Date: Tue, 22 Mar 2011 12:26:32 -0700
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Stationary

Disclaimer: the following is an erotic and sexual story involving a man and
a happily consenting twelve year old boy. If for any reason you shouldn't
be reading this story, or don't want to, now is the time to leave.

Note from the author:

This isn't a story written to get you off. It's introspective and dark at
times. It reflects feelings I've had, but overlain onto the story of a man
and a boy. This didn't happen, but I think it plausibly could. I hope I'm
never that weak.

If you want to read more of my work, go to www.asstr.org/~zack/
If you want to email me, it's zackmcnaught@hotmail.com

Cheers,

Zack


Stationary (M/b12, mast)

It was one of those cold, crisp mornings where the only clouds in the sky
are aircraft contrails, blown into silken filaments by the relentless force
of the wind and lit up by a sun which did not yet grace this rural corner
of England. Frost sat dully white on every surface, not yet glittering
beautifully as it would do when the light improved. I stood on the icy
platform, trying to stay still within my coat and scarf, desperately hoping
to keep the cocoon of warm air trapped within the folds of my clothes. The
constricting band of my collar distracted me for a moment, a chocking
sensation I had not yet grown used to, but then the insistent cold of the
morning caught at me again as a draught of artic air whistled down the
platform. For the moment I was alone. This was the last stop on the line,
or the first if like me you were heading into town, and it would be ten
minutes or so before the first train of the day. The waiting room was still
locked, and the only reason I had a ticket was because I'd paid for a
season up front.

I silently cursed the contract I had signed. Two years of this, two years
of early mornings while I gained the right experience. Don't get me wrong,
the benefits outweighed the disadvantages in the long term, but it was hard
to see beyond the end of those two, long years, stretching away like the
shining rails into the middle distance. Two years of purgatory, and then
bliss. 'Everyone has to do the leg work at the beginning,' they'd told me
with a self-satisfied smirk. 'There are no shortcuts here.' It hardly
matters what the work was.  Sometimes I struggle to remember.

Slipping back out of my reverie, I became aware of another body on the
platform. A little cloud of condensed breath drifted past, and I risked
losing heat to turn and examine who else could possibly be as unfortunate
as myself. I should have guessed that it would be a schoolboy. Only school
is as relentlessly unpleasant an experience as your first few years in the
job market. Poor kid had a blazer on for a school I didn't even recognise,
and having spent several years trawling around the schools of the area as
part of the cricket team I should have known whence he was headed. That
explained what he was doing here at such an ungodly hour - traveling miles
to a school, one that probably none of his old friends attended.

He gave me a weak smile in reply to my mumbled greeting, a brief moment of
shared pain, of solidarity in hardship. Then, through shyness or simply
lack of interest he averted his eyes, looking down at his feet. He was
about twelve or thirteen, I guessed, and rather cute. Not necessarily
attractive in the traditional sense, but there was a roundness to his
features that made him interesting. And his smile, what little of it I'd
seen, was electric.

Only one carriage came this far down the line, an aging, lumpy diesel which
seemed to meander all over the track, despite being guided by the rails. It
clattered towards us over the points, inviting only for its protection
against the chill of the morning. It rumbled to a halt, the driver
thankfully quick to open the doors and then close them again as soon as we
were aboard. The boy stalked along the carriage and sat down at one of only
two four seaters. I wasn't brave enough to take a seat at the other, across
the aisle from him, and instead sat a few seats away. Even with his back to
me, though, I could see his ears and cheeks flush red as the heat within
the carriage touched his skin. I smiled to myself at having met him, then
got down to some serious boy watching.

Four stops up the line, when we had to change and our friendly little train
bumbled off somewhere else, he took a different train. My path was
London-wards. His? Who knows? He disappeared across the busy platforms and
was soon out of sight. Not out of mind, though - I thought of him several
times that day, and chided myself for the silly, fluffy feelings I had when
I did so.

---

We became a double act on that lonely platform each morning, I the suited
businessman, he the rosy-cheeked schoolboy. Sometimes we were joined by
another, though by a large majority our morning meetings were
undisturbed. Our conversations graduated from casual nods to a quiet
'hullo', and finally to short conversations. All of it was at my
instigation, and though I knew I should have left him well alone, I
couldn't help myself. I wanted to know him better, even though I understood
what it meant. I was grooming him. When you're adults, it's called building
a relationship, perhaps even chatting someone up. But when he's only a lad
it's 'grooming', with all the negative connotations of the word. I hated
myself for breaking my not-in-real-life resolution, but resolve is
something I clearly lack.

Each morning as I stood in the shower washing the grime of another long day
and another unfulfilling night's sleep from my body, I thought of him. I
justified our conversations. They were just harmless chats first thing in
the morning, camaraderie in adversity. There was nothing sinister in me
chatting to him, why should there be? After all, wasn't I quite vocal about
the ruination of society by overprotective parents, their fears fuelled by
a lopsided, molester-obsessed media? Well yes, I was, but that's because I
was potentially an offender, no matter how hard I tried to deny it. It
suited me to rally against the hysteria, because I was the type of person
they were writing headlines about. Oh no, I hadn't actually offended yet,
but faced with temptation would I be able to resist? If there was even the
smallest seed of doubt that I could do so, I was unsafe. And deep down
there was a part of me which knew that if the scale of the temptation was
sufficient I would probably give in.

So, each morning, I would determine not to speak to him, or at least to
gradually lessen our conversation until it was back at a safe level, the
noiseless nod, the slightest recognition that another human being
existed. And each morning I would break that promise to myself, because as
soon as I saw him, as soon as the barest hint of that smile graced his
lips, I was lost once more. I would chatter away to him and he would
answer, bolder each morning, telling me a little more about himself. His
name, Adam. A name I loved. Elsie, his annoying little sister. Cookie, an
energetic collie dog with one blue, one brown eye - I'd love to see that,
I'd told him; there had been no invitation. Mount Priory Secondary was the
blazer I didn't recognise. Harrow Road, the street where he lived, two
streets away from my own. My back window looked toward Harrow Road, but
there were houses in between so there would be no chance I could see his
house from mine. I didn't ask which number.

I broke every rule in the book short of actually doing anything
illegal. You know, the unwritten rules in the unwritten book, the ones
everyone knows.

---

I watched him for a moment as he headed off across the platform. I was
stuck unable to move in a knot of passengers, and so I waited
patiently. His shaggy mop of hair stayed visible right up until the moment
when, with a furtive glance around apparently to check that no-one had
seen, he ducked into the gents toilet just before the escalators to the
upper levels. I pondered that glance, wondering if it was just my
overactive imagination. Would I have followed him if I'd been free to do
so? Perhaps. But my train was leaving, and I was being slowly herded in the
other direction, a rudderless passenger in the masses flocking to the same
train to the same destination.

I daydreamed all day long about what would have happened had I followed
him. The rational part of my mind knew that his motives would have been
innocent, and that the glance around was nothing more than just that. He
was simply going in to use the facilities. Why did I have to make anything
more of it than that? There was nothing more to be made, and to do so was
the most baseless flight of fancy. That didn't stop me ending up in a
cramped stall in the office toilets with a wad of damp toilet tissue in my
hand, shaking as I came down from my orgasmic high. With my desire
temporarily sated, I was at least able to concentrate, even through my
self-loathing.

---

Here we were again. Here I was, standing on the platform, watching him
heading in the same direction again, to that white-tile-walled, septic
smelling place. He had gone there every morning since that first time I saw
him. Who knows if he'd gone before and I hadn't noticed. I had watched him
go, growing closer each time to the certainty that I would follow him. His
activity was suspicious to me, and encouraging.

I know what I went to public toilets for at that age. Oh, no, not THAT. But
a glimpse or a glance or a plain old ogle at what emerged from the flies of
my fellow users. I was a voyeur, taking advantage of the complacency of
others. I didn't care who at first, though it didn't take long for me to
express a preference for younger guys, my age or less if possible. My first
experience with a boylover was in the toilets - he was a classic pervert,
flashed his dick at me for his gratification. I ran away, but at home found
myself strangely turned on by the memory.

So perhaps that's what he was going there for. Perhaps. Even if it was,
should I take advantage? Of course the answer should have been no. I wish I
could tell you that it all stayed only in my mind, that I pulled back from
taking action, that I behaved like the mature adult I should have instead
of letting hormones control my actions. But I didn't. I acted.

My heart thumped so hard in my chest that the rush of blood through my ears
blocked out all other sound. I had the sensation of floating in water, the
world full of air and sounds and light some way distant. I saw nothing
except the back of his head, and I followed it like a beacon. He did not
turn to see if he had been observed.

Into the dim light of the facilities, a flickering strip light above our
heads adding to the atmosphere. Me and the boy. There were three urinals,
and he stood at the end one, head down. Didn't look up as I entered. I
skirted the puddle of unidentified liquid on the floor and went to the
first, the furthest from him. If I was wrong, this was my insurance
policy. Coincidence would be my cloak, and I wouldn't take the risk
again. A one-off, pure fluke. It might just have stood up to scrutiny.

I had filled my bladder with morning coffee, another insurance policy. I
had a reason to be there. My hands shook as I dug into my fly, and
continued to do so as I sent my stream dancing across the bowl. My nerves,
amplified by caffeine intake, threatened to set my whole body into spasm. I
glanced across, taking the chance, being as circumspect as I could possibly
be, and I could see it. The blunt, soft skin of his boyhood, emitting his
own very healthy stream. My heart beat even faster, threatening to tear its
way from my chest. Breathing was ragged now, coming in gasps, and I could
feel myself doubling over slightly as excitement clenched my abdomen
tight. I looked up at his face, and he was glancing my way, pupils in the
corners of his eyes. I didn't think he recognised me, I really don't. He
wasn't looking at my face anyway. Another city gent in a dark suit and
polished shoes.

His stream faltered and he made a show of squeezing out the last few drops,
pinching forward soft rolls of foreskin and shaking free the clinging
liquid. Without looking my way again he was gone, his boyhood replaced in
the confines of his grey school trousers, the zip noisily returned to its
proper position.

I turned and bolted for a stall, ripping down my trousers as soon as the
door was locked behind me, and uncaringly dumped my laptop bag on the
unsanitary floor. With a soft splatter my emission tumbled into the water
below as I leaned forward, a hand supporting my suddenly weak body on the
tiled wall above the toilet. I shook all over, and wanted to vomit with
excitement. I didn't trust my legs to work so I kept them locked straight
and waited for my pulse to return to normal. Eventually I summoned the
strength to sit, and fell heavily on the seat, sweat flooding down my face.

By the time I could walk out of there I was horribly late for work.

---

I wanted to hurt myself, to stick the damn pen into the flesh of my arm,
sit there at my desk and watch the blood stain all the stupid bits of paper
covered in their meaningless numbers. I'd done nothing wrong, but
everything wrong. I made no move on him, but I went in there with my eyes
open, and what I expected to happen did happen. I should have known
better. Already that morning I had had to excuse myself to the toilet
twice. A dodgy stomach. Stupid curry. Yes, I do look pale, don't I?
Sympathy from the boss, who insisted that I take the rest of the day off. I
refused, the gallant, committed worker. If only they knew.

That night the scene replayed itself in my head time and time again. I
slept only fitfully, and in the darkest hours of the night imagined the
very worst consequences. What if he had quite innocently gone in there, and
been followed by the creepy guy who chats to him on the train platform?
What if he'd been so disturbed that he had gone straight to his teachers,
or back home to his parents, and told them, and they'd told the Police? As
seven a.m. approached and the time came to leave the house I grew ever more
nervous of a dawn raid. My toast was left uneaten, my coffee brimmed to the
top of the cup and untouched. I left early for the station and stood alone
on the platform with an ever-building sense of dread in the pit of my
stomach.

The time he usually arrived came and went. The rock which sat in my stomach
became a burning ball of fire. I'd lost the capability to rationalise, and
could only imagine that it was my actions which had caused his
absence. Five minutes past his normal arrival, and the train turned up,
screeching to a halt on its aged brakes and letting out a hydraulic hiss as
the doors struggled to open.. I boarded, hands visibly shaking now as the
realisation of what I had apparently done to him hit home, and fell heavily
into my seat, mind awash with speculation as to my impending arrest.

Then, with the doors already closing, there came the thunder of feet on the
platform and then the altered tone of the same on the floor of the
carriage. He appeared, red cheeked, a huge grin on his face at not having
missed the train. He fell into the seat across the table from my own, gave
me a big grin and said,

"Made it!"

I can sense what you're thinking, dear reader, at this point. How did we go
from the abusive, unidirectional position of our relationship only a few
short paragraphs ago to this apparently easy friendship? You may rest
assured that as I sat in that rumbling train carriage that morning, looking
into the smile of the boy after whom I had lusted for so long, I too
wondered the same thing. My head swam with possibilities, running through
option after options, dismissing some, keeping others, trying to determine
what the actual cause of this tectonic shift may have been. All in the
fraction of a second it took me to draw breath and answer him.

"Yeah, looked close. How come you were so late?" I asked, returning his
smile, hoping he couldn't tell how forced it was.

"Oh, Elsie in the bathroom. You know what girls are like."

I nodded my head, but really I had no clue. I was the middle of three boys,
and I'd never had a girlfriend, or shared a place with any females at
university. My domestic arrangements to that point in my life had been all
but exclusively male, my dear mother the only exception to the rule.

"She doesn't usually make you late, though, right?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, but usually I get up before she goes in there. I spent
too long in bed this morning - "

I'd love to have known what he had spent too long doing in bed that
morning, but he cut himself off. My mind was merrily filling in the blanks
for itself, though, and the colour rapidly filling his cheeks suggested
that it might not be too wide of the mark.

"Yeah, I can imagine," I said.

Oh god, why did I say that? Classic pervert talk! Fucking hell, Zack, you
idiot, stop being such a fucking cliché! But he just dissolved into a fit
of giggles and then sat back smiling at me, mischief in his eyes,
occasionally shaken by another silent attack of laughter.

We sat chatting amiably like that all the way to the station where we would
go our separate ways. I had already resolved in the strongest way possible
to not follow him that morning, but when I glanced across the platform
after his retreating back he strode straight past the entrance to the gents
anyway. Perhaps we had both made a resolution. As we'd pulled into the
station, he had brightly chimed up with a "See you tomorrow!". Yes, he
absolutely would.

---

It's not an exaggeration to suggest that day was a turning point in my
whole life. A fork in the road, you may say, except that for me one of the
forks had a 'Road Closed' sign across it. Nothing would have stopped me
furthering my relationship with Adam, or at least seeing where it
went. There would be no holding back, no beating myself up about it. I'd
never received such strong signals from anyone before. All my paranoia was
swept aside by that one journey, that glorious twenty minutes we
shared. And, I realised, because he hadn't returned to the scene of our
prior dalliance. I attached great importance to that fact.

We met again the next morning, his excited chatter more effective than all
the caffeine in all the cups of coffee in all the world. We sat together on
the train, facing each other across the Formica-surfaced table, and still
he directed the conversation. He was a different boy altogether, so much so
that I casually mused that he had been kidnapped and replaced with some
sort of android clone, a la David from the film A.I. The conversation
flowed across me, smothering me with its intensity, wrapping me in its
embrace and spitting me out on the platform at the far end of my journey. I
smiled at the world, and skipped into work.

Talk was rife among the giggling girls of admin. Oh, don't go getting all
politically correct on me - all the admin staff were young females, and all
giggled incessantly about this or that, and speculated about the love lives
of their co-workers, and whom they were and weren't currently
screwing. They had no idea about me, none at all. God, they thought I might
someday find a girl and settle down. The thought that I might be gay didn't
even cross their minds, let alone the possibility I might be a
boylover. They wouldn't have understood the term had I told them straight
to their faces.

But talk there was, anyway. I was swanning around the office like a
lovesick teenager, and of course the questions came. I avoided them as best
as I could, and then thanked the Lord that my secondment to this particular
department had only a few days left to run. No direct answers, it just
wasn't safe. No denials, no lies, nothing that I would have to maintain
under cross-examination. I evaded like the best of them. The questions
eventually faded into the background as the serious work of the day was
attended to, leaving me to contemplate my situation in peace.

What was my situation? What did I actually have? A friendship with a boy on
the train to work in the morning. A glimpse of his little man. Not a lot
more than that, really, but there was a deep down feeling that something
bigger was happening. What that 'something' was, was hard to say. Did I
honestly think I was going to end up in some sort of relationship with
Adam? Probably not. The realistic side of me knew that simply didn't
happen. But did I think there might be a small chance of something
happening between us? Something sexual? Yes, yes I did think there might be
a chance. And I wanted to find out if it would happen. Damn the rules, damn
all the rhetoric about boys being too young to know what was going on. If I
did end up end bed with the boy, it would be because he wanted it as much
as I did. Now all I had to do was find out if he did want it.

---

"Are you going to watch the Spurs game tomorrow?"

He and I were both Tottenham fans, and I knew for a fact that he didn't
have Sky, so wouldn't be watching the Saturday afternoon game unless he
could find somewhere to do so.

"Nah, we don't have Sky, remember. You?"

"Yup, I'll be watching. Paid for it already."

"Damn, you're really lucky, you know. My dad will never pay for that."

I left it hanging there for a few moments, waiting to see if he would ask,
hoping that he might. Sure enough, a few minutes later he piped up.

"Don't s'pose I could watch at yours, could I?"

I shrugged. "Sure, as long as your parents are OK with it."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's not going to work, they'd probably think you were
some sort of dodgy pedo or something!"

I laughed along with him, wondering all the time if he really did
understand what I felt for him. The subtlest glint in his eye when he
talked to me suggested that perhaps he did.

"But I could say I was going to David's house," he continued.

I shrugged. "If you reckon you could get away with it."

"Yeah, no problem. They won't know."

---

I'd spent ages agonising over what snacks and drinks to buy. It was like
some twisted first date or something. Actually, it was exactly that in my
mind, I think. I was desperate to get it right, and bought far too much. In
the end most of it stayed in the cupboard, but at least I knew there must
be something he'd like in the selection. I tidied up the place, unused to
having guests. In the year and a half since I'd bought the little three bed
semi I'd rarely had a visitor. My parents simply assumed that I would
always travel to see them, and both brothers were somewhat distant now, one
living with his wife and kids in Sydney and the other based at RAF Kinloss,
way up in Scotland. So I lived a little untidily, and spent the morning
attempting to remedy that. I don't know why I believed Adam would care.

He turned up at about half past two, half an hour before kick-off. We
settled down on the sofa. Or rather, he settled. I fussed around offering
him drinks and food and generally making a bit of a tit of myself until I
had to disappear into the kitchen to give myself a bit of a slap before my
behaviour got any further out of hand. It was the first date thing all over
again. We were meant to be two lads who supported the same football team
watching the game together, for fuck's sake. It wasn't as though we were
sitting on the back row of a darkened cinema, waiting for the strategic
move to put my arm around his shoulders.

As with all matches against Man Utd, we didn't expect to win. Oh yeah,
Harry had done wonders with the team since he'd taken over, a strong run in
Europe and all that, but we didn't seriously expect to come away with a
result. That we did should probably go down as one of the most important
moments of my life, not just for the sake of the result, but for what
happened when that final whistle went.

It was a hell of a game. End-to-end throughout, with just enough of an edge
to make it interesting, without degenerating into violence. A few yellow
cards brandished, but no reds, no lasting damage done. They scored first,
in the 11th minute, a stupid goal to give away, one which said a lot more
about our defence than their forwards. At that point, with the tide of the
game strongly against us, it seemed likely to be an afternoon to forget.

Somehow, though, we held out against the onslaught which followed. They hit
the bar twice and the post once, and yet the ball stayed out of the net for
the next 35 minutes. I was just thinking we were getting back into the
game, managing to make a bit of progress, when deep into first half injury
time they mounted a blistering counterattack and with no time at all left
on the clock made it two before the break.

We were a dejected pair as the half time analysis droned on, and when it
turned out that our star striker would not be returning for the second half
the mood only worsened. But then the strangest thing happened - we started
to boss the game. Suddenly Spurs were first to every ball, passing
accurately, and raining in shots on the United goal. All the pressure had
to tell, and in the 59th minute we pulled one back. This seemed to finally
stir United, who regained a little of their earlier drive, but it wasn't
enough to stop us levelling the game with 15 minutes to go.

That last quarter of a hour was frantic, heart in the mouth stuff. They hit
the post, then we rattled the crossbar. As the seconds ticked down it
seemed that the draw was inevitable. Then, out of almost nothing, we
scored. Our keeper had booted the ball clear after a dodgy back pass, and
as it sailed over midfield our lanky centre forward leapt like salmon and
nodded it down for our pacey little winger, who jinked first this way and
then that, and lashed the ball into the roof of the net from a quite
ludicrous angle.

The Spurs fans in the away end of Old Trafford erupted, and we did
likewise. Both Adam and I were on our feet instantly, jumping up and
down. In the heat of the moment I lost all common sense. I knew what I was
about to do, and I knew it was crazy and stupid and the most insane risk,
but I grabbed him in a hug. A celebratory, 'isn't our team great!' kind of
hug, but a hug nonetheless. And do you know what? He hugged me right back.

We parted rather sheepishly, both blushing furiously at our
over-excitement, but he grinned at me and I smiled back at him, and
suddenly, somehow, I knew that it was OK for me to move to him, like so,
and hold him, just like this, feeling the warmth of him, and tip his
complicit head back, like this, and lower my mouth, and oh my God to kiss
him. It was OK to do that. So I did it again.

---

He was frightened. It freaked him out to think of what we had done, and
more importantly that he had liked it, and that he had even wanted
more. Those were the feelings he expressed as he lay with his head on my
shoulder on the sofa which had so recently been the setting of our
wonderful shared victory, and even more recently than that the scene of our
first fumbling forays into a blossoming relationship of a type so
thoroughly unlikely as to seem impossible.

We had tumbled there, grinding together, lips locked in dirty, wet
passion. God I loved the taste of him. My hands roamed his back, pulling up
his t-shirt and feeling the softest skin beneath, and then ran down over
his backside, pulling him closer to me. I didn't pause to wonder how this
had happened, or whether it should continue. It was far too easy to simply
let happen what was happening without recourse to introspection. Had he
hesitated I might also have done so, but he did not. My passion was if not
exceeded then at least matched by his own.

Side by side we frantically humped into each other until I could resist no
more and reached between us to unsnap the fly of his jeans. Once more he
was utterly complicit, reaching down to push trousers and boxer shorts down
past mid-thigh, down past calves, down past ankles and feet and onto the
floor. His nimble hands worked on my own clothing, and as soon as it was
started his work was done. Naked from the waist down, our passion reached
new heights.

Hands caressed while mouths entwined. His hot little fingers on my
oversensitive shaft left trails of fire where they touched, arousing me as
no other ever had. His boyhood, a miniature of my own in a way which would
have been cute had it not been thoroughly exciting, was alive beneath my
fingers, jerking and pulsing as I stroked it, and yet at the same time
steel-like in its constant hardness. As we both reached our peaks, his a
few tens of seconds before my own, sighs grew to gasps and groans so loud
that I surprised myself. I had never felt such a sensation as that first
time with Adam.

We lay in our post-orgasmic bliss with our semen mingled and soaking into
our t-shirts, his contribution far smaller than mine but by no means less
worthy. I hugged him close to me, the protective, older partner, and he
hung a crooked leg over mine, thigh nuzzling into the soft, sensitive parts
at the centre of my being. He asked questions, all sorts of questions, and
I answered them as best I could. Perhaps he believed me to know everything
there was to know about being gay, though on several counts I had to
disappoint him.

I asked questions of him, too. He had apparently not even considered this
course of action before today, not until the hug, and the sudden feelings
it aroused in him. He was nervous, but he knew that he liked guys. He liked
girls, too, and seemed comfortable with the idea of maybe being
bisexual. He'd seen plenty on the internet about it, and it didn't frighten
him too much. And I asked him about more personal stuff, the sort of things
that get boylovers aroused - he'd been shooting for a month or so, it was
still little drops but they fired a long way (I told him I wanted to see
how far one day, to which he laughed and promised that I could). His dick
was a little over four and a half inches long, and it had a scraggly little
tuft of hair at its base; not bad for a boy still three months shy of his
thirteenth birthday.

"Didn't you think it was weird me kissing you like that?"

"Oh yeah!" he replied, a little too enthusiastically for my liking. "I
mean, I kind of thought you liked me 'cause of the way you always talked to
me and stuff, and that was really creepy at first, but then I realised
you're cool, and you're much younger than my parents, so that's OK. But I
thought kissing might be gross. I let you 'cause it was so sudden and
stuff. And I liked hugging you. But it wasn't gross, it was nice."

"I'm glad you liked it!" I said, hugging him tighter to me.

"And the wanking, that was really nice. It never feels like that when I do
it. And your dick, that felt so big!"

God, way to stroke a guy's ego, kid! It wasn't very big, actually, but I
knew what he felt - it always felt like other guys' dicks were fatter than
my own when I had them in my hand, for some unknown reason.

"Yours is pretty nice, too," I replied, reaching down and grabbing it for
emphasis. Now that it was mostly soft it was barely more than a couple of
inches long, though it didn't stay that way for long when I began to fondle
it.

As the afternoon wore on and we talked more and more, it became apparent
that this was the beginning of something a little more serious than a
casual wank once in a while. I listened to his voice and sank into a
lovesick stupor.

---

Every rule I had imposed upon myself was broken. The feelings I had chosen
to oppress came strongly to the fore, and took over my rational mind. I'd
done something which I had promised myself I never would. I wondered if I
should back out before we got too deep into things, but realised this
simply wasn't an option. I was too weak to pass up the opportunity of
having this relationship, and I knew it. I felt such overwhelming feelings
of both love and lust for Adam that nothing could stop me, no amount of
will power would suffice.

I sat up at night thinking about what we were doing, wondering where it
could possibly go. Each morning we would greet each other on the train
platform, careful to keep our distance in front of the CCTV cameras, aware
of the world watching us. He understood that it was clandestine, and was no
keener for the world to know what was going on, even if for slightly
different reasons. Unlike Adam, I didn't really care if anyone knew I was
gay, but to be in a relationship with a boy his age was clearly something
to be kept to myself. Adam, though, was not ready to deal with the
consequences of being young and gay in a society which is still not fully
accepting, and I couldn't blame him. It's all well and good saying you have
to stand up for your rights, but it's not actually that easy in real life,
and not everyone can deal with the issues it causes.

Our moments together were fleeting, snatched. We met in public places,
prearranged. I bought him a pre-paid phone and we communicated that way. I
was so paranoid about the risks that I ran our relationship like a covert
operation. Only some time later did I realise that this was 'classic'
behaviour for an abusive relationship, at least according to psychologists
and those who would have it that I was taking advantage of him. For us it
was a survival tactic, our way of having a relationship within the bounds
of a society which refused to accept it. Looking back it's easy to see how
to an outsider might see me as the manipulator, but I keep coming back to
my knowledge of Adam. He was so worldly wise despite his years, so aware of
what was going on that I couldn't feel I'd abused him, despite all my
misgivings about this type of relationship.

We had passion in spades. Our whole relationship was fuelled by short,
energetic sessions of kissing, fondling and fellatio, the latter
surprisingly reciprocal. We found time where we could, and when we couldn't
find it, we made it. We would meet in secluded spots around town, ignoring
the cold just for a few moments of mutual gratification. My little house
became a sex den, when he could get away for long enough. We would mate
enthusiastically, rolling naked on the living room floor, or lying cramped
together on the sofa. I can still see him, arms and legs akimbo, draped
across the cushions of the sofa in post-orgasmic bliss, covered from groin
to sternum in a copious spattering of my seed, idly fondling himself and
smiling up at me as I stood to retrieve a cloth and wipe clean his body. I
never broached the subject of the ultimate act of love with him, though no
doubt he would have shown willingness.

I never entertained the idea of getting caught, not seriously. I think if I
had done so, I wouldn't have been able to continue. But the fact that I did
continue despite the precautions we had to take is indicative of my belief
that we would always get away with it. And we did, wholly. I've given you
only his first name, and made up that of his sister and his dog. Ours is
one of a multitude of anonymous little commuter towns in the London
area. Nobody knew then, and no-one beyond the realms of cyberspace knows
now.

---

I was going to continue our story for a while, but what would I say? That
eventually passion turned to boredom for him? That he appeared at my house
less and less, and that I began to hear more often of girls he knew, or
occasionally of boys? That he confirmed three months later something I
suspected all along, that he never loved me, that his passion for me was
born of lust alone? I may have felt differently enough to risk all for him,
but to Adam it was a fleeting moment in his life, an experience gained but
nothing more.

And perhaps that's the way it should have been. He wasn't left emotionally
scarred by our relationship. He felt a bit naughty, but nothing more than
that. He didn't leave with a sense of disgust that he had shared the times
with me that he had. He'd enjoyed himself for a while, had perhaps felt a
bit of a crush on me, but nothing more serious than that. I'm glad he felt
comfortable enough to enjoy himself, though somehow I doubt many boys his
age would have handled it so well.

He's 14 this week. I saw him at the station the other day, even though I
changed jobs just so I didn't have to catch the early train and see him any
more. It was a one-off, an early meeting which caused me to be there that
day. There he was on the platform, as he always was, with a ready smile. He
blushed when he saw me, introduced me to his friend, another boy from the
same school who had moved into town recently. He acted as though nothing
had ever happened between us, as though I was just another person he
happened to know.


I left him a few stops up the line with mixed feelings. I missed him
terribly, and longed for that passion. But then I thought of his young
friend, so innocent and unaware, and I was glad that since Adam I had held
my resolve. Perhaps for ever this time.