly
swamped by a really filthy orgasm – and he whimpered as if he were split
open by the first thin spurt of his boy milk – a watery fizz that
sprayed high in the air, before he brought up gouts of deeper white stuff
that spilled across my hand still pumping him hard. And as he squeezed and
bucked his cum out, I fingered the furious spasms of his anus, opening
sickening pits of ecstasy in his orgasm, something he had no experience of,
something he didn't know how to ride, and so he made his little pleading,
whimpering noises as he flinched and twisted in my grip, until finally,
with the last dregs of his boy essence dribbling into my hand, it came to
an end.

THE END
samjohnson77@mail.com