Date: Tue, 2 Dec 2014 16:01:03 -0800
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Seasons of the Boy

The following entirely fictional story contains graphic descriptions of sex
between a man and a minor boy (who is 10 to 11 at the time this takes
place). If that's not your cup of tea, do the smart thing and don't read
it. If it is something you're interested in, I hope you enjoy it.

One last thing before we begin. Nifty relies on your donations to keep
going. Please consider donating asa way of saying thanks to all the
hard-working, unrewarded Nifty authors - details of how to do so are on the
home page.

If you do feel like writing to let me know you enjoyed/hated this story, my
email address is zackmcnaught@hotmail.com.

Now, I do hope you enjoy "Seasons of the Boy"...



Prelude

I first met him when the corn was golden and pollen turned the air to
honey. Then he was gone.

I next met him when the darkness of winter was all about and the smoke from
log fires stung my eyes. Then he was gone again.

I met him a third time, in the delicate warmth of spring. This time he
stayed forever.

Let me tell you, then, how it came about...



Chapter 1 - As Summer Becomes Autumn

I was an itinerant, a migrant worker, detached from the grid, working when
work was available, starving when it was not. Some times were simpler than
others. Some times were a deal worse. If I found good work, and could keep
finding it, I would linger a while in one place. The longest I ever stayed
put was one year, one month and one day. Until... well, you'll see.

I graduated from university in the summer of 1982. The hopeful, optimistic
youngster who had been so keen, so eager to learn had morphed into a
disaffected, angry man. The world was growing too large, too close, too
much effort to be a part of. Enemies I'd never met threatened my existence,
and for what? For the political ideals of men I had not chosen to
elect. Bitterness and anger led me to jump ship, and four days after
graduation I said my goodbyes to my parents and siblings, and dropped off
the map. I'll call you, I said. I'll write. Sometimes I remembered. They
knew I wasn't dead.

I didn't want to be a part of the system any more. I didn't want to be tied
into the life my parents had led, the blameless but careless existence.
Could I have explained what I wanted instead? No, but I could certainly
have given you a litany of the things for which I had no love. I
hitch-hiked my way across the country, paying my way with my hands-on
skills; I could handle car mechanics, and knew my way around a combine
harvester. That, and helping out in any number of ways with any number of
things got me by. And, I suppose, one thing in particular - I knew I was
gay, and I had a knack for seeking out men who needed companionship, and
were willing to pay for it with lodging and food. I was literally a rent
boy, lucky that my face was younger-looking than the rest of me. It kept a
roof over my head and food in my stomach.

By the summer of '83, I had gravitated toward Devon, and to the farming
communities there. I tagged onto a group of workers who went from farm to
farm, getting paid for whatever they could. The group had been going strong
for many years before I joined, and perhaps it still roams the countryside
now. Some of us were disaffected youths, others simply liked the freedom of
the road, and others still were running from something - a husband or a
wife, or debt, or the law. One of our very few codicils applied here - if
someone wasn't willing to tell you their story, you certainly shouldn't
ask. Our way of life was built around the theory that the present was the
present, and the future was out there to be enjoyed, but the past might as
well never have existed.

In the month of July we came to a large raspberry farm, and found more work
than we could handle as a group. A call went out to others of the same
persuasion, and only a matter of a few days later we were joined by another
six souls - pretty rapid work in those pre-internet days - and the harvest
really got into full swing.

Up to this point, the team had been all-adult, and mostly male, but that
dynamic was upset by the arrival among our newer members of Kate and her
kids, Nate and Sally. Kate's presence we could immediately cope with, but
the kids were another matter. There were murmurs of discontent from some
quarters, mostly those who had been taking every chance to live like young,
single guys without attachment - smoking marijuana, drinking and making
competitively obscene jokes. There was a feeling that with a family on-site
these activities would be curtailed.

Personally, I was laid back about the situation, and wouldn't have cared at
all except for one little thing: Nate, a golden-haired, slender
ten-year-old had me rather enthralled. He was very good looking, carried
himself confidently, and was an utterly happy, chilled out kid. His smile
was enough to lift the clouds on the darkest day, though in this endless
summer that skill went untested. And, as the sun bore down on us, he wore
nothing more than a pair of too-large Levis and some battered old leather
sandals, his upper body tanned hazelnut-brown, the fine hairs on his
forearms bleached white by the same rays which darkened the skin beneath. I
probably loved him from the moment I saw him, though I can be more sure
that I lusted after him; I watched him more frequently, and for longer than
I ought to have done. I watched the way sweat formed on his back as he
worked - after all, he, too, was a worker - and dripped down until it
disappeared into the crease at the base of his spine, and into the depths
of those worn out jeans. I couldn't tear my eyes from the 'v' at his front,
which dived down behind the button fly, the waistband sitting so low that
two certainties could be divined - Nate never wore underwear, and as far as
I was able to determine (and it was quite far...), he was as hair free down
there as the day he was born.

So yeah, actually I was quite bothered by their presence, though in a good
way. It changed the group dynamic, too. A fight broke out one night over
Kate's honour, and one of the younger bucks, a very vocal socialist lad by
the name of Richard Wizard (yes, really) left us the next day, having been
taught a lesson in common decency by Big John. That wasn't really his name,
of course - it was actually Terence, but he was enormous. It wasn't the
last time discontent was expressed over the change to our lives, but future
comments tended to be made quietly, out of earshot of Big John.

It came as by little surprise, then, to find out a week or so later, as we
were moving on to another farm, that John and Kate were,
well... Fucking. There, I said it. They weren't courting, or dating, or
stepping out, they were simply having lots of sex. Whilst Sally knew little
of such things, being only a tiny four year old, Nate was older and wiser,
and knew exactly what was going on behind the all-too-thin partition in
their tent. Nightly he would leave the tent when the coupling started, and
not return until he could be sure they were done, and asleep. His face was
a picture - anger, consternation and disgust mingled with confusion. He
would find his way to the fireside - we always lit a fire of an evening -
and sit down with us older guys, drinking in our knowledge of the
world. Most nights the mating would go on so late that the only people let
around the fire by the time it finished were Nate and I - he out of
necessity, me out of a desire to spend more time around him.

So, we came to know each other rather well. And my love for him
intensified. Oh God, how his smile lifted my heart, and his laughter set
butterflies a-fluttering in my tummy. Every so often he would stop talking
and just look at me, as if appraising me for some role. His father,
perhaps, though right now Big John was meant to be that.

The summer could not last, and nor could my burgeoning attachment to this
slender boy of slender years. When finally our group had exhausted our
summer's work and dissolved to dissipate to our winter hibernation, I felt
a huge wrench, and I think so did he. We'd never come physically close
enough for my liking, but our feelings for each other were growing hard to
hide. Whether he idolised me or loved me is unclear, but Nate's powerful
hug each night at bedtime told me volumes.

The night before we parted, when we knew that everyone would be going their
separate ways in the morning, he came to me by the fire. Kate and John
weren't even fucking this time - at least, not loud enough for anyone to
hear, and they didn't usually hold back - so it seemed he had sought me
out, rather than being driven to me. He sat himself in my lap and
insinuated himself beneath the blanket I had wrapped around my
shoulders. For a while we both stared into the fire, feeling no need to
speak.

Then, slowly, he turned himself around and looked up at me solemnly.

"I wish you were my dad," he said in a tiny voice. He leaned up and kissed
me ever so lightly on the cheek, and then jumped down from my lap and
scampered off to his tent.

As he went, I swear I heard him crying. In the morning when I woke they
were already gone.

As for me, I drifted towards Cornwall and found a guy who wanted some
company for a few months, and had a thoroughly good time. But it wasn't
quite enough, and I knew why.



Chapter 2 - As Winter Chills the Bones

In deepest winter, I met him again.

Peter was something big in the city, that was about as far as I cared to
understand it. I was his bit of rough, his dirty little secret hidden away
in his Cornish holiday home. He visited at weekends for torrid lovemaking
sessions, then abandoned me all week while he dashed back to the capital to
make some more money. Really, I couldn't complain - I had free
accommodation, food and a little pocket money, and all I had to do was have
sex with the guy, which was hardly burdensome. Yes, this was definitely a
lucky find.

It was midweek, freezing and beginning to snow outside when a loud,
insistent knock at the door roused me from the television and my place by
the open fire. I immediately became suspicious, since no-one would normally
bother me when Peter was away. I answered the door with some trepidation,
then, but was rewarded with a sight guaranteed to soften my heart. There on
the doorstep stood Kate holding a sleeping Sally, and Nate, shivering in a
jumper far too thin for the weather, and behind them with a sheepish look
on his face, Big John.

"Thanks so much, Jack," Kate said as we sat drinking sugary tea, surrounded
by steaming piles of damp clothes, hung out to dry. "The job starts in the
morning, but until then we have nowhere to stay and there aren't any hotels
round here we can afford."

Big John was off putting Sally into the spare bed, which he and Kate would
share with her, and Nate was parked in front of the fire, wrapped in a
blanket and staring into the flames, looking about ready to drop.

"It's fine, really," I said. "Peter wouldn't mind. He gets a bit of a kick
from helping out waifs and strays."

"Is that what you are, then?" Kate asked with a mischievous grin. "Just
another stray?"

I blushed, because Kate knew exactly what I got up to with the men I stayed
with. She, at least, was not disapproving.

"Yeah, well..." I answered, noncommittally. I decided to change the
subject.

"Nate can sleep on the sofa," I said, turning to glance at him. "It's quite
warm in the living room."

For some reason, Kate looked rather taken aback.

"Oh, if you... I thought you might..."

She didn't finish her thought, though, and before I could ask her to
expand, John was back with us. Had she expected me to give up my bed to her
son?

Nate was still awake, and still staring into the flames when I went into
the living room. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him there, especially
given the untidy pile of his wet clothes which sat a few feet to the left
of him. I picked them up and hung them up to dry in the kitchen, then went
back to him. He'd hardly registered my presence yet, but as I sat down next
to him he leaned right into me.

His proximity was like a shot of heroin to a desperate junky. I shivered at
the contact, taken aback by the gut-wrenching strength of the excitement
which hit me. Just to be so close to this boy, this naked boy after whom I
had lusted for so long - who had re-appeared quite unexpectedly in my life
- sent my pulse racing.

"Missed you," he whispered after a few minutes. The tension in the air was
palpable.

"Yeah, I missed you too, mate," I replied, digging my arm out from between
us and wrapping it around his shoulders. "Rubbish, wasn't it?"

He nodded. "John isn't as nice as you are," he said. "He doesn't rub my
back when we sit in front of the fire."

"What, like this?" I replied, moving my hand to gently stroke down the
length of his spine and back up. He shivered at the contact, but his eyes
narrowed in pleasure, and he looked as though he was about to start
purring.

"Mmh, yeah," he breathed. I could see goosebumps on his exposed shoulder,
and fought the urge to lean in and kiss the skin there. It was still tanned
deep golden even in the darkest months of winter.

As I stroked his back he melted, first leaning with his elbow on my leg,
then falling completely into my lap. I continued with my gentle
ministrations until he dozed off completely, his gentle snore barely
audible above the crack and pop of the open fire. I looked down at him for
ages, drinking in his elfin features, growing more lustful by the moment at
the thought of him naked beneath the towel. Before long I found myself
unable to resist the urge. Just a peek, I told myself, just a little
look. But even as I pulled back the cover, I knew I could never stop there.

It was barely more than a tiny flap of skin, resting on top of a round,
pink sack the size of a golf ball. Nate was a still a young boy, after
all. A clear line ran around his midriff, a demarcation between the tan
skin of his torso and the pale, almost alabaster whiteness of his crotch
and upper legs. I let my fingers trace across his ever-so-soft skin,
marvelling at its smoothness, its unblemished state. Had I been given the
tools to craft a perfect body, I could not have done a better job than
this. He was lithe not skinny, powerful not muscle-bound, gently-rounded
without an ounce too much fat.

There was not time, though, to spend forever staring at this wonder of
creation. I would have liked to gently play my hands across his skin while
he was awake, to hear him gasp as I teased and pleasured him, to gain his
approval for my actions, yet it was not to be. I had but moments, and had
to act. I reached down and without ceremony took his member between thumb
and forefinger.

It was almost an anti-climax to be finally holding this little shrivelled
morsel - I had always imagined it hard, but no amount of tweaking, pulling
and gently rubbing it would rouse Nathan's boyhood from its slumber.

Its owner, though, was another matter, and with a frown clouding his face
Nathan reached back and pulled the blanket over himself once more. I froze,
my heart jumping into my mouth, but within moments he was once again
snoring, and any fear that his actions were conscious quickly left my
mind. I remembered one time on the farm rousing him to return to his tent
once his mother and her lover had gone quiet, and the lad having no
recollection of the events the next day. I knew that he would not remember
this.

The spell was broken, though. Fear and doubt, and no small measure of
self-loathing entered my heart, and stilled my wandering hands. Determined
to let the boy sleep properly, I changed my mind about making him sleep by
the fire and instead carried him, still wrapped in the blanket, up to the
bed Peter and I shared. Depositing him there, I stole one last glimpse at
his soft little treasures as I took the blanket from him and tucked him
beneath the thick duvet. Thank God Peter was up in London; he would have
had a heart attack to know what I had done.

Returning downstairs, I tidied the place a little, poured myself a drink to
quell my shaking hands and sat down in the chair in front of the
fire. Warmed through by the alcohol and gently toasted by the fire, sleep
took me quickly.

---

I came awake with a start. The fire had died down to glowing embers, but
the light was still on in the kitchen, casting its pale radiance into the
living room through the open door. It took me a moment to get my bearings,
and a couple of heartbeats longer to realise that I was no longer
alone. Significantly not alone.

An angel stood in front of me. A naked, blonde angel, his features so fine
that the creator must have cast him from the mud of the earth that very
day. He stared, and extended a hand, and when I grasped it in mine it felt
real. He tugged gently, and I was lifted upright with the greatest ease,
floating forward, it seemed, on a cloud. I was propelled upstairs, and into
the bed which by rights was mine, and told with a mere waggle of the
eyebrows that my clothing was no longer required. Then, when he was
satisfied with my nakedness, the angel knelt on the bed and fell forward
into my arms, kissing me lightly on the cheek and squirming round until his
naked bottom was pressed firmly into my lower stomach. He wrapped my arms
around himself and clung on tight, and in moments we slept, my nose pressed
into his sweet-smelling, soft mop of hair.

---

Some time later I awoke once more. The little bottom rotated with the
gyrations of its owner's hips. It pressed down into something, a thing
which protruded from me. My God, it was my penis! Hard, harder than I ever
remember it being, its damp tip lodged between the taut globes of the boy's
arse. Around and around went the skin of the soft cleft between his cheeks,
wetter and wetter became that forbidden seam. He stopped and pressed back,
and my shaft held firm, and there was the slightest sensation of a ring of
warmth around its very tip, and then he pulled free, and the circular
motions began once more.

Did he realise I had awoken? Was he aware that only the sternest effort on
my part - and the promise of more magical sensations to come - kept me from
flooding his sweet behind with gallons of my thick, hot essence? I daren't
alert him to the fact if he was not aware, yet involuntarily I hunched
against him and squeezed his torso tightly between my arms, and so he must
have known.

Still he wound his backside around and around, and once in while stopped to
test his readiness to accept my invader. Each time he grew looser, the
muscle less rigid, the warmth an ever-growing ring of pleasure which
squeezed itself around the bulbous tip of my manhood, whose skin tingled
with the sensation, and whose mouth secreted more and yet more slippery
fluid to speed our union.

I abandoned the pretence. I had to know. My hands, which had been clasped
around his upper body, moved down, one to gently hold his hip and encourage
him back onto my spike, and the other to rove freely around his crotch,
finding not the inert noodle which had greeted my earlier forays, but a
stiff, hard boyness to be proud of, a little spear topped with a gently
crinkled foreskin which I slid easily back past the ridge of his head to
reveal the hard, hot, soft but dry skin beneath. I reached between us,
passing my fingers across the sopping pucker of his behind, and gathered my
moisture so that I could apply it to that arid zone in his front, and he
gasped with surprise and pleasure as at the same time I both wanked him and
pushed myself forward into his accepting behind.

His pleasure in front was the means by which I entered his behind. The
sensations in his iron spike brought about by my slowly wanking fingers
transferred to his bottom, which became hot, soft and loose, and with a
groan I pushed in until the muscle of his sphincter was stretched wide and
spasming, sucking at the skin on the shaft behind my swollen head. Not far
in, by no means all the way, but by God far enough. I pushed a little more
and he groaned, and a little hand landed on my stomach, pushing me back. No
further then; fair play.

I kept wanking him, and the hand melted away, and with tiny thrusts,
desperate not to pull free, I ever so gently fucked him.

When he came I was knocked for six. I thought this to be a devotion on his
part, a sacrifice, but it brought pleasure for him, too. He gasped and
groaned, curling his legs up, kicking his heels against my legs, grabbing
my arm and holding on for all he was worth. I surfed the wave of his
pleasure, holding his hips with my free hand, making sure I stayed in him
as the sensations within him set his hole rippling and suckling at me.

It brought me over the edge. A gentle but insistent wave of pleasure
radiated out from my manhood, whereupon it flowered into full blown,
agonizing ecstasy, and growling, biting his shoulder, I rutted hard into
him as in one long stream my essence surged out of me and into the boy.

I held him to me and kissed his neck, his ears, his cheek, as silent tears
rolled down his face and wet the pillow beneath. He smiled weakly up at me,
then buried his face and whimpered at the excruciating sensation of my
softening shaft sliding from his overstretched hole. He shuddered, rolled
away from me and in moments was asleep. I walked naked to the bathroom, not
caring who might see, and washed the remnants of our lovemaking from my
penis.

As I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to his gentle snores
beside me, I wondered what it could be in the boy to make him desire me so,
to drive him to the lustful act of allowing me, perhaps even requiring me,
to penetrate him. I leaned over him and studied his elven features, and
felt my heart flutter. Jesus, he was beautiful; an angel fallen to earth,
every feature from the creator's top draw, every freckle perfectly
placed. I wanted him again, wanted to plumb the depths of his pert little
backside while I looked into his eyes, but lust gave way to love, and to
caring, and I let him sleep.



Chapter 3 - As Springtime Brings Life

Spring came, bringing with it new life, a reawakening of the soul. I still
lived with Peter, or at least in his rented cottage. It was the longest I
had stayed put for a very long time. My inertia wasn't due to comfort,
though. No, it was caused by longing, by desire for someone who I could not
have.

My mind still drifted frequently back to that midwinter night, and to the
morning after. The soft, hot wetness of Nate's mouth around my achingly
hard manhood as he aroused me, and the quivering of his behind as he
accepted me, lying face down beneath me and burying his face in the pillow
to stop himself crying out in pained pleasure as I pounded him. Oh how the
lust boiled in me as he begged me in a whisper to 'do' him, holding apart
his cheeks with his fingers so I could see the still-puffy ring of muscle
with which I had been busy scant hours before.

I didn't question his need, and there was no doubting his pleasure at the
sensation. Not many skinny little ten year olds get any pleasure at all
from being fucked by an adult, but Nate was different. He came hard, his
hand buried beneath his hips frantically tugging at his little spike, his
anus desperately sucking at my invading shaft of flesh and his arms and
legs stretched so taut I feared they might snap. I lasted mere moments
longer before I splashed the inside of his behind with my seed. In the end
I had barely put a third of myself in him, but it had been a true
sacrifice; he cried again as I hugged him, his pleasure now gone, leaving
behind the pain.

Kate had smirked at us lovers that morning when Nate emerged from my room,
limping slightly, but with a broad grin on his face.

"I'm glad you didn't make him sleep down there all on his own," she said to
me, her real thoughts veiled behind meaningless pleasantries. "He gets very
lonely sometimes. Misses you, I think."

With a wink she was gone, following her boy downstairs. I idly wondered if
she ever watched his tight little backside swaying as he walked, or if that
was just me. There was sex in those hips, for sure.

But that was all behind me, months back along the road. Spring was roaring
into Cornwall, bringing with it the heady scent of blossom and the first
delicate preview of the long, hot summer to come. It was normally around
this time that I began traveling, but not this year. I moved easily around
Peter's garden, tending it. My garden, I suppose, now that I was earning
real money and paying him rent. Peter had unsubtly suggested that I find
something less itinerant to do, for he admitted that he wanted me around,
and I had found myself all too easily agreeing. When I later examined why
it was that I had been so quickly persuaded, I found to my surprise that I
had very little love left for the life I had led for the past few
years. Peter thought it only right that I begin to act responsibly and pay
my way, and despite the fact that we were still lovers, and the rent on the
cottage was nominal, we were now landlord and tenant.

He was right, too. I did need to put my good education to use. I found work
in the local school, teaching English and History, and found to my absolute
amazement that I adored it. The kids seemed to like me, too.

So, here I was, happily employed, renting my own cottage and seeing Peter
from time to time. It was fairly idyllic. In fact it should have been
perfect, and yet it wasn't. It wasn't by far, and I knew - if I cared to
admit it to myself - why that was.

Nate. His smile, his laugh, his quick wit and insatiable appetite for
learning. And yes, his cute face, his toned, lithe body, his tight little
arse, his tighter little hole. The whole package, in every sense. I missed
all of it, terribly.

---

They reported the fire on the local radio news. The headline item. It would
go national before the day was out. The hairs went up on the back of my
neck. I knew the name of that farm from somewhere. I racked my brains,
trying to work out if perhaps it was one of those I had worked at in the
past, but it wasn't. Something else, then. But what?

It came to me later, and when I remembered it hit me like a bullet,
dropping me to my knees. The letter from Nathan.

I raced upstairs, pulling my shoebox of private things from beneath the
bed, and found the letter. Applemead Farm. Oh God, no. Not him. The reports
said several dead or missing, including children. I sat feeling as though a
shaft of ice had pierced my heart.

I don't know how long I was there. Perhaps five minutes, perhaps half an
hour. I honestly couldn't say. It was the phone which roused me, ringing
insistently in the hall downstairs. I stumbled down to it and picked up the
receiver.

"Mr McNaught?" said an officious sounding soul on the other end of the
line. Whoever it was, they knew my name.

"Uh, yes. Yes, it is."

"Mr McNaught, this is PC Buxton. I've been asked to ring you about your
son."

"My son?"

"Yes, Mr McNaught, about Nathaniel. I believe the boy has been living with
his mother?"

I got it, really I did, in that instant. I knew Kate and the kids had been
caught up in the fire, and for some reason she had told the authorities I
was Nate's dad. Oh God, what was she thinking? And why did she need to tell
them anything?

"I... er, yes. Yes, he has," I said. It wasn't even a lie.

"Mr McNaught, I don't know if you are aware, but Nathaniel was living with
his mother at a farm. Applemead Farm, to be precise."

"Yes, yes I knew. He sent me a letter from there. Is that the place which
has burned down?"

"It is indeed, Mr McNaught. I see you've heard. Well, Nathaniel, his mother
and his sister have been taken to Mellowfields General Hospital having been
caught up in the fire. If we send a car to pick you up would you be able to
attend the hospital? I'm sure your son would be keen to see you."

"Right. Yes, of course. Thank you."

"Not at all, Mr McNaught. Before I go, is there any chance you are familiar
with a Mr Terence Hillbar?"

I racked my brains for a moment before it came to me.

"Tall man, huge beard?"

"That would tally with the description we have of him, Mr McNaught. Also
goes by the name of Big John, I believe."

"The last I knew of him he was with Nathaniel's mother."

"Well, Mr McNaught, if you do happen to see him again, please inform the
police as soon as you are able. And I advise you not to approach Mr
Hillbar."

"Oh God, he didn't do this, did he?"

"I couldn't possibly say any more than I have, Mr McNaught, only that we
would appreciate the opportunity to talk to Mr Hillbar, and that it would
be best if you were to consider him dangerous to approach."

I dropped the receiver back into its cradle and slumped against the
wall. After a few moments sitting there watching motes of dust dancing in a
beam of sunlight which pierced the gloom of the hallway, I heaved myself
up, put on my shoes and jacket, picked up my wallet and keys, and went and
sat on the front doorstep to wait for the jam sandwich to arrive.

---

They took me to see Nate first; after all, I was his biological
father. Apparently.

He looked tired, and dirty, but unharmed. I spoke briefly with a doctor,
who was blunt and straightforward and exactly what I needed right
then. Smoke inhalation, no burns. He would need oxygen for a couple of days
to help him get over it, but there would be no long term effects.

He smiled when I sat by the bed, the expression strongest in his eyes. His
lethargy and the mask made it impossible to speak, and so instead he held
my hand and squeezed hard, and told me with his eyes the pain he was
in. Not physical, but mental. I knew then that something was wrong. Very
wrong.

---

Five minutes later I knew what it was. A met PC Buxton in the flesh for the
first time, and the look of sympathy in his eyes told me all I needed to
know.

"I'm sorry, Mr McNaught," he said, sitting with me on one of those rows of
soulless hospital chairs, blue plastic, cold, unforgiving. "I know you were
estranged from your son's mother, but it can't be easy. And the little
girl, such a tragedy. Your poor son, to have lost his mother and his little
sister in one go."

"Thank you. It's going to kill him, you know. Kate and I were friends
really, that was all. Nate was just... well. And Sally wasn't mine. Don't
get me wrong, she was a lovely girl, but I didn't really know her. It's
terrible for Nate, though."

"As I'm sure you're aware, things are a little irregular, Mr McNaught. We
have no birth certificate for your son, and having rung through to the
hospital where he was born it appears that they, too, are lacking
paperwork. We only have Nathaniel's mother's word to go on, though she was
prepared to sign an affidavit naming you as Nathaniel's
father. Unfortunately she was unable to hold on long enough to do so. It
was witnessed by several doctors and nurses and a police officer, though,
so perhaps things will sort themselves out. For now, I suppose you just
have to look after your son. We'll handle the rest."

I nodded mutely, and watched PC Buxton walking off down the corridor, his
well-shone shoes squeaking loudly on the floor.

---

I was going to tell you about what happened next, about the days and weeks
of pain and suffering, about the nightmares, over and over again, about the
dark moments and the even darker ones. I was going to tell you about
holding him while his body contorted with the physical pain of his loss. I
was going to tell you how I took him home to my cottage, about how I nearly
lost him again, and fought and fought to be recognised as his father (thank
God this was before DNA paternity tests were commonplace).

I could have taken you to a dark place, only to bring you into the light
once more, so the euphoria washed over you as it did me. But to do that I
would have to go there myself, and I'm not sure I ever want to go there
again. I don't think I owe that to anyone. So instead, let's fast-forward
three months, into the balmy heat of a late summer's morning.

---

It was a Sunday, and being disinclined to join the massed ranks of the
devout at church, I lay in bed, with the little disturbance which was
Nathan's body shrouded beneath the sheet to my left. I watched him for a
moment, tracing the gentle swell of his backside with my hungry eyes. He
would be clothed in soft cotton shorts and a t-shirt two sizes too big for
him, the most interesting bits hidden from my eyes. He wasn't exactly shy,
but he didn't flaunt his little body.

Not my lover, either. Not in all the weeks we had lived together. I hadn't
asked, and he hadn't offered. I maintained hope - after all, he had a room
and a bed of his own now, but he never used them. Always, he would sleep
with me, a small, hot presence to my left who sometimes strayed into my
grasp, but only ever for the need of comfort, not the desire to be
sexed. He was surely aware that I masturbated at night, and on occasion -
when he thought me asleep - he would play with himself, bringing on a
juddering orgasm with a soft sigh. But we never worked together towards our
pleasure.

I rose quietly and padded on bare feet to the bathroom. As I stood there,
carefully trying to make as little noise as possible whilst I relieved the
pressure in my groin, I wondered whether perhaps there was something I
could do to bring the boy out of his dark mood, and concluded, regretfully,
that the answer was almost certainly no. I had no idea what I could say to
him that would help. Perhaps, then, it was just time and love which would
do the trick, and I was prepared to be generous with both.

Shaking myself out of my reverie, I wandered slowly back to the bedroom and
found the bed abandoned, along with his sleeping clothes. Perhaps he had
roused himself and dressed already, in the time I had been gone. Padding
downstairs on bare feet, I expected to maybe find him in the kitchen, but
when he wasn't there I turned and wandered through to the living room.

And there, on the sofa, was the most incredible sight. Sitting piled up
beneath four or five cushions was my little boy, his blue eyes shining with
mirth. Something had him amused, and when I took a closer look it was
obvious - I could see patches of bare skin in the gaps between cushions. My
eyes widened, and he responded with a giggle.

"Guess what," he said.

"What?"

"I don't have any clothes on under here," he said with a giggle, followed
by a smile which was probably intended to be alluring, but didn't quite
work on his impish features.

"Aren't you a bit cold?" I asked, deliberately not playing his game,
testing how far he wanted to take it. He shook his head.

"Nope. Guess what else."

I shrugged, feigning disinterest, though it was quite clear he was ready to
escalate matters.

"I've got a stiffy. You want to see it?"

I sighed theatrically.

"Go on then," I said, "if I have to."

The cushion pile exploded, flung this way and that by his gangly limbs, and
there he was, sitting on the sofa proudly sporting a rather bigger dick
than I remembered, poking up above a nicely plump, wrinkled scrotum. He put
his hands on his hips and thrust them towards me, and the little bone
bounced as he flexed it.

"You're growing up, aren't you?" I said, staring unabashedly at his
throbbing erection. He grinned and made it bounce up and down again.

"Bet you wouldn't dare suck it!" he said with a coarse chuckle, knowing
full well that I certainly would. It was a game, though. He needed it to be
my idea, needed to be the innocent party. He needed me to be the one driven
mad by lust and willing to do these things. These gay things.

"Dunno," I shrugged. "I mean, who says I want to."

"Um, he does," he said, the barest hint of uncertainty in his voice, though
it was mostly masked with mirth. He was pointing at my crotch, and the
entirely obvious bulge my own excitement was making in the front. I had
made no efforts to hide my arousal. I shrugged.

"Just 'cause we've both got a bit of morning wood doesn't mean I want to
suck your dick."

His confidence wavered properly now. He looked uncertain, and a frown came
over his face. Oh God, how I loved him. I couldn't let it go on any longer
- he had suffered long enough.

"Oh fuck it," I said, swearing in front of him for the first time in his
life. "Who am I trying to kid?"

His face lit up as I rushed toward him, falling to my knees between his
open legs - he tried to snap them shut but it was too late, and his
struggling hips were soon pinned, too. He fought me to the last, laughing
the whole time, until my mouth closed over the head of his dick and
suddenly he went limp. His arms fell to his side, his legs opened, and his
eyes closed as I gently but insistently sucked the length of him into my
mouth, until my top lip rested on his pubic bone and the bottom was
snuggled against his balls.

He was a pleasing mouthful, his dick plumper and longer than it had been in
the dark of winter, puberty beginning to make itself known. There was a
musty smell to him, but mingled with something sweeter, like freshly baked
doughnuts. It drove me mad, and for several long moments I just stayed
there with his boyhood lodged in my mouth, applying gentle suction and
breathing in the smell of him.

Beneath the sensitive touch of my lips I could tell that although his
crotch remained nude for now, his first pubes were definitely on the
way. But his balls were something else. I pulled off his dick just to stare
at them and tug gently at the sack - the soft, wrinkled skin snugly held
two nuggets of emerging manhood, the skin just a shade darker than the rest
of him. I pulled down on his little scrotum, and watched with boyish glee
the way his foreskin rolled back off the head of his dick. Holding the skin
down by stretching out his balls, I engulfed him once more, this time
feeling the smooth, unsheathed cherry of his helmet caress the roof of my
mouth, instead of the tickly wrinkles of his foreskin.

He was mine now, too wrapped up in the pleasure he was receiving to care
what I did. I pleasured him for a few minutes, enjoying each new sign of
his ever-growing arousal - the ragged breaths, sharply drawn as I grazed
the sensitive, denuded skin of his glans, and the gentle roll of his hips
as he started to fuck my face. Then the jerking of his legs as little
preludes of his onrushing orgasm shocked him.

I disappointed him, pulling of and leaving him humping at the air and
groaning as I relinquished my hold on his steel-hard little organ, tough
but oh so delicate. It quivered with little jolts of pleasure, and he tried
to move a hand down to finish the job himself. But I stopped him, grabbing
his wrist and forcing his hand down to his side, and then lowered my mouth
onto the plump sack beneath, sucking his balls through the hot, wrinkled
skin. My tongue snaked out and down the seam, onto the sensitive skin
between the sack and his hole, gently probing. He responded straight away,
knees lifting, hips rotating, hands landing on my head. His message was
clear - please go lower. Please!

Who was I to deny such a request? He groaned again when my tongue swept
across his delicate pink pucker, but in pleasure this time. His hands went
to the backs of his knees, pulling them hard up, desperate to have my
tongue deeper inside. I worked the tip into his muscle, which couldn't
resist for long; soon enough, it slackened and opened, and I pushed through
until I ached with the effort of being extended so far inside. I fucked him
with my tongue, while with finger and thumb he wanked himself, eyes shut,
mouth slack, panting. I couldn't stop him, not with my tongue up his arse.

His cum was inevitable, and yet still astonishing. The sensations were
clearly stronger now than before - his arsehole twitched around my tongue,
his stomach clenched so hard that he shook, and to my unending joy two
watery-thin jets of semen sprayed out of his dick and over his chest and
stomach in fine droplets, darkening his skin where they landed. He made
little mewling sounds as he thrashed from side to side, and then collapsed,
spent.

I climbed up between his legs, planting little kisses on his torso, licking
up droplets of his cum where I found them scattered on his skin, until I
found the last of them on his chin. Then I kissed his lips, a gentle caress
at first which became more insistent when he started to kiss back. His arms
snaked around my neck and held me in place, and his hips lifted of their
own accord, seeking out the adult shaft which protruded from the open fly
of my boxers. He had been unsubtle before, now he was simply brazen.

I took the hint and pushed gently forward. The tip of my dick bumped into
the base of his scrotum, and then slid downward on a thick trail of my
precum, which flowed freely now. It found his hole easily, and as we kissed
I gently exerted pressure, never letting up, until with a grunt from him I
pushed just the very tip inside.

The pressure and the pleasure were too much. With a huge lurch I came, my
dick slipping up and out of his hole, so that it sprayed my much thicker
load across his dick and balls whilst I passionately frenched him up
above. He giggled into my mouth at the sensation of the hot fluid coating
his skin, while I panted, red in the face and with a head which swam so
badly I wondered if I was having a heart attack.

Eventually we parted, with thick, slimy trails of my semen stretching
between us as I stood. He looked down at himself in wonder.

"You're not going to lick that up as well, are you?" he said with a
concerned face.

"No, thanks," I laughed. "I don't really like my own. It's all yours!"

He wrinkled his nose at me and ran off upstairs, dripping semen onto the
carpet as he went. I stood back and let him go, the last of my emission
still leaking from the end of my deflating manhood, making my own mess on
the floor. A moment later I heard the knocking of the pipes, indicating
that the shower was running. I left him to it for the moment, giving him
space to process what had happened, and instead found a damp cloth to wipe
up what had spilled onto the floor.

---

That was a good day. There were still bad days, of course, but there were a
growing number of good ones, too. How he woke in the morning affected his
mood, and I could tell within fifteen minutes of getting up what each day
held in store. During the hot summer months we would make passionate,
sweaty love in the early morning; at least once a week he would have coaxed
a load out of me before school started, and once the holidays came, even
more regularly than that. He was horny as hell, puberty ripping to his
body, flooding it with hormones, unbalancing him.

He would grab me sometimes, dragging me by the hand into the living room
and forcing me down into a chair, pushing down his shorts and underpants
and sticking his spiky little thing in my face, insisting that I suck him
off. It was a pleasure to do so, of course, although just once in a while I
would throw him onto the sofa instead, showing him who was in charge, and
make him suck me until I was almost ready to cum, at which point I would
work it into his ever-more-flexible behind and deposit my load there. It
was rough at times, tender at others, and always powered by lust.



Chapter 4 - As Summer Dies

I could see the change in him perhaps before he could himself. I knew
upheaval was coming, and though I would miss the sex, it was to an extent a
relief. I needed to be over him. I needed to be his dad, not the guy who
fucked him. And we had, eventually, all the way until my hips touched his
bum. It was inevitable, with all that practice. But he grew, and changed,
and his own sexuality emerged. He was no longer responding to my whims, he
was making choices of his own.

Who knows whether what we did influenced him. I like to think that our
desires are baked in from birth and we are merely slaves to them, so when
he brought home a little lad from the village one day, a little nine year
old who had turned my head on more than one occasion, I knew something was
up. They disappeared into his room, and emerged flush-faced and sweaty a
couple of hours later. I didn't need to ask Nate what had happened; I knew.

He was almost thirteen when it started with that boy, and though we fucked
once or twice more, it was never the same. One day he stopped coming to my
bed every night. Then he hardly came at all, and before two months were
gone so was he. Not forever, not from my life, just from my arms. He became
the son he should have been, and I the father. He brought home another
conquest, and another, until he had a regular little harem going. I even
snagged one of his cast-offs, a little boy called Duncan who loved - and I
mean, really loved - to be fucked hard up the arse.

But as for me and him between the sheets, that was it.

As summer turned to autumn he came to me once more. In the dark of night,
he slipped beneath the covers. His bedclothes were intact, so were mine. I
hugged him to me, and he lay his head on my shoulder.

"I love you, dad," he whispered.

It was the first time he'd ever called me that.

"I love you too, Nate."